Each baby is born with over 100 billion brain cells, or neurons. That is 10 times the number of stars in the Milky Way. As a newborn develops, each neuron forms thousands of connections. By age three, a child's brain has formed about 1,000 trillion connections! Although the neural connections in my 22-month-old daughter, Claire's brain are invisible to me, I see indicators of new ones forming each day. As Claire learns words for the objects and concepts in her world, she begins to associate them with other objects and concepts.
For instance, Claire learned the round, green thing used in tennis is called a "ball". She then saw an orange and perceived it was round, albeit a different color. She called it a "ball", at first pronouncing it "a MAWooo!!!". Next, she saw other tasty fruits were round, as well, and, simultaneously perfecting her "B" sound, joyfully proclaimed them to be "a BAWooo!!!". Grapes, blueberries, grapefruits ... all balls. A soap bubble and a photo of planet earth became "a BAWooo!!!" You get the picture.
I worry that Claire's ability to pronounce new words is being hindered by her strong attachment to pacifiers. Claire even made up a name for her pacies very early on: "a YAya!!!". For the longest time, I thought this was her name for me, as she did not say "mama". Imagine my chagrin when I found out that, in my daughter's affections, I came second to a small, chewy hunk of plastic. Although at one time she refused to even exist without a pacie, Claire and I have since worked out a compromise. When she awakens in the morning, we have "The Ritual of the Pacie". I hold Claire near her crib, saying "night night, yaya" (as many times as necessary). Claire then removes her pacie from her mouth and throws it into the crib, where I "tuck it in" with a blanket. (Don't judge me.) After this ceremony, she asks for her pacie ... oh, only about 1,000 trillion times a day.
It is amazing to watch her form associations between very different things. For instance, Claire learned a feathery bird that walks around a barnyard is a "chicken" that says "bock bock". She can't say "chicken" yet, so she refers to each as "aBOCKbock!!!" One night, I baked chicken and offered her some. She said, "aBOCKbock!!!" and, with no compunction whatsoever, ate it up. A few days later, she saw a black, feathery thing squawking in a tree, called the crow "aBOCKbock!!!" and watched it fly away. A few days after that, she saw a house fly zooming around the kitchen and said, "aBOCKbock!". Now, I know I'm her mom, but that's pretty impressive. (Her application to Mensa is almost complete.)
Sometimes, Claire's baby language is endearing and funny. Once, when she unexpectedly barged into my bathroom, I asked her, "Where did you come from?" Evidently remembering her great-grandmother's catechism lessons, she said "God" (in her case "GAAaah!!!").
Claire is the type of toddler who believes in a backup plan. She secretly hid pacies all over the house, leaving me to think she had only two left. After the "Ritual of the Pacie", she would furtively and nonchalantly toddle up to one of her stashes, coming out moments later with a pacie I hadn't seen in weeks. The first time, I was surprised, but I figured I had just missed one. After the tenth time, finally exasperated, I rhetorically asked her, "Where did all these yayas come from?!"
"GAAaah!!!"
Friday, March 4, 2011
Monday, February 21, 2011
Subtitles, Please!
Don't you wish toddlers had remote controls? Aside from all the wonderful things you could make them do, such as "stop", "pause" and "mute", you could also request subtitles, as needed. My 21-month-old daughter, Claire is learning to talk. While I'm sure this process is more frustrating for her than for me (as evidenced by intense, weekly tantrums), at times, I just can't figure out what she's saying!
I often wish I could point a remote at her, press "Menu" and select "Subtitles". Cryptic phrases, such as "oh! oh! MEEEE-ul!", would be magically translated to: "May I please have a bowl of strawberry oatmeal with a long-handled iced tea spoon?" Ear-splitting sounds, such as "MAMAMAMAMAaaaaaaaaaEEEEEEEEEEEEE!", would be revealed to mean: "Mother, would you please kindly lift me up so I can see all the contraband items on the kitchen table you have placed out of my insidious reach?" When especially angry or not feeling well, Claire will declare, "ah-gueeea-gueeea!" I still don't know what that means, but I strongly suspect it's a bad word.
