Things I Don't Want You to Know But My Toddler Will Tell You Anyway

We are crowded into the examination room- Minnow, Peanut, Peanut's stroller, the nurse, and I- for Peanut's one-month well-baby visit.  I am holding Peanut as the nurse wraps a tape measure around her head.  Minnow is humming the "Sofia the First" theme to herself.

"What's new with you, Minnow?" the nurse asks cheerfully.

"Peanut pooped in her car seat yesterday and Mommy still hasn't cleaned it up," Minnow replies.

The nurse's eyes dart to the car seat attached to the stroller and- sure enough- a dried stain the size of a silver dollar, which until then could have passed as mustard, boldly beams up at her.

"That must have just happened," I lie.  Inside I am dying.  Did my toddler really just rat me out?

"Here," the nurse says, holding out a pair of latex gloves and a sanitary wipe. "Do you want to clean it up now?"

Well, of course I do!  I rub at the stain with the wipe while Minnow, with arms crossed, oversees.  Do I detect disdain in her blueberry-blue eyes?

Later that day when my husband comes home from work he comments on how nice the house looks.

"Thanks," I say proudly.  "I swept and vacuumed all the floors today."

Minnow, standing nearby in a tiara and pink plastic shoes, corrects me.

"But you forgot to do the stairs and the hallway, Mommy."

No, you little twerp.  I didn't "forget" to do anything.  It's just that Mommy isn't a work horse and between feeding you, nursing your sister, going to the doctor's office, swim class and the post office, doing two loads of laundry, and playing 'princess tea party' for the billionth time this week, there was no time to vacuum the stairs and the hallway.  Jeez!

"Haha, Minnow," I say.  "You sure are observant!"

The next day after we get to Minnow's soccer clinic I realize that I've left Minnow's Minnie Mouse thermos on the table in the foyer at home.  I am hoping we can go an hour without hydration, but 15 minutes into practice the coach yells out "water break!" and all the kids run off the field and toward their mommies.  Minnow reaches into the pocket of the diaper bag where Minnie Mouse usually resides and comes up empty.

"Mommy, can me have my Minnie Mouse cup?"

"Oh, I'm so sorry, sweetheart.  Mommy forgot Minnie Mouse at home.  But you can have a big hug instead!"

Minnow glares at me, then saunters back onto the field and approaches her coach.

"I didn't have any water because Mommy left my Minnie Mouse cup at home."

"Haha... tattler!" I laugh, although I'm starting to see that in Minnow's eyes I am failing miserably at this mother-of-two gig.

The coach laughs, too, and says to me, "That's nothing.  You should hear what the older ones tell us."

And that's when I realize that motherhood is one big Orwellian trial that we are all evidently losing.  Our children are meticulously monitoring and logging our every step- and misstep- so that they can testify against us at their whim.  I used to congratulate myself for being a stellar parent in public, and when I slipped up in private I'd think, "It's okay.  Nobody saw that."  Wrong!  My toddler saw it and stored it in her airtight memory, probably forever.

If you're curious about how you're doing as a parent, pay attention to how your toddler treats her toys.  One afternoon while washing dishes in the kitchen I heard Minnow give all her blocks a timeout.  