Amy can clap hands on command, and even off command. Now I’m trying to convince her that she should applaud when I manage to change her without yanking off one of her fingers in her sleeve.
A University of Otago group theorise that our inability to use language to process early events is the reason we remember so little of our early childhood: ie. what we remember is based on the language we know at the time of the event. It would explain why very early events are completely forgotten and only patchy memories exist for things that happen as a preschooler.
While we sit here watching a TiVo’d One Night at McCool’s (which we’ve never seen before and is rather funny), Amy alternates between dozing lightly and crying halfheartedly. We have no clue what’s wrong: I’ve fed her three times in the last hour and a half and she’s started falling asleep each time, only to burst into tears when I put her to bed. Teething? She has six already, for goodness’ sake, I told her to take a break! A cold? Maybe. Overtired? Probably.
Last night she woke three times, instead of the usual one. A return of the reflux? Unlikely. Nappies are perfectly normal, she’s eating her solids fine although she’s taking very short nursing sessions because she’s constantly peering around at the activity, or even the lack thereof.
There was no indication in my horoscope yesterday that I would bump into not one, but two people from my past. One was a guy Mike and I both knew, from the halls of residence at our university. He was shopping for suitcases and the first thing he blurted out was that he was going to Dubai on holiday. He’s always been a talkative sort but has never really had anything to say. He followed us, talking all the time, through Briscoes, through the checkout while we bought a new duvet cover, out the door and to the lift to the carpark. I said to Mike afterward that I thought he was going to just get in the back seat of our car and come home with us, still talking.
The other person is a story for another day, should I ever feel the desire to tell it.
Also, I just made a huge chocolate self-saucing pudding and ate way too much of it. Naughty naughty. I should have had trim milk with it instead of blue-top.
Lately the Gang of Mothers that I see regularly — consisting of neighbours and Plunket-group peers — have been discussing the impact of a younger sibling on the older child. Almost everyone in our circle has two kids now: one around Ethan’s age and one roughly Amy’s age. We’re all in the same boat. But two of us have sons the same age who have some interesting behaviours when they’re out in public. We discussed the possibility today that it’s not just the age they’re at but that the behaviour is a result of playing second fiddle to a younger sibling.
I like to think that Ethan still gets as much attention as he did before Amy was born, and I know S would like to think that about her son, too. But at Ethan’s birthday party it was noted by at least two mothers who hadn’t met S or her son before that S spent almost all of her time with her daughter and left her son to entertain himself. Today at R’s place the subject came up again, with R saying the same thing: S was devoting more time to her daughter than to her son.
As I mentioned, S’s son has very similar behaviour to Ethan when socialising: easily upset, things get blown out of proportion, they take adult interference badly even when they’re knowingly breaking the rules. S’s son, when it came time to leave another party we all attended, threw his piece of birthday cake across the room, twice. Ethan isn’t quite as intense as he is, but the basic behaviour is the same. Ethan will cry, S’s son will scream. So the question is: am I favouring Amy over Ethan? I don’t think so, but I have a hard time believing that he’s just tired, or it’s just the terrible twos, or he’s just hungry.
R had a great idea to promote cooperation around the house: a magnetised reversible happy/sad face to stick to the fridge (or to somewhere central in the house). Provided the child does their set jobs around the house — picking up their toys when they’re done, putting their shoes away, helping set the table or change the baby — the face is happy. But if the child refuses to help, the face is sad and the child gets no help from their parents until they have done their chore and the face is turned to happy again. Of course that would work even without the face, but it’s a handy reminder over an extended period for a kid with a short memory. The idea is that one hand washes the other: Mum won’t help you if you don’t help Mum first: “I can’t get you a glass of water when you haven’t put your shoes away.”
The more I read, and the more Ethan brings up the topic, the more I realise that three is the age of self-awareness, physical self-awareness. Two days ago Ethan once more brought up the topic of — you guessed it — his penis. He was peeing standing up at the time; he’s become pretty proficient provided I remind him to lift the seat (because there’s nothing quite like sitting down on a puddle). We keep antiseptic wipes on the counter next to the toilet now.
“Mum, where’s your wee-wee?”
“I don’t have one, honey, I’m not a boy. Only boys have penises.”
“And you’re a girl?”
“Yep.”
“So what do girls have?”
[incoherent stammering]
See, I wasn’t expecting to get into this particular discussion quite so soon. I can handle saying the word “penis” to Ethan — I don’t feel half as self-conscious as I used to — but MY GOD don’t make me say “vagina”. When I type it, I have to swivel the laptop away from Mike so he doesn’t see what I’m typing, because then we’ll both be embarrassed that I’m typing more dirty words onto the Internet (like there aren’t enough already). But I certainly don’t want him to think that girls have fannies or hoohahs or whatever those pansy mothers use as euphemisms.
In half an hour, Ethan and I are going to kindergarten. Fingers crossed that we have no tantrums, crying, broken bones or nuclear wars while there. A finger painting would be nice though. Yeah.
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