In lieu of subtitles, Claire is very creative in her attempts at communication. She is aided in this by her basic sign language repertoire, which I taught her from age eight months, although Claire is not hearing-impaired. This week at dinner, she performed the signs for "more" and "please" while saying "bee-up-bee-up", the sound she believes fish make while underwater. Crystal! Yesterday, at a picnic, she would flirtatiously sidle up to other adults with food, peer at their tupperware containers of fruit salad, and say "a-Baaaawl!", thereby receiving numerous red grapes. Last night, she went to the freezer, pointed at a container of ice cream, wrapped her arms around herself, and said, "Brrrrr!" This morning, she pointed to the TV, brought me the movie about owls, The Legend of the Guardians, and said "Hoo! Hoo!". I can't help but be impressed by her ingenuity. She must have gotten that from her father.
In my rational mind, which I do not always inhabit these days, I know that Claire is going through an important developmental stage. She is learning her native language, the importance of both verbal and nonverbal communication, ways to connect with others, and techniques to build relationships. I am learning to express my ever-increasing empathy toward this small creature, to teach her about this big world in which we live, and to communicate with her on her own level.
Perhaps subtitles are overrated. Once, before Claire was born, my husband and I were invited to a couple's house for dinner, where we met their daughter, Sophie. We were frequently bemused by the two-year-old's speech, while her parents could understand almost everything she said. I would say, "Subtitles, please!", and her mother, Katie would translate. Later, after the plates had been cleared, as Katie was giving me advice about nursing, I noticed Sophie listening attentively, perhaps reliving fond memories. Sophie asked her mother to pick her up and shouted joyfully, "Bubbies! Bubbies! Bubbies!" Katie looked at me with eyebrows raised and said, Do you need subtitles for that?"
I often wish I could point a remote at her, press "Menu" and select "Subtitles". Cryptic phrases, such as "oh! oh! MEEEE-ul!", would be magically translated to: "May I please have a bowl of strawberry oatmeal with a long-handled iced tea spoon?" Ear-splitting sounds, such as "MAMAMAMAMAaaaaaaaaaEEEEEEEEEEEEE!", would be revealed to mean: "Mother, would you please kindly lift me up so I can see all the contraband items on the kitchen table you have placed out of my insidious reach?" When especially angry or not feeling well, Claire will declare, "ah-gueeea-gueeea!" I still don't know what that means, but I strongly suspect it's a bad word.
In lieu of subtitles, Claire is very creative in her attempts at communication. She is aided in this by her basic sign language repertoire, which I taught her from age eight months, although Claire is not hearing-impaired. This week at dinner, she performed the signs for "more" and "please" while saying "bee-up-bee-up", the sound she believes fish make while underwater. Crystal! Yesterday, at a picnic, she would flirtatiously sidle up to other adults with food, peer at their tupperware containers of fruit salad, and say "a-Baaaawl!", thereby receiving numerous red grapes. Last night, she went to the freezer, pointed at a container of ice cream, wrapped her arms around herself, and said, "Brrrrr!" This morning, she pointed to the TV, brought me the movie about owls, The Legend of the Guardians, and said "Hoo! Hoo!". I can't help but be impressed by her ingenuity. She must have gotten that from her father.
In my rational mind, which I do not always inhabit these days, I know that Claire is going through an important developmental stage. She is learning her native language, the importance of both verbal and nonverbal communication, ways to connect with others, and techniques to build relationships. I am learning to express my ever-increasing empathy toward this small creature, to teach her about this big world in which we live, and to communicate with her on her own level.
Perhaps subtitles are overrated. Once, before Claire was born, my husband and I were invited to a couple's house for dinner, where we met their daughter, Sophie. We were frequently bemused by the two-year-old's speech, while her parents could understand almost everything she said. I would say, "Subtitles, please!", and her mother, Katie would translate. Later, after the plates had been cleared, as Katie was giving me advice about nursing, I noticed Sophie listening attentively, perhaps reliving fond memories. Sophie asked her mother to pick her up and shouted joyfully, "Bubbies! Bubbies! Bubbies!" Katie looked at me with eyebrows raised and said, Do you need subtitles for that?"
