That Warm Fuzzy Feeling

Sometimes, you just have moments in parenthood that give you that warm and fuzzy feeling...
you know the one...frustration.

Normally, Sam is really sweet, and generally, she's a super good kid. We aren't exactly desperately searching for the "Supernanny" application online or anything. But, recently, I've had moments of wondering to myself if Sam has some sort of selective hearing loss, for all the listening and obeying I've been getting lately, I can't help but wonder (maybe even hope a little) that there's a legitimate reason getting her to listen to me has been more of a completely vertical rock face, as opposed to the uphill climb I was used to. Of course, I don't want her to have any actual problems, but feeling like a total failure as a parent isn't really working for me either. The fact that she still obeys her teachers and her father (for the most part) perfectly well doesn't escape me either, and irritates me to no end.

Then, the other day, Sam was lining up and playing with some random toys. I overheard her announce sternly to them, "Okay guys, I DO NOT want to hear ANY tantrums today!"

Ahhhh. She is hearing me. She just does not remotely care. Total failure it is.
Fabulous.

X is for X-ray

Sam came home from preschool today with a white stick-figure on black paper that said "X is for X-ray." She was very excited about it because she had to stay home sick on Friday and was beside herself with worry that she had missed "the letter X."
Anyway, as she was showing me her picture, and it's googly eyes--a very big plus in her book--I asked "So is an X-ray a picture of a skeleton?"
Sam looked at me very seriously and said "No, no, Mommy. An X-ray is a picture of your bones.
A skeleton is scary like a monster that goes roar."

Oh. Okay then. Point taken.

Lazy Saturday

This morning, I have a cold on top of normal woes of being nearly 9 months pregnant, and Daniel had to go into work, so Sam and I are having a pajama morning (which may or may not become pajama afternoon and pajama evening). Pretty much, I'm letting her do crafts and watch movies while I lay on the couch feeling bad for myself as much as possible. At one point, Sam decided she would like to get dressed and took her feet out of her fleece pajamas before changing her mind about going upstairs to pick out an outfit--which means she has spent the entire morning wearing her pajamas like a cape, sleeves on, feet free, fleece flailing, underpants showing. It's actually pretty darn funny, albeit a little sad as I do realize it is now nearly 11:30. Lest you think I'm utterly negligent--I did shower today, and I just cleaned the kitchen. There's brownies baking in the oven. And during an hour plus of playing playdoh, I did help her with whatever she needed (although I HATE cleaning out that stupid fun factory thing where it squishes out the playdoh and manages to get little pieces wedged in a thousand nooks and crannies). I even vacuumed up all the little reject shreds from the carpet when she was finished, so Daniel would not come home and drop dead at the sight of the floor. I just happen to find pants for Sam on a lazy Saturday overrated at best. So, my kid is wearing a pajama cape, and her hands are covered in marker (eh, they're washable) from the egg carton caterpillar she's currently coloring, and I just realized some of the color is actually on the white playdoh that is still firmly planted under her fingernails. She's fed, she's happy, and her caterpillar looks cute--so what if I'm too embarrassed by both of our appearances to open the door for the salesmen that always come pestering on Saturdays? Trust me, I could look like I'm ready for the Oscar red carpet and I still won't open the door for solicitors.
As part of our morning of chill, I let Sam watch her old home movies. She loves to watch "Baby Sam" and I like that it helps her to see what babies are really like before her brother shows up and she's shocked to see a lump that doesn't do anything but yell and poop and hopefully sleep. She was watching a video of her right around her first birthday when she suddenly yelled "Oh no! Mom! I'm not cute anymore!"
I asked her what she was talking about and she replied "Look at that cute baby! I'm not cute anymore." Although I remember the feeling that I was not as cute as I once was (nothing is more humbling than looking at cute five-year-old self when you're smack in the middle of awkward Junior High years), I don't remember feeling it at two. However, as I look at my playdoh and marker-covered nearly three-year-old, with her undies showing and pajamas hanging down her back, and the small amount of hair she possesses still sticking straight up just as it did when she rolled out of bed--I have to respectfully but adamantly disagree. I think you are still very cute, Samantha. Sorry to have to be the one to tell you, but you are dead wrong.

Pearls of Wisdom

Sam has been asking me constantly "When does baby Peyton come out?"

I wish I could give her an exact answer on that, mainly because it would really help me out to know that exactly myself. She seems just as dissatisfied as I do with my canned responses: "Soon," "Sometime after Valentines' Day," "Near President's Day," or "five to seven weeks." That last one usually merits a well deserved "HUH? What?" I can't say I blame her. How do you explain weeks to a kid who measures time in episodes of Team Umizoomis? (As in, "we will leave for preschool in an hour, that's like two Umizoomis.") I can just picture the look of disdain as I explain that the baby will come in several hundred Umizoomis...

Today, she threw me another baby related monkey wrench as we drove by the hospital:
"So, when baby Peyton does come out...how does that work?"
Uhh....Uhh...hey kid, how about a pony? I decided that given her age she was probably asking more how the whole birth process will effect her, and not necessarily me, so I started explaining that mom and dad would go to the hospital, and when she could come visit and meet her brother, that someone would stay with her overnight, like a sleepover, and that seemed to satisfy her curiosity. Boy, am I glad I didn't launch into an anatomical explanation of the birthing process. Sometimes not having a clue what to say has become my saving grace by preventing me from saying way too much.

The conversations she has been having about the baby with her father, however, seem a lot more fun and a lot less awkward. Tonight, Sam decided to tell me what she and daddy have been talking about, and it was adorable. She told me "Daddy and I talk about what I am going to teach Baby Peyton. I am the big sister."
I asked her what she would teach him, and here is what she told me:
"How to use the big potty and not diapers!" [I sense some coaching on that one from Daddy, who began trying to convince Sam to use the toilet while she was still in utero. I kid you not. It also did not remotely work, FYI. What a shocker.]
"How to roll over.
How to crawl.
How to brush your teeth.
How to read books.
How to play beads.
How to go to preschool." [She just started last week, but she is an expert. She also loves it.]
Then, a little while later, Sam was running at full speed around the family room rug. Sometimes before bedtime, she just goes a little crazy. She was going around and around when suddenly she stopped, got a huge smile on her face, looked at me and said...
"Mom! I know. I am going to teach Baby Peyton TO RUN!" She looked so excited by her "idea." I also have no doubt she probably will eventually do just that, although it will take much longer than she is anticipating. That's a lot of Umizoomis away.
I can not tell you how fun and touching it is for me to watch my 2 1/2 year old girl decide which of her pearls of wisdom she's going to share with her little brother.
Once he decides to come out, that is...which is still a few weeks away. Or like a zillion Doras.