The Tough Cookie

Relationships are hard. Probably none are harder than the parent and child ones. In the early years, parents are your role models, they guide you and teach you. In later years those models are the ones you fight against or with as you gain your own identity and independence. I had many fights and stand offs with my mom through the years, especially after my father passed as I became the substitute for my dad.

Despite those fights there were truths and behaviors that my parents, my mom, taught me that became the foundation of who I am with some personal tweaks, of course.

When I was young, I was sick and spent weeks in the hospital undergoing tests and operations. My mom was with my through all the appointments and every night in the hospital while I got better. There were times during that ordeal that I was the one who had to comfort her – telling her I would be fine and that she didn’t have to cry.

When I was about to give birth to M, my daughter, I didn’t want her to come to the hospital with me because it was in the same hospital where my dad passed only seven months before. She was still so sad and frail. But she was there and despite my fear of her passing out, she held M in her arms in utter shock of how I made it through labor. I snapped at her and said “Mom, you did the same thing three times.” But she worried about me then and about us always and that’s what moms do. She worried up to the end. Some of the last things she said to me was to make sure that I put a hat on and to ensure that we all ate.

As most of you know, I am a big dog lover. This I did not get from my mom. Or, so I thought. When I was younger, I bugged my parents for a dog relentlessly.

My mom’s responses were – these are in translation and censored:

'No!'

'Enough with the dog already.'

'Get out of here with the dog'

'When you get older, you can get one.'

Sure enough, when I was older, I got one. My mom was furious with me.

But over the years who was the one asking me to bring the dog over, who informed me we were having chicken for dinner because that’s what the dog asked for, who gave up her seat on the couch so the dog would be comfortable. She had a big heart and it seemed at times that it was biggest for the dogs.

It was also a very big heart for children. She often babysat and was a nanny as we were growing up and we got older. She often would tell me stories of what the children did and said while she was with them. She always had a sparkle in her eyes as she retold those stories. Often laughing so hard, she would gasp for air. She was very sweet and played with the kids. She did this with M too –singing to her, playing peek-a-boo and getting ‘scared’ just to hear her laugh.

She had a great sense of humor. Her sense of sarcasm was impeccable. She often tried to laugh or find humor in the smallest things. Both of my parents had that talent and I try to emulate that even through hard times.

What I am most grateful for is that despite only have a fifth grade education, she and my dad worked tirelessly so we could all go to college. We could have something that they didn’t. She rallied for both my and my sister’s education because she came from a country and a time where girls didn’t get to go to high school much less college.  She knew that education over here, in America, was the first step to a better life. Although she was physically here in the US, her heart and her thoughts were always in Italy. There’s a line in a song that goes ‘you cannot return to where you never left’. Every time I hear it I think of my mom. I probably won’t listen to that song for a while now.

She was a strong woman, ‘manufactured in a different time and place’ as many neighbors said. Through her rounds of chemotherapy, she never once exhibited the nausea or vomiting that we were told to expect. The nurses and oncologist always remarked that ‘she was a fighter – a tough cookie’. And she was. She fought hard in life, with me, with us and now she’ll go back to fighting with my dad. Dad, I hope you tuck your shirt in and that you have smoked your share of cigarettes while you had your break. Mom, say hi to my fuzzies and thank you for everything. 

Around the Block

A few months ago my daughter's  nursery class was learning about neighborhoods and modes of transportation. There were daily queries of which transportation option I took to get to work and what was my favorite way to get places. In addition, I was asked by a little interrogator if I went to the grocery store or the post office on my way to work.

In order to further cement the lesson, her class was planning a field trip. I decided to sign up to be a chaperone because:
1) It was something I could squeeze into an hour of my morning schedule without attending a full-day event.
2) I thought it would be fun. (Honestly, this was the biggest factor in my participation!)

After dropping the kids off at school and making sure they had all the bathroom department business completed, the other parents, who were also chaperoning, gathered at the class door to collect their field trip pair. Each parent had their own child and then another little munchkin. My daughter was exhilarated that I was involved in this activity. She grabbed onto my hand and decided to swing from it while her friend pulled my other hand and arm down the stairs. (If only they had pulled my legs a bit so I would grow a few inches.)