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Fallout Shelter Etiquette
Writers furthering Emily Post's mission to teach etiquette to generations of Americans often emphasize cultivating polite behaviors in children. When beginning this process with my 20-month-old daughter, Claire, I felt inadequate and hypocritical. Who was I to teach etiquette to anyone? I forget to send thank you cards within appropriate time frames, fail to place my napkin on my lap once seated, and only recently learned how to use a finger bowl. Claire, who can hear, but whose speech is still mostly unintelligible, has learned to sign "please" and "thank you". She routinely signs "please", as she has found she subsequently is rewarded, but regularly omits "thank you", believing this sign serves no useful purpose whatsoever.
My grandmother has been hospitalized in Birmingham since Thanksgiving. Since I am the only family member living in Birmingham, I have had a great deal of company during the past several weeks. My mother and her two sisters have taken turns staying with my family and me in my modest 1550-square-foot house, in order to care for my grandmother and make medical decisions. Together, we have shared Christmas, New Year's, a cramped living space and some particularly violent winter viruses. During this time, I have learned more about etiquette than I ever learned in Mrs. Post's masterpieces.
One night, my aunt had bronchitis, I had a stomach virus, Claire had the flu, my grandmother's kidneys were not functioning, the refrigerator was empty, and piles of dishes sat festering in the sink. My husband, peering out of bloodshot eyes and seeing us in various stages of illness and emotional collapse, said, "People need to know what happened here". From that moment, we called our house "The Fallout Shelter". I have found no book written on proper fallout shelter etiquette. Please allow me to put forth a few suggestions, many of which were demonstrated by my considerate family.
First, after getting sick in a bathroom, please ensure said bathroom is liberally sprayed with Lysol. Second, if your stay must exceed the recommended, sweet-smelling, three-day limit, please contribute financially to groceries, supplies, and utility costs. Third, if a guest of the fallout shelter appears to be temporarily losing his or her mind, it is the host's responsibility to either call in reinforcements, medevac the guest out, or both. Fourth, it is appreciated, yet not expected, for guests to provide supervision and entertainment for any resident toddlers, when convenient. Fifth, it would behoove any host to remember that frequent, home-cooked meals tend to improve fallout shelter morale, so keep a well-stocked kitchen.
I have learned that proper etiquette goes far beyond using one's dinner fork instead of one's dessert fork for the main course. Real etiquette communicates love, respect and patience toward others. Oftentimes, the people we meet are experiencing hardships we know nothing about. Too frequently, we behave rudely to strangers, who, unbeknownst to us, are emotionally vulnerable, in pain or grieving. Too often, we fail to be polite to those we love most. If we put others' needs before our own, we will naturally exhibit most of the habits Emily Post promoted. What better lesson to teach my daughter?
My grandmother has been hospitalized in Birmingham since Thanksgiving. Since I am the only family member living in Birmingham, I have had a great deal of company during the past several weeks. My mother and her two sisters have taken turns staying with my family and me in my modest 1550-square-foot house, in order to care for my grandmother and make medical decisions. Together, we have shared Christmas, New Year's, a cramped living space and some particularly violent winter viruses. During this time, I have learned more about etiquette than I ever learned in Mrs. Post's masterpieces.
One night, my aunt had bronchitis, I had a stomach virus, Claire had the flu, my grandmother's kidneys were not functioning, the refrigerator was empty, and piles of dishes sat festering in the sink. My husband, peering out of bloodshot eyes and seeing us in various stages of illness and emotional collapse, said, "People need to know what happened here". From that moment, we called our house "The Fallout Shelter". I have found no book written on proper fallout shelter etiquette. Please allow me to put forth a few suggestions, many of which were demonstrated by my considerate family.
