Christmas is Coming

Presents


Norah is convinced all presents are for her. Yes, all presents should be for her, but it simply isn't the case. But that doesn't stop her from either ripping them open or shoving them in your face demanding, "Open dis, pleeeease." I have decided to wrap all the gifts in healthy food labels or bubble bath, so that she won't touch them.


Santa

Norah loves Santa. Well, in theory. She actually met Santa in person last week and was flipping terrified. But that's not the point of this. She loves Santa. Santa says "Ho ho ho!" Santa equals everything Christmas-y, which apparently means everything says, "Ho ho ho," including reindeer, snowmen, lights, gift wrap, everything. Somehow, Santa's catchphrase became another noun for him. And for everything Christmas. Check out the  Norah Loves Santa post.

But now it's rampant. If we drive past Christmas lights? "More hos, pleeeeease!" See Santa on TV? "More hos, pleeeease!" A commercial interrupts Charlie Brown's Christmas? "Where da hos?" We walked by our new Catholic daycare/school's plastic, glowing nativity scene and Norah cheerfully called out, "Bye, hos!" Uh-oh.

Jesus

Speaking of our new, Catholic daycare/school, it is going swimmingly. She loves it. I picked her up and as we walked down the hallway, she enthusiastically pointed to all the Christmas decorations on the walls.

"DEEEER!" [Reindeer]

"NOMAN!!" [Snowmen]

I oohed and ahhed appropriately and she beamed as if she had made every last one of the cotton-ball glued, glitter-spattered pieces of art. At the entrance, there's a picture of Jesus. Out of curiosity, I asked her, "Who's that?"

"Jim," she said, matter-of-factly.

I blinked. "Oh." They must be good buddies if He lets her call him Jim.

I told this story to my mom, wondering if Jim-the-guy-who-worked-on-their-roof was a long-hair like Jesus and she said he was not. Then she seemed extremely concerned about Norah's lack of knowledge about Christ. I sense a Christian-themed gift under the tree as we speak.

Conversations with Toddlers

Taking a Bath, or, Getting to the Yes

Me: I know! Let's go splish splash in the tub!
N: No.
Me: Do you want to take a bath?
N: No.
Me: Bubbles in the tub?
N: No tub!
Me: We can play with seahorse and rubber ducky...
N: NO! NOOOO!
Me: Mama is going to run the tub...
..........Tub fills. N is throwing bath toys in and having fun............
Me: Okay! You wanna go in?
N: No.
Me: Socks off?
N: No... uh-huh.
Me: [internally: YES.] Okay. Pants off?
N: Pants off.
.........Yadda, yadda..................
Me: Let's go in the tub!
N: No.
Me: Please go in the tub?
N: NO.
Me: [Sigh.] You want Mama to go in too?
N: YES!

Simple Question, Right?

SuperWHY (TV character): And you! What's your name?
N: NOONIE!
Dad: Uh, what's your name?
N: Noonie.
Dad: Norah.
N: Noonie.
Dad: Norah.
N: Noonie.
Dad: Norah.
N: NOONIE.
Dad: Honey, your name is Norah.
N: NOOOOOOOONEEEEEEEEEE!!!!
Dad: Fine! Noonie. Geez.

Whatcha Wanna Do?

Me: Do you want to play with GoGo?

N: No. 

Me: Do you want to read a book?

N: No. 

Me: Do you want to play cars? 

N: No.

Me: Do you want to color?

N: No.

Me: Do you want to play kitchen?

N: No.

Me: Do you want to watch a cartoon?

N: No. 

Me: Do you want to play outside? 

N: No.

Me: Do you want to dance?

N: No.

Me: Do you want to build a fort?

N: No.

Me: Do you want a spankin'?

N: No.

Me: Do you want some milk?

N: No. 

Me: Do you want a pony? 

N: No.

Me: Do you want a million dollars?

N: No.

Me: Okay. What do you want to do?

N: GoGo!!

Please. Eat. 

Dad: Try some yummy noodles!

N: No. YUCK!

Dad: I give up. Let her have chips.