We made our way outside and the teacher instructed the children to point to and call out the modes of transportation they had learned. Immediately twenty 3-year-olds yelled out, "Taxi!", "Bus!", "Bicycle!" The boisterous nature of toddlers was magnified by 100 times due to this close proximity to them. I could not contain my laughter because it was hysterical to hear them jubilantly calling out everything on wheels.

We turned away from the main boulevard, around a corner and up a quiet residential street. The noise became a bit more manageable. We decided to examine the budding flowers blossoming near all the trees. This fascinated quite a number of the children particularly because they didn't know the names of the flowers (daffodils, lilacs, impatiens, etc.). We then looked in on a couple of the businesses, waved to the owners and patrons, and explained what the people inside those offices and shops did. One particular child, who incidentally is always late to school, pointed out where she lived. It was eye-opening to everyone and horrifying to the child's mother that she was being ratted out.

The best part of the whole field trip was my daughter. Not only because she's my cutie and I got to share this moment with her, but also because she's shamelessly in love with dogs. As we walked around the block, she must have stopped to put her hand out to every dog. She wanted them all to sniff her so she could pet them. She did this unabashedly. She didn't care that her friend was scared out of her mind by every dog. My daughter also did not notice that I had to switch pairs so that her partner would not have a panic attack. She just thought all the dogs were 'cute' or 'fuzzy' and she wanted to pet them.

When we finally returned to the school entrance, the parents and teacher attempted to take a group picture. This was quite a challenge. I alone had 25 pictures of the children and in each one, at least one of the children was either hiding, not smiling, crying or running away from the group. It made me appreciate the work that the teachers do every day. There are moments where I really can not handle one child and yet, these teachers work with at most 20 different personalities on a daily basis. And they do it effortlessly and often, with no complaints. 

Although the trip lasted no more than a half hour, I know I will not forget it because:
1) My ears haven't yet recovered from all the screaming
2) It's a memory of a day at school with my daughter that I so frequently get to experience.
 

The Enforcer

The electronic street crossing signs for pedestrians have changed over the years. They used to flash a phrase - a white “Walk” or a red “Don’t Walk”. Recently the signs have been upgraded (to a degree) to show a red hand flashing a palm, which I presume means “Don’t Walk” (although it could be ‘talk to the hand’ in some circles). Conversely, the ‘walk’ sign is an outline of a person walking.

When my daughter started walking, I explained the meaning of these commonly seen signs so that she would understand them. She knows exactly when we should stop in our tracks and wait for the light to change and when we can proceed on our route. She knows these indications very well. So well, that she even tells strangers that they should be following the crossing signals.

One morning, on our way to school, we approached a busy intersection just as the ‘walking person’ began to flash – indicating that we should prepare to stop. On the other side of the boulevard, a mother, her enormous stroller and her 3 children approached the intersection as well. My daughter put her hand up (copying the red hand) and yelled out “Stop!” The mother laughed and halted. She made some faces to me from the other side of the street to say that my daughter was precocious (I already knew this as you can imagine). When the lights changed to walk, and we finally passed each other in the middle of the street, the mother said “She’s very cute. And she’s very protective of others!” I thanked her. Since that day, whenever we see this mom, she says hello to us and ceases promptly at the crosswalk if the light says not to walk.

My daughter has also shown her penchant for following rules by being a referee/mediator when the boys in her class wrestle in the hallway. As those little rug rats start pushing or punching each other, in swoops ‘Super Rule Follower’ to tell them, “Boys! No fighting!” It’s cute. However, I have indicated to her that she needs to stay far away from the boys because they aren’t paying attention to her. I don’t want her to get injured because she’s protecting and serving. (Let’s be honest here. Why aren’t parents telling their kids not to fight and wrestle? Why is my daughter pointing out the obvious?)

We’ve also encouraged the munchkin to cover her mouth when she coughs, sneezed and yawns. In addition to this courtesy, we have told her not to talk when her mouth is full of food. Whenever my husband and I sneeze or cough, she reiterates our admonitions “Cover your Mouth!” (Even if we are blatantly covering our mouths!) If we happen to talk at a meal, she wildly gesticulates with her adorable little finger that there is food in the offender’s mouth.  She points to her mouth and states, ‘There’s food in your mouth so don’t talk!”