First, after getting sick in a bathroom, please ensure said bathroom is liberally sprayed with Lysol. Second, if your stay must exceed the recommended, sweet-smelling, three-day limit, please contribute financially to groceries, supplies, and utility costs. Third, if a guest of the fallout shelter appears to be temporarily losing his or her mind, it is the host's responsibility to either call in reinforcements, medevac the guest out, or both. Fourth, it is appreciated, yet not expected, for guests to provide supervision and entertainment for any resident toddlers, when convenient. Fifth, it would behoove any host to remember that frequent, home-cooked meals tend to improve fallout shelter morale, so keep a well-stocked kitchen.
I have learned that proper etiquette goes far beyond using one's dinner fork instead of one's dessert fork for the main course. Real etiquette communicates love, respect and patience toward others. Oftentimes, the people we meet are experiencing hardships we know nothing about. Too frequently, we behave rudely to strangers, who, unbeknownst to us, are emotionally vulnerable, in pain or grieving. Too often, we fail to be polite to those we love most. If we put others' needs before our own, we will naturally exhibit most of the habits Emily Post promoted. What better lesson to teach my daughter?
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Divine Proportion
The mathematical principle of Phi is: The whole is to the larger in exactly the same proportion as the larger is to the smaller. Phi, also known as the Divine Proportion, can be identified in a pattern of numbers that increases by adding the two previous numbers.
In writing, this all seems so esoteric, so difficult for math-challenged people (such as myself) to understand. However, if you look at a spiral-shaped Chambered Nautilus shell, the principle becomes visible. This miracle is comprised of gently curving, pearly spaces, each created by the homely organism that once inhabited the shell. Beginning with the miniscule chamber in the center of the spiral, you can trace each consecutive chamber, each created as the organism outgrew the last, each slightly larger than the one before. Each one precisely follows the rule of Phi.
As a mother, I have watched my 19-month-old daughter, Claire grow and change with each passing day. When Claire was 10 days old (and I was crazed by rapidly shifting, postpartum hormonal levels), I remember wailing, "She's 10 days old already, and I've missed it!" My mother, bewildered, reminded me, "But Annah, you've been here!" I had been trying to express my longing for Claire to remain a newborn forever. At the same time, I looked forward to knowing her as a child, teenager and adult. I suppose every mother wants to have her cake and eat it too.
I mourn each time I fold and box clothes Claire has outgrown, placing them in the attic, much as the Nautilus sheds its shell. New chambers are created as my husband and I buy 12-month clothing, 18-month clothing, 24-month clothing. Likewise, as Claire's mind develops, I miss the days in which she would stare, fascinated, at ceiling fans and lamplight. Now, I rejoice to hear her learning to say "sock" and "ball". I loved her when she was the passive recipient of affection, but love even more her toddler kisses and spontaneous "hit-and-run" hugs. Her wise-beyond-her-years newborn gazes have given way to myriad expressions from joy and delight to "uh-oh-tantrum-coming". Her bobble-headed attempts to sit up have been replaced by running, dancing and twirling. Each day I lose her. Each day I gain her.
But how can one measure the development of a tiny, precious soul? Add the last two numbers? Measure it with a tape measure? This mystery is beyond all science, all mathematics. It is certainly beyond me. Perhaps this is what Oliver Wendell Holmes recognized when he wrote the last stanza of his poem, The Chambered Nautilus:
"Build the more stately mansions, O my Soul,
As the swift seasons roll!
Leave thy low-vaulted past!
Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free,
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!"
What a privilege to watch this spark of divinity unfold.
In writing, this all seems so esoteric, so difficult for math-challenged people (such as myself) to understand. However, if you look at a spiral-shaped Chambered Nautilus shell, the principle becomes visible. This miracle is comprised of gently curving, pearly spaces, each created by the homely organism that once inhabited the shell. Beginning with the miniscule chamber in the center of the spiral, you can trace each consecutive chamber, each created as the organism outgrew the last, each slightly larger than the one before. Each one precisely follows the rule of Phi.
