So, the thing with mushing yogurt into her hands (see previous post, not sure which one) is fast becoming a habit for Ava. Today, while she was in her car seat, I handed her a banana, a new favorite and a mom-pleaser since they are so filling. Anyway, she gets nice and quiet for about 3 minutes when she announces “mom, I am washing the windows!” –yes, with the banana. She then decided that it would be more effective to make a paste out of the banana, and just mushed and mushed and mushed while I drove along, desperate for a pull-out, any pullout. Later, while eating carrots and hummus she said the now ominous “mom, look at me!” and there she was, mushing hummus into her hands. I have to say that I was very proud of myself—I never got mad, and simply asked her why she did that. She then gave her typical response: “yes.” This drives me nuts. I think it is the toddler version of “-cause.” It makes me have to prompt her, which I hate, because I never know if she is agreeing with me because it sounds good to her, or because I really have hit the nail on the head. I asked her if it felt good to mush things in her hands, and she said yes. So, fine. More hand washing, some cursory wiping of the furniture, and we were good to go.

Speaking of “why” – we are solidly in the whys. Glad to be out of the wheres, but I was proud of her that she was so intent on having a geographical location for everything. Including very abstract concepts. She still asks where things are, but not quite as much. Now it is why. Often I do have an answer—questions such as why does a monkey have a tail are relatively easy, others, like why does Elmo not have a tail, are a bit harder, but the problem is that she asks them again and again. It is not the well known follow-up why, but rather the same freaking question again. I think it is a ploy for more conversation, since she also asks me to talk about things over and over. “Mommy, can you talk about this that or the other thing?”

Her language is really through the roof, and she mimics so many of my expressions, but she still say a ‘t’ sound for a hard ‘c’ – so cat sounds like ‘tat’, Corey’s sounds like “toys” (totally confusing my parents who live on Corey’s road and she was asking them over and over where Corey’s was, and they kept answering that her toys were right there, in the toy box, and she was like NO! TORYS!, in a tone of voice that pretty much conveys that she thinks you are a total imbecile. They finally got it.). Anyway, she refers to Michaela’s boyfriend Carlos as Tarloses, pluralizing him in the process and Michaela as Tella. Sometimes MiTella. And of course, there is Carter, who is Tartar, leading me to refer to his incessant spit up as Tarter Sauce.

Ah, the spit up. So, I learned the hard way that it is not smart to nurse your child in the grocery store parking lot (in a car in the grocery store parking lot), put him face out in a baby bjorn, and go waltzing through the produce aisle. He projectile vomited about 5 different times. Thank GOD he never actually hit an edible item, but it still did not endear me to the shoppers or staff at Price Chopper. They hate me there anyway, as I have accosted them with my new-mom righteous anger more than once when they have forgotten to ask me for my discount card. Anyway, I have not subjected the patrons of the grocery store to any more spit up after that incident—until today. Yup, there we were, sucking down a bottle in the parking lot, got out the ol’ backpack, buckled him in, put Ava in the cart and trekked on into the store. Buhluuuurpp…I asked Ava if he had spit up. “ummmm…just a little” – “a little? Are you sure” “yup! Just a little bit” OK. 5 minutes later, I decide to scrunch down to take a peek into the mirror that is above all of the vegetables. Oh God. I have been walking around with spit up all over his face, all over the front of the back pack where he has been sucking on it, all down my side and leg, with the largest glop of it right on my left butt cheek. La di da, here I am, blissfully wearing vomit on my ass for all to see. Ugh. I swear they see me at that store and are like, oh no, here’s the crazy mom again.

Though it is a great learning environment for Ava. I was bundling Carter at the exit, having made it through check out, and Ava was in the cart, and suddenly she started yelling “MOM! MOM! That 4 is BLINKING!!!!” (Aisle 4 needed help, and thus had put her little #4 lamppost on blink mode). It was clearly a very exciting moment for a 2-year old.