I was informed last week by the assistant teacher that ‘little me’ tells everyone in her class to cover their mouth when they sneeze and cough. The assistant said that it was good practice for everyone. Too often the kids didn’t do it and the teachers forget to remind them. She even said it was great that she got up to get a tissue to rub her eyes. I had told my daughter to do this after a pink eye warning went around. The aide said that my daughter was a leader to the other students. Here I was thinking that all of these practices were to protect her and not get her sick. But because she inherently enjoys enforcing the rules perhaps this is an indication to a future profession – police officer, lawyer, nagging mother or wife, smart aleck. All of them are acceptable jobs to me. Let’s just hope she grows out of her informant ways and continues to enforce rules and proper manners. 

Banana Split

My daughter is quite talkative. She has an extensive vocabulary already, which I attribute to my obsession with storytelling. I enjoy our nightly routine of cuddling and reading books together and this has paved the way for her logophilia (word love).

There are a few words that she says that make me smile and a number that my husband enjoys (and they are not the same words, which is cool). And I think she has a favorite word. Can you guess which one it is?

My husband recently bought my daughter orange tulips and gave them to her. Her response: ‘Oh banana!’

While reading a book that depicts a half moon in the illustration, she yells out “Banana!”

While eating some of the yellow peeled fruits, she practices by saying “BAnaNA! BaNAna! Binana! Benana!” with a slightly full mouth. She then smiles to show me the BANANA mush in her mouth. 

She definitely has taken a gander to other words as well but the potassium rich fruit seems to be the prominent word spoken around my house with my daughter. It is clear she appreciates words, or maybe just that one word. Maybe the banana doesn’t fall too far from the tree?

The First Cut

My daughter was born with an immense arrangement of hair on the top of her head. I had to give her the first trim after 3 months and I have been doing the best with upkeep every few weeks. However, in the last few weeks, it has been very difficult getting a comb or brush through her hair without it snagging on the bristles. And the other night when she was dancing and couldn’t quite see out of one side of her face because her hair had covered it, I thought it was time for her first hair cut.

I worried a bit that she might freak out. Not so much because of a scissor being presented but by it being presented to her in someone else’s hands. I placed her in the little fire truck and the hair dresser put on an episode of Doc MacStuffins and M was mesmerized. The cape went on and the spray bottle came out. She was interested by the water shooting out of the nozzle and tried to grab it. But when the theme song started, she was interested only in what was on the screen in front of her. 

The stylist combed through her hair and then put it up in clips to cut the back portion. My daughter looked adorable. In what seems like a few short minutes, a good inch and a half was cut away from her mane and her bangs no longer fell into her eyes. She cleaned up very well. 

Then I had to pay. Luckily my sister joined me on this momentous first so she got to run after her while I settled the bill and gave the nice lady a tip. My daughter determined that the best part of the hair cut was the chance to run back and forth in an immense play area. She gave me a hard time leaving the place. Luckily she didn’t put up a fight with getting her first official trim. The hard part was getting her to leave the place. Can’t say I blame her. I wish my salon would show any television show I wanted.

Angie's Rib

There is very little that I remember of the daily ins and outs of my pregnancy. I do recall an awful lot, don’t get my wrong, but those typical complaints and cravings that you hear about with regards to pregnant women don’t come to mind. (You can ask my husband though. I’m sure he has a whole list!)

One particular complaint that I had towards the end was that I would repeatedly get kicked in the ribs every night. It was incredibly painful to the point where I would have a bodily reaction as if someone were kicking me in the stomach. A number of times I thought the force and repeated nature of the kicks would eventually break a rib. I even remember one night when the relentless kickboxing class made me cry. I thought at that particular moment, I would feel the bone(s) give way. Turned out it just hurt a lot and I didn’t sustain any broken ribs. 

As I said to a doctor early on when my daughter didn’t want to cooperate during her anatomy scan:

 “I have my work cut out for me, don’t I?”

 He replied, ‘Yes, you do.”