As a mother, I have watched my 19-month-old daughter, Claire grow and change with each passing day. When Claire was 10 days old (and I was crazed by rapidly shifting, postpartum hormonal levels), I remember wailing, "She's 10 days old already, and I've missed it!" My mother, bewildered, reminded me, "But Annah, you've been here!" I had been trying to express my longing for Claire to remain a newborn forever. At the same time, I looked forward to knowing her as a child, teenager and adult. I suppose every mother wants to have her cake and eat it too.
I mourn each time I fold and box clothes Claire has outgrown, placing them in the attic, much as the Nautilus sheds its shell. New chambers are created as my husband and I buy 12-month clothing, 18-month clothing, 24-month clothing. Likewise, as Claire's mind develops, I miss the days in which she would stare, fascinated, at ceiling fans and lamplight. Now, I rejoice to hear her learning to say "sock" and "ball". I loved her when she was the passive recipient of affection, but love even more her toddler kisses and spontaneous "hit-and-run" hugs. Her wise-beyond-her-years newborn gazes have given way to myriad expressions from joy and delight to "uh-oh-tantrum-coming". Her bobble-headed attempts to sit up have been replaced by running, dancing and twirling. Each day I lose her. Each day I gain her.
But how can one measure the development of a tiny, precious soul? Add the last two numbers? Measure it with a tape measure? This mystery is beyond all science, all mathematics. It is certainly beyond me. Perhaps this is what Oliver Wendell Holmes recognized when he wrote the last stanza of his poem, The Chambered Nautilus:
"Build the more stately mansions, O my Soul,
As the swift seasons roll!
Leave thy low-vaulted past!
Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free,
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!"
What a privilege to watch this spark of divinity unfold.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Mother's Day Out
"Honor thy father and mother, that thy days may be long upon the earth." This Bible verse is widely known as the only one of the Ten Commandments with a promise attached. Many people think it means if you treat your parents well, you'll have a long life. My mother, however, when driven to the brink, would paraphrase it as, "Do what I say, so I won't be tempted to kill you!"
A couple I know have three children. The father said they only have one rule: "Do whatever we say, immediately." It seems that would keep things simple, but I imagine its enforcement is more complicated. Now that my daughter, Claire is 18 months old, I discipline her when she knowingly misbehaves. She cries, pouts, stamps her tiny feet, and gives me looks that could kill. However, if she attempts to crawl into our gas-lit fireplace, she will receive a consequence.
It is difficult to be firm with someone so small and endearing. I feel a sense of guilt when I enforce my rules, which are in place only to keep her safe. When she attempts to cajole by handing me her favorite toy, when she says, "mama" and pats my knee, it is so hard to buckle down and teach her not to attempt to open the cupboard full of poisonous cleaners. But I know I must if she is ever to reach her second birthday.
By Monday night, I am usually worn out from constantly supervising a creature entirely bent on her own destruction. The next morning, I receive a respite. Claire goes to Mother's Day Out every Tuesday. I drop her off at 8:30 and drive off, chanting "Free at last, free at last!"
Within half an hour, I miss her. As I run errands, I see snacks and toys she would love, and I want to buy them all. I return home to "have an hour of peace". Instead, the house seems eerily empty and quiet. Don't get me wrong; I get a lot done. But it all seems so meaningless without her. At 1:30, feeling as though we have been cruelly separated by a Communist regime, knowing she will leap into my arms once reunited, I rush to pick her up. When I arrive and behold her angelic face once more ... she doesn't want to go. She is very attached to Miss Shirley (who really is wonderful) and likes all the novel toys. When I lift her up, she struggles and hits me on the nose. (sigh) Time for more discipline...
Later, as I tenderly watch her sleeping in her crib, looking for all the world like a plump, pink baby hedgehog, with her feet tucked under her and her bottom comically sticking up, it is hard for me to imagine this same child wreaking her customary havoc. I am struck by the myriad contradictions parents encounter when raising a child. Any child, within a 24-hour period, can be in turns ebullient, irascible, innocent, cranky, compliant, frustrating, and virtuous. Parents must counter these characteristics with patience, fortitude, and acceptance, all the while battling exasperation and constant interruptions. Perhaps this balance of justice and grace is the definition of loving a child. Excuse me, I have to go now. Claire just handed me a booger.
