Making the Baby Vain

Another of the many ways I am damaging Lucy: makeup. It started with the brushes. She'd watch me put makeup on in the car and demand to have her own brush. Now she's demanding actual pigment. "I need lipstick, Mom. I need some of your lipstick." I don't spend all that much time grooming, but what little I do (cover the spots, paint the lips, the basics) happens in the car while she is riding in the backseat (we can cover the subject of modeling bad driving another time).

I am not sure how to explain makeup or why I like/need it, and why she doesn't, or even the whole concept of physical beauty. But she seems to be interested in it. Granny (and others) have been telling her she's "special," which she frequently counters with "I'm not special, I'm Lucy." But tonight she described some dog on TV as "special," and I asked her what special means. "Special means cute, Mom. I'm so cute."

Before I could explore my many-layered response to "I'm so cute," she asked me about my eyebrows. Earlier, she and Jason had dropped in on me during an esthetician appointment, catching me in flagrante de waxo (more or less).

L: "Whatchu doing, Mom? You lying down?"
K: "Melody is fixing my eyebrows. And washing my face."
L: "She's gonna give you a bath?"
K: "She's gonna give my face a bath."
L: "Oh. I'm going to the grocery store with my dad. Bye."

Later:
"What Melody do to you, Mom?"
"She fixed my eyebrows and washed my face."
"Your eyebrows look cute, Mom. You're so cute."

I wanted to explain that between the brushes and the makeup and the wax and the occasional harsh chemical, that was a nice thing to hear, even if I didn't want to want to hear it. But instead, I just said thanks and told her she was so cute too.

Dorky Destiny

Sometimes Lu's dorkiness worries me. I can feel the embarrassing moments unfolding in front of her — distant ones like when she will insist on getting the ugliest perm in the world, or the time she will get in trouble during P.E. because she tries to sneak a book into the gym, or when she will fall down in the student center in front of a bunch of really cool seniors. Even at two and a half, her lack of coolness is very clear. I am trying not to project my own dorkiness onto her, but does this look cool to you:

New Low

Even I am amazed at the lengths I/we will go to for a good time. Here I sit at Mother Egan's Pub, waiting for trivia to start. It is technically Jason's "turn," meaning I will go home at some point. For the moment though, the whole family is here. At a bar.

Lu had the most gigantic blow-out diaper ever. Crap on leg, on shorts, on everything. I changed her in the back of the wagon, then set aside the soiled pants. Now she is running around the bar with no pants. Shades of things to come.

p.s. No wait, she has returned with Jason from his car, where they found some hideous, too-small purple pants that don't match her shirt. Is it wrong that I think no pants is better than bad pants?

The Talking

I don't know how to write a post about the talking without being one of those parents who says, "I don't mean to brag, but I feel sure, I can just tell that Suzy/Johnny/Chelsea/Jack is gifted." You are not fooled by the disclaimer. They are bragging. You hate those people. You hate their children.

I don't think Lucy is gifted. I just think she knows lots and lots of words. That she uses to make sentences with nouns and verbs and pronouns and adverbs and adjectives and prepositions, in various tenses. I fear that when she takes some standardized test, she will prove to be what I am: so verbally exceptional and mathematically retarded as to be... slightly above average. The advantage of verbal ability early on is that everybody TALKS. But who solves for x at age 2? No one. So the verbal kid looks like a smarty, while the other quiet genius? Well, that kid just mentally counts all the money he/she will be earning while Verbal talks his/her way to a Liberal Arts degree and a job in advertising. GO MATH!

Jason was talking with Lu's teacher, Ms. Uzma, about the talking. Ms. Uzma is a pretty Muslim lady who wears Western clothes and a smart, coordinating head scarf. Lu loves her, and when she first started at Twin Oaks during the colder months, she insisted on wearing a hood at all times to be like Ms. Uzma. I think maybe the feeling is mutual, though Ms. Uzma is a pretty tough character who tells the children sternly they are "so sad!" when they are doing something wrong. Lu is always telling Duck, Pig, Bear and Clifford how they are "so sad!"

Ms. Uzma told Jason that Lu is so verbal and mature that they sometimes forget that she is only two and a half. She speaks as clearly as a five-year-old, Ms. Uzma said. They forget about her real age until Lu throws an epic fit like the one she did at lunch today. She's three grade levels above on verbal skills, below grade level for behavior. Which makes her...slightly above average.

See Whirled

Some friendly advice: don't go to Sea World on the last viable weekend before school starts. Unless you already hate everybody. I have had such bad feelings about other human beings after that experience. Bad, bad ones. Some titles I considered for this blog entry:

"Oh, the Sweaty Humanity!"
"Put Down that Ice Cream Cone and Move Your Fat Ass"
"There is Nothing Amusing About Standing in Line"
"Sea World: a Place that Makes You Want to Spear Something"

I have always hated amusement parks (see above about "not amusing"). I hate the lines. I hate the manufactured thrills. I hate the forced urgency: "By God, Lucy, we paid $90 and YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE A GOOD TIME." There are plenty of real reasons in life to stand in line (to meet the Pope/the Dalai Lama/Bono) and want to vomit (food poisoning/malaria/pregnancy). And the Diet Cokes are almost always cheaper.

It was so easy to imagine myself as better than those inner-tube-carrying masses. Yet there we all were, working toward a common goal: fun. There was no caste system, no velvet rope to duck under. We were all equally...sweaty. Lu enjoyed the dolphins, the waterpark, and intermittently, the Shamu show. Maybe it was her disrupted sleep schedule or the fierce pursuit of fun, but she was not as dazzled by the whole business as I expected. When she said, "I want to go to the hotel," I all but did a jig. Instead, I did a cooling inner dance, and felt like I had taught my daughter a valuable lesson: Amusement parks suck. The hotel's where it's at.

Everything is Snoring

I am awake. And I have been since 4 a.m. The Benedictines, who follow a liturgy of the hours that involves praying seven times a day starting at around 4 a.m., describe this first hour of prayer as "matins" or "vigils." It is supposed to be a good time to worry about things, or try not to worry about them. Alas, I cannot not worry. I can only listen. To Jason, snoring lightly in my ear every time he rolls onto his back (I keep rolling him over onto his side. Gently. And sometimes not so gently). To Ramona, who I think has some kind of dog sleep apnea. To the air conditioner, which also seems to be snoring (and coughing and generally struggling to breathe).

And to Lu, who is the reason I am awake in the first place. She cried out a couple of times in her sleep. I wonder what she is dreaming about. When I have asked her, she tells me "I dream about a wolf" or "I dream about a fox" or sometimes simply "stars," which I find very sweet. I want to go in there now and check on her, but this is the fragile hour — like me, if she stirs now, she is likely to be awake, awake, awake. For the moment though, she is among the stars. I am among the snores.