From that moment on, I knew M was going to be interesting. (There was another moment before that but this was the point when I knew I’d have my hands full!)  She definitely showed it through my pregnancy, especially every night as she auditioned for the Rockettes, and now that she’s outside my stomach as well.  

My little stunt double apprentice has taken a liking to the bathtub. Not entirely sure why but she could sit there for hours playing with toys and inspecting the material of which the tub is composed. One morning after finishing a bath, I turned to get the towel on the sink. I discovered on turning back that mini-spidergirl was climbing up the shower caddy, which gave way right under her. Acting quickly, I grabbed her with my right hand and held the caddy from falling with my left. In doing this acrobatic move, my foot slipped from under me and I crashed into the edge of the tub. I heard a crack and felt pretty intense pain. I was pretty certain that I broke a rib. As I was trying to compose myself, stop crying and attempt to move, my daughter looked at me like “Let’s do it again!” I turned to see the dog sniffing at my body. Maybe she knew something I didn’t know about my bones. 

Luckily nothing broke which is a blessing. Even with bruised/cracked ribs, it’s hard for them to heal when you have to pick up a munchkin who insists on moving at warp speeds. I just hope this is the last bit of torture my ribs will have to sustain for a while. But I’m definitely not holding my breath (frankly, because it hurts!).

Cookie Thief

Despite my attempts to get my daughter to eat healthy snacks, she loves cookies. (And yes, I know the apple does NOT fall far from the tree!) Part of the reason she developed a love of cookies is thanks to my mom (and I did let her have graham crackers c.f. blog entry "Teddy Grahams"). My mom’s belief was that certain biscuits from Italy had vitamins in them and that the baby could use more vitamins. Of course, upon looking at the nutritional information of said cookies, there were, in fact, as I suspected, very few vitamins in them. 

However as my daughter’s food pickiness came into being, it became a debate of whether to give her something to eat (the vitamin cookie) or nothing at all. I opted for a cookie every now and then to give her an occasional treat. But like most things, when the cat (momma) is away, the mice (grandma) will (give the child cookie) play.  I discovered many cookies were being eaten and nibbled on when I was at work. 

Of course these food issues with my daughter are a power play that she’s getting away with on her grandma. I try my best to give her fruits and veggies and other things we eat, only to have her toss it to the dogs. My pooches are thrilled by this free for all, believe me. 

On occasion before I’ve even placed food on my daughter’s plate, she’s already made eye contact with the dogs and they sit under her high chair. The food goes from my hand in a direct path to the dog’s mouths. It’s great! Really! 

Lately what I’ve noticed is that my daughter takes her sweet time eating her cookies. This is pure temptation for my bigger dog, who is always hanging around my munchkin. M will walk around the apartment with a hand on the wall or her playpen and the other hand tightly grasping a cookie. When she takes too long, the big dog follows her around. Her face fixed on the cookie in hopes that the cookie will either drop on the floor. Or with the desire that my daughter will just give her the cookies after her hands get all steamed up from the dog’s hot breath on her fist. 

Once or twice, I’ve been there to witness the dog gently put her mouth around the treat in my daughter’s hand, my daughter giggles from the drool and opens her hand. The pooch has serenely digested the sweet snack satisfyingly and all is right again in the puppy universe. Score one for the canine. 

Last weekend my daughter walked back and forth in the apartment for about 15 minutes. She probably completed a mile of pitter-pattering with a gingerbread cookie in her hand. Throughout this little marathon, the dog walked on her side with her snout right above my daughter’s fist. A couple of times, my daughter shoved the dog’s face away from the cookie with her cookie-covered hand. This only made the dog salivate more. Over time and repetition of this same scene, the cookie became soggy and my daughter opened her hand to rub the drool off of her hands. The cookie fell to the floor. And score two for the canine!

Let’s look at the scoreboard:

M = 0;  pooch = 2!

I am pretty sure this game of cookie ball will continue for quite some time. At least until my daughter learns to keep her food to herself. I suppose I should be happy that she’s learning to share but it’s not quite how I imagined sharing to be taught to my daughter. It’s certainly not sharing by intimidation but by salivation.