A couple I know have three children. The father said they only have one rule: "Do whatever we say, immediately." It seems that would keep things simple, but I imagine its enforcement is more complicated. Now that my daughter, Claire is 18 months old, I discipline her when she knowingly misbehaves. She cries, pouts, stamps her tiny feet, and gives me looks that could kill. However, if she attempts to crawl into our gas-lit fireplace, she will receive a consequence.
It is difficult to be firm with someone so small and endearing. I feel a sense of guilt when I enforce my rules, which are in place only to keep her safe. When she attempts to cajole by handing me her favorite toy, when she says, "mama" and pats my knee, it is so hard to buckle down and teach her not to attempt to open the cupboard full of poisonous cleaners. But I know I must if she is ever to reach her second birthday.
By Monday night, I am usually worn out from constantly supervising a creature entirely bent on her own destruction. The next morning, I receive a respite. Claire goes to Mother's Day Out every Tuesday. I drop her off at 8:30 and drive off, chanting "Free at last, free at last!"
Within half an hour, I miss her. As I run errands, I see snacks and toys she would love, and I want to buy them all. I return home to "have an hour of peace". Instead, the house seems eerily empty and quiet. Don't get me wrong; I get a lot done. But it all seems so meaningless without her. At 1:30, feeling as though we have been cruelly separated by a Communist regime, knowing she will leap into my arms once reunited, I rush to pick her up. When I arrive and behold her angelic face once more ... she doesn't want to go. She is very attached to Miss Shirley (who really is wonderful) and likes all the novel toys. When I lift her up, she struggles and hits me on the nose. (sigh) Time for more discipline...
Later, as I tenderly watch her sleeping in her crib, looking for all the world like a plump, pink baby hedgehog, with her feet tucked under her and her bottom comically sticking up, it is hard for me to imagine this same child wreaking her customary havoc. I am struck by the myriad contradictions parents encounter when raising a child. Any child, within a 24-hour period, can be in turns ebullient, irascible, innocent, cranky, compliant, frustrating, and virtuous. Parents must counter these characteristics with patience, fortitude, and acceptance, all the while battling exasperation and constant interruptions. Perhaps this balance of justice and grace is the definition of loving a child. Excuse me, I have to go now. Claire just handed me a booger.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Ma Petite Princesse
Claire is a princess. Either that or the second coming of Queen Elizabeth I. I have often heard children are born with their own distinct personalities, which can only partially be influenced by their parents. My 17-month-old daughter has a buoyant cheerfulness mingled with an imperiousness I don't believe is entirely due to her age.
When Claire was first born, I couldn't resist singing, "Here she comes, Miss America ..." as the nurse would wheel her into my room to be nursed. She did not suffer to remain with the other babies in the hospital nursery, considering them mere peasants, but instead, resided at the front desk in her little transparent bed, the darling of the staff.
Over the past few months, with her singular sweetness, Claire has charmed the dedicated employees at our local Target. Riding backwards in the child seat of the shopping cart, like the figure head of a 17th century battleship, she gazes benevolently out upon her devoted populace. When Claire makes a new acquaintance, she invariably holds out her tiny hand to be kissed, as if she expects the adult to say, "Your servant, mum." She then regards her new subject with a slight frown, deciding whether to grace them with her royal favor. Upon her departure, she blows rapturous kisses to yet another adoring fan.
The only great-grandchild of her great-grandmother, as well as the only grandchild of each set of grandparents, Claire receives more than her share of attention. With the staff and elderly residents at her great-grandmother's assisted living home, she's considered something between a mascot and a celebrity, retaining a popularity rivaling that of Princess Diana. She condescends to toddle through the lobby, visiting with the residents and bestowing upon them spontaneous, babyish affection.