Her imagination is so amazing. She will make anything up. She was in the tub, and said “mom—look at my Christmas lights (or, rather Tistmas Lights)—this is a tree—aren’t they pretty?” We are talking about a white tub, with NO toys in it (I am not mean, she just does not want toys because they “bother” her). And the other night she had me in hysterics when she put 2 baby carrots on her head and said “I am a goat!” It goes on and on.

She has started screaming at me when she doesn’t like something. This is just awful, but better than a tantrum. But it still makes me so mad. Between that and jumping on the bed when Carter is lying on it, not to mention grabbing at him in a flurry of frenzied energy, she has earned her fair share of time outs. I try so hard to treat these as ‘time to reflect,” but it really is not coming across that way. I know that I am definitely a hard-ass, and just clamp down at the merest hint of what I think is mean or disrespectful behavior. This surprises me, since so many of my previous employers never put me on a management track because they did not think I was authoritative enough and I never asked to be on one. But I just can’t bear the idea of her being mean. I let a lot of stuff slide (let’s walk outside in just our socks; yes, you can wear pjs for clothes today; go ahead, put banana all over my car window; emptying the water cooler into 26 different containers on the floor because the dog needs water even though she has a perfectly good water bowl is fine; yes, you can tinkle outside just this once; NO YOU MAY NOT POOP OUTSIDE; sure, go ahead and cover the dog with every blanket you can find; another lollypop? Sure! etc), but the notion of disobedience just to be mean or defiant drives me nuts. I started in on her today, holding her hands and looking at her in the eyes, vehemently saying “it is important to be NICE, Ava, blah blah blah…The whole point of being a human being on this earth is to be the nicest person that you can be! That is the goal of life. That is what you have to work towards. That is what…oh great. Lost her again.” Why do I keep launching into these fits of philosophic musings when I am talking to my 2 year old???

She responded with “Now I am a nice girl, mommy.” Yes, you are Ava.

Carter did the cutest thing today. I lay him down on the bed to change him, and let him lie there with only his diaper on so that he could play with his feet, and he sort of turned and reached for the comforter, and started pulling it over his head. (I was not concerned with suffocation as I was right there). Anyway, he got it totally over his head and just started giggling. Then he got quiet, and so I said “where’s Carter?” and he totally cracked up and started flailing his arms and legs around. Then I pulled it up and said “peekaboo” and he laughed again, and then he covered his face again and I said “where’s Carter?” and again—totally cracked up. I was so proud of him!

I am so dying for him to sit up. He almost has it, but still will tip over without putting an arm out, clunking his head on the ground if I let him. He wants to and is trying, but it will be another few weeks I think. But he is making all sorts of noises, including “mamamamamamamama” when he cries. I like to think he is referring to me, but I think that is a bit narcissistic. But he obviously knows his name, Ava’s name, and Rosie’s name. Rose is a huge favorite. She is more interactive with him than she was with Ava—she has not problem wandering over for a scratch when I am holding him, and Carter just loves it—he pets her and laughs at her, and she patiently takes it. I think she is thinking that it is best to get on his good side now, as the high-chair days are not far off. She remembers Ava’s donations well, I think. Now she gets nothing from Ava—if something hits the floor or if she comes too close to Ava’s food, Ava bellows NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO ROSE! Though Ava is good for about 20 mini dog bones in the morning. The dog is so patient with her—she is Ava’s little project. Ava plays vet with her, and Rose just patiently stares me down while getting her boobies checked.

We are all snuggled up in the bed right now. Carter on my right, and Ava on my left. They are sound asleep. I just cannot leave them at night. Even if they did not wake up terrified when they are alone, I cannot sleep if I am not there with them. I lie in bed and think about the fact that they are not within reach, should something happen. Peter obviously feels a bit ignored, but he also gets the bonus of a good night’s sleep each night. I may get kicked and smushed and nuzzled and spit up on, but my kids are safe. And warm. That is no small feat when it is 30 below.