New Daycare: So far, so good

Yesterday was N's first day at her new daycare, a Catholic school that also has childcare, infants to preschoolers. Here's how it went down:

Sunday
N: Happy. Did the usual: reading books, playing with toys, requesting happy days, napping, watching SuperWhy, dancing, pooping in the tub, etc.
Dad: Mostly happy. Occasional worry about Monday. Did the usual: played with N, read books, watched TV, changed a lightbulb, freaked out about poop in the tub, etc.
Mom: Not happy. Stressed. Completely freaked out about Monday. Did not do the usual: hid tears, read N books about sharing and going to school, wallowed, hid happy days, fished poop out of the tub, etc.

Monday Morning
N: Woke up, snuggled with Dad, snuggled with Mom, got ready, Dad drove to school. Played with farm toys and cars and books. Total and complete meltdown when Dad left. "Daddy gone. Daddy gone." Went to breakfast with new friend, Rachel (head teacher), and stopped crying. Didn't eat much. Played more afterwards. A few tears on and off.
Dad: Stayed for a little while at school to play. The other toddlers commanded him to read them books and he obliged. Left and kissed Norah goodbye, and felt heartbroken. Then lingered in the hall to see that she had stopped crying on the way to breakfast and was being held by Rachel. Felt a little better and left.
Mom: Tried not to cry all morning and tried to focus on work. Waited desperately for Dad to come home with some information. Envisioned the worst.

Monday Mid-morning
N: Playing and having fun with baby dolls.
Dad: Came home and calmed down Mom. Then did whatever. Who cares.
Mom: Felt a little better when Dad came home, but called the daycare around 10:30 to confirm she was doing okay. She was happily playing baby dolls. Started to worry about lunch and nap time.

Monday Afternoon
N: Ate a little lunch. Napped for 2 hours! Played all afternoon with NO TEARS!
Dad: Did errand for his mom.
Mom: Still worried, but less so. Worked. Ate my feelings and blew my Weight Watchers Points.

Monday Evening
N: Played in the gym at school because the weather wasn't the best. Made new friends and also voiced her opinion on sharing.
Mom and Dad: Mom did a really quick lunch so she could bail a little early on work and they went to the school around 4:30. There were no kids in the toddler room. Before I could freak out, a dad whom had come in with us said, "They must be in the gym." We followed him down the halls lined with little winter coats and construction-paper turkeys and found the gym entrance. I grabbed Dad's arm and we held back for a few minutes, watching N play. She was holding a big purple ball, like the kind you play kickball with, and grinning. Rachel told her to kick it, and she set it down and took a mighty toddler swing with her short little leg and fell down giggling. Then another little girl ran up to her and yelled, "Your dad's here!" and yanked her up by her arm. Norah looked around and then spotted us. She ran, all smiles, and crashed into me for a hug.

We talked to Rachel for a little while and she said the morning was on and off happy, but that her afternoon was great. She said for a first day, she did amazingly well. I fought back tears of joy and thanked her profusely.

We went back to the toddler room and Norah showed us all the toys and dolls she liked, and the finger puppet Pilgrims they had made that day. It was nice they were allowed to celebrate holidays, unlike Old Daycare. All the kids names were also up on the wall in different places; on little snow boots, on birthday balloons, and on gum balls, and Norah's name was already up with all of them, as if she'd been there all along.

I know it won't be perfect, and that the transition period will be trying, but this seems like it will work. I really, really hope it does. Cross your fingers for us.






 

The Versatile Blogger Award

Thank you for this award, Daily Dose of Dahl! I am honored that a talented writer such as yourself even reads my blog!

Here are some known and little knows facts about me:

1. I started dating my husband when I was 16, got married when I was 19, and am now 32 and still happily married. 

2. We waited 11 years to have a child. But we got a winner!

3. I have a MA in English. Yeah, that's useful.

4. I'm working on a book. (It's the law if you majored in English.)

5. I hate getting mail and think physical letters, bills, and junk mail should be outlawed. 

6. I love Yo Gabba Gabba, and I'm not ashamed of it. 

7. I enjoy winning awards and welcome any future awards. (Thanks for that one, Kristi!)   

Thank you again for this recognition. 