It is difficult to be the mother of a reincarnated monarch. Sometimes I feel more like a lady in waiting. For instance, I don't change Claire's diaper; I make her toilette. Claire doesn't sleep in her nursery. She reclines in her boudoir. She doesn't eat; she dines. She turns up her royal nose at crackers but deigns to accept crumpets. Due to her separation anxiety, I don't leave the room before receiving her permission to withdraw.
Now that Claire is old enough to understand the word "no" and be disciplined when she disobeys, I am girding my loins for World War III. Despite the unutterable tenderness I feel for her, I know the next few months (years?) won't always be easy. I only hope I don't quail under her gimlet eye the first time she's forced into "time-out". I'm already gleaning advice from other parents on how to retain the upper hand (okay, get it in the first place), and, of course, any prayers would be appreciated. In the meantime, Claire will continue to occupy her throne in my heart ... at least until she has to share it with a younger sibling.
When Claire was first born, I couldn't resist singing, "Here she comes, Miss America ..." as the nurse would wheel her into my room to be nursed. She did not suffer to remain with the other babies in the hospital nursery, considering them mere peasants, but instead, resided at the front desk in her little transparent bed, the darling of the staff.
Over the past few months, with her singular sweetness, Claire has charmed the dedicated employees at our local Target. Riding backwards in the child seat of the shopping cart, like the figure head of a 17th century battleship, she gazes benevolently out upon her devoted populace. When Claire makes a new acquaintance, she invariably holds out her tiny hand to be kissed, as if she expects the adult to say, "Your servant, mum." She then regards her new subject with a slight frown, deciding whether to grace them with her royal favor. Upon her departure, she blows rapturous kisses to yet another adoring fan.
The only great-grandchild of her great-grandmother, as well as the only grandchild of each set of grandparents, Claire receives more than her share of attention. With the staff and elderly residents at her great-grandmother's assisted living home, she's considered something between a mascot and a celebrity, retaining a popularity rivaling that of Princess Diana. She condescends to toddle through the lobby, visiting with the residents and bestowing upon them spontaneous, babyish affection.
It is difficult to be the mother of a reincarnated monarch. Sometimes I feel more like a lady in waiting. For instance, I don't change Claire's diaper; I make her toilette. Claire doesn't sleep in her nursery. She reclines in her boudoir. She doesn't eat; she dines. She turns up her royal nose at crackers but deigns to accept crumpets. Due to her separation anxiety, I don't leave the room before receiving her permission to withdraw.
Now that Claire is old enough to understand the word "no" and be disciplined when she disobeys, I am girding my loins for World War III. Despite the unutterable tenderness I feel for her, I know the next few months (years?) won't always be easy. I only hope I don't quail under her gimlet eye the first time she's forced into "time-out". I'm already gleaning advice from other parents on how to retain the upper hand (okay, get it in the first place), and, of course, any prayers would be appreciated. In the meantime, Claire will continue to occupy her throne in my heart ... at least until she has to share it with a younger sibling.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
My Little
My grandmother gave me a poem by Ethel Barnett de Vito, entitled "Calamity": "The terrible news goes round and round:/Veronica Lou has lost a pound,/And the family's plotting what to do/To get it back on Veronica Lou./On anyone else you'd never know it,/But Veronica Lou's the type to show it./She's lost her curves and she's lost her bloom,/She frets all day in her pretty room,/And nothing appeases, nothing charms,/Not even a cry in mother's arms,/Not even the gift of mother's chain/That once she ogled in vain, in vain./And the family fusses, quick to pounce/On anything said to build an ounce,/For a pound to one so very new/Is one whole tenth of Veronica Lou!"
When my sister weighed five pounds at full-term, my mother called her a "little sack o' sugar." When my now 16-month-old daughter, Claire was only a gleam in my eye, I used to pick up a sack of sugar when at the store, just to feel what it was like for my mother to hold my minikin sister.
My husband and I realized soon after Claire's birth our "Little" was an unusually petite baby. Although beginning at the 50th percentile in weight, she had descended to the 10th by her four-month checkup. As I explained to Thumbelina: "Dis mean 90 puwcent of uddeh babies youw age aw bigguw dan you!" She didn't actually lose weight like Veronica Lou, but gained very slowly.
I frequently meet other parents who ask wee Claire's age. When I tell them, they invariably look accusingly at either their perfectly average-sized offspring, as though Junior has eaten more than his share these many months, or at me, as though I have been willfully starving my child. Claire herself never seems to notice her tiny stature, calling much older and larger children "babies."
Being pint-sized does have its advantages. Claire is quite portable, for one thing. She never bumps her head while mincingly toddling around. I can hold her for long periods of time without tiring. Best of all, she outgrows her miniature clothes slowly, which saves money. I have even wondered whether our diminutive might do something extraordinary, such as become an Olympic gymnast, or better yet, an Alabama cheerleader. (Claire is unafraid of heights, after all. Just last week, she threw herself off our bed with complete abandon.) At the very least (no pun intended), perhaps the respected nonprofit, Little People of America, would allow her to become an honorary member. Although Claire can't help being impossibly small, I can still tease her. I routinely sing Randy Newman's "Short People Got No Reason To Live" in her presence. "They got little baby legs/That stand so low/You got to pick 'em up/Just to say hello/They got little cars/That go beep, beep, beep/They got little voices/Goin' peep, peep, peep..."
I worried excessively during Claire's first year of life, much as my mother fretted over my sister. Even though the pediatrician kept insisting Claire was healthy (and Claire herself kept eating like a voracious shoat), I continued to stress, reading childcare books, torturing myself with descriptions of "failure to thrive" babies, and tempting Claire with sweetmeats (which she obligingly devoured). Over time, however, my dainty ankle-biter's constant activity, bright alertness, and continuous weight gain have allayed my fears. I have come to accept Claire as she is: my "Little."
When my sister weighed five pounds at full-term, my mother called her a "little sack o' sugar." When my now 16-month-old daughter, Claire was only a gleam in my eye, I used to pick up a sack of sugar when at the store, just to feel what it was like for my mother to hold my minikin sister.
My husband and I realized soon after Claire's birth our "Little" was an unusually petite baby. Although beginning at the 50th percentile in weight, she had descended to the 10th by her four-month checkup. As I explained to Thumbelina: "Dis mean 90 puwcent of uddeh babies youw age aw bigguw dan you!" She didn't actually lose weight like Veronica Lou, but gained very slowly.
I frequently meet other parents who ask wee Claire's age. When I tell them, they invariably look accusingly at either their perfectly average-sized offspring, as though Junior has eaten more than his share these many months, or at me, as though I have been willfully starving my child. Claire herself never seems to notice her tiny stature, calling much older and larger children "babies."
Being pint-sized does have its advantages. Claire is quite portable, for one thing. She never bumps her head while mincingly toddling around. I can hold her for long periods of time without tiring. Best of all, she outgrows her miniature clothes slowly, which saves money. I have even wondered whether our diminutive might do something extraordinary, such as become an Olympic gymnast, or better yet, an Alabama cheerleader. (Claire is unafraid of heights, after all. Just last week, she threw herself off our bed with complete abandon.) At the very least (no pun intended), perhaps the respected nonprofit, Little People of America, would allow her to become an honorary member. Although Claire can't help being impossibly small, I can still tease her. I routinely sing Randy Newman's "Short People Got No Reason To Live" in her presence. "They got little baby legs/That stand so low/You got to pick 'em up/Just to say hello/They got little cars/That go beep, beep, beep/They got little voices/Goin' peep, peep, peep..."
I worried excessively during Claire's first year of life, much as my mother fretted over my sister. Even though the pediatrician kept insisting Claire was healthy (and Claire herself kept eating like a voracious shoat), I continued to stress, reading childcare books, torturing myself with descriptions of "failure to thrive" babies, and tempting Claire with sweetmeats (which she obligingly devoured). Over time, however, my dainty ankle-biter's constant activity, bright alertness, and continuous weight gain have allayed my fears. I have come to accept Claire as she is: my "Little."
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