Check out these awesome blogs for lots of laughs:

Daily Dose of Dahl

Bad Moms Club

In Through the Out Door

Spilled Milk

Hyperbole and a Half

Motherhood, WTF? 

Daycare update

Well, Norah doesn't go to that daycare anymore. I just couldn't deal with it anymore, and I didn't want Norah to have to deal with it, either. I emailed the director a brief, professional message (opposed to my wishful thinking email: "Fuck off. Norah's out!") and she didn't seek any explanation or anything, so I dropped it.

Now the search is on. We've got three leads. One of them said she'd call me back yesterday and I've yet to hear back. Thinking of writing her off, but trying to keep an open mind.

In the meantime, the grandmothers are taking her more often and Ryan is asking for more evening shifts.

I'm really sad about it. Everyone is asking me if I feel relieved, but I'm a little heartbroken. Norah loved the infant room so much, and so did I. And she really appeared to be doing so much better in the toddler room lately. I am frustrated because I don't understand what happened. And I will miss a lot of the people there. One gal even found me on Facebook and said she'd really miss Norah. That was so nice. I'm also terrified at the prospect of a new daycare and the transition period that will inevitably occur there. I hate it when things are up in the air, and just knowing that it's going to be hard on Norah gives me a feeling of dread every time it comes to mind.

So. I don't want to have two blog entries that are depressing.

The other day I think Norah gave me a birthday present. It's not my birthday, but Norah loves birthdays, so I wasn't shocked or anything She set her little potty chair wrapped in Go Go's blanket down in front of me, and then proceeded to whip off the blanket, yelling "Happy day!" There were four little Hotwheels in the potty chair.

#$%&ing Toddler Room Again

I thought everything was going well. And it was, for the most part. Norah still had some difficult drop-offs once in a while, but they were much better. The gals would always say she had a great day at pick-up. Her little report cards were unfailingly positive. There is a list of adjectives at the bottom and the ones circled for Norah are usually "Happy," "Smiley," and "Busy." Sometimes "Talkative."

And then one day I dropped off Norah and one of the gals stopped me. She told me that Norah had been having a rough few days. Um, what? Happy-Smiley-Busy, right? Nope. She had been upset in the mornings and would cry. Outside, she'd sit against the wall alone and cry.

Let me pause for a moment. I need to think of a way to articulate through prose how I felt about this news.

MY 22 MONTH-OLD DAUGHTER WAS SITTING AGAINST A WALL BY HERSELF CRYING AND NO ONE THOUGHT TO FUCKING CALL ME OR TELL ME ABOUT IT UNTIL DAYS LATER? THAT IS NOT HAPPY-SMILEY-BUSY.

I can't even bear to think about my little girl doing this. I cried the whole way home. A million questions flooded my brain. Should I just take her home? Will that set a bad precedent? Why won't they calm her down? Why can't she just play inside with the other group if she doesn't want to go out? Why the hell do they use report cards if they're bullshit? What else do they gloss over? That last question was from my friend, Amy. Thanks, Amy. Like my paranoia wasn't in the orange zone as it was.

Before leaving daycare, I told the woman-- for the I-don't-know-how-many-th time-- that I was to be called if my daughter was having a terrible day and was inconsolable. She called me an hour later and I had to decide. What should I do?

I talked to the gal for a while. She said the kids needed to go outside. I didn't push, but I regret that now. Then she talked about setting a precedent-- that Norah would learn quickly that Mom would come get her if she cried. That wouldn't be good either-- I need to work. She seemed to think Norah should tough it out.

But I didn't want her to tough it out. I couldn't work. I could only picture her crying all alone. I know they hold her and coddle her when I'm there, but there are a ton of kids there. I'm sure they leave her. They have to. I don't want her to have any tough days. Life will suck soon enough. It doesn't have to as long as I have the power to stop it.

Should I take her out of this daycare? Obviously they are lazy about the report cards. They have so many strict rules that are supposed to help the child grow, but it seems like they're just inflexible to me. They don't tell me crucial information in a timely manner. I was so pissed. I still am pissed.

Then it dawned on me. "Give her Baby Orajel." She had been chewing on her nuk like crazy and sticking her fingers in her mouth. She hadn't been sleeping well. Maybe she was getting her molars.

I called about a half hour later, and they said she was doing fine. Excellent. Although I was pissed that they didn't think of it first. I don't care if that's rational or not.

I though all was well again. Then I picked her up yesterday. Her report card actually said something different for a change. They must have gotten my not-so-subtle hint. "Needed lots of hugs." That's daycare for terrible day. I asked the afternoon crew, "Did you give her Baby Orajel again?" They responded that they did after nap and then she was fine.

WHY DIDN'T YOU GIVE IT TO HER WHEN SHE GOT UPSET? JESUS H. CHRIST, PEOPLE.

So the daycare people need to work a little on their communication, and I, too, need to work on mine. Perhaps I will invest on some custom printed shirts that have a bulleted list on them:

• If there's poop in my diaper, please change me.
• If I ask for a drink, I'm probably thirsty.
• Same with food.
• If I'm upset for seemingly no reason and you can't calm me down, give me Baby Orajel.

You may be thinking I'm overreacting. Maybe I am. I don't know-- I'm new at this. All I know is that I pay these people a boatload of money to watch my kid because they're supposedly professionals who supposedly care about children. And, yes, I realize that the individual caregivers probably don't earn that much. And they should! This society is jacked-- people who care for children, nurses, hospice workers, social workers-- they make squat. But athletes make millions and investment bankers have bonuses bigger than five years of my income. It's not fair.

But I don't care. It's my kid. I can't demand anything but excellence, perfection.

Norah Loves Santa. Mommy Hates Shopping.

It's official. We can't go to any stores until well into January. Norah loves Santa and everything Christmas-y.

So, why deprive her of such joy, you ask?  Because when a toddler sees a shining, singing, sparkling, spectacle of a Christmas display, she never, ever wants to leave. When you say, "Come on, Sweetie, time to go," you will hear, "NO!" as a reply. When you say, "Honey, come to Mama," you will hear, "NO! NOOOOO!" And when the store is closing and people are forcing us out and threatening to call the police, she will throw herself to the floor, facedown, and throw the mother of all tantrums.

Okay, it was morning and we'd only been there for about 40 minutes, but it was lunchtime and we needed to go.

I don't even know how she remembers this stuff. She was just a few days under one last year when Grandma taught her "Ho ho ho!" and gave her a Santa ornament. How could she have possibly remembered that? But she bolted toward the Christmas display at Kohl's and bellowed "Ho ho ho!" to the glittering Santa ornaments hanging on white and green plastic trees. I was surprised, to say the least, but also amused as she went to each Santa object she found (chotchkies, ornaments, Santa stockings, snow globes, etc) and said, "Ho ho ho!" to each one.

Soon she was dissatisfied by just ho-ho-hoing. Now she wanted to touch-touch-touch. I tried to gently guide her hands away from the displayed items, but she got more and more irritated with my interference. She'd whip her hand away and squeal, and then find another item to break-- I mean, touch.

Now a group of little old ladies were browsing the Christmas section. At first we got a couple smiles. We usually do-- Norah is damn cute. But then as Norah started getting more rowdy and resistant to my pleas, we started getting those looks. You know. The my-child-never-acted-up-due-to-my-superior-parenting-skills look, or the that's-what-bad-parenting-will-get-you-look. I even heard one of them utter something about a "plug." I'm assuming the old broad was discussing my nearly-two-year-old's pacifier.

Okay. It was time to leave. Not only was it lunchtime, but I was dangerously close to telling some old bat to mind her own business.

"Time to go, Baby," I said quietly, crouching down to her level.

"Ho ho ho! Ho ho ho!" She blissfully galloped to the next display.

I must avoid a tantrum. Think, Heather. 

After bribing her with a number of things (we'll go find an Elmo toy, let's find more Santas, do you want some apple juice, etc.), I pulled out the big guns: "Should we visit Daddy?" Daddy works at a home improvement store, which is like Disneyland to a toddler for some reason, and Norah loves to visit. Grandpa works at the same store, so it's double awesome.

She broke out of her Christmas trance and looked up-- "Yeah!"

Then she turned to her Santa friends, as well as the sour old hens, and yelled at the top of her lungs, "Bye, Hos!"

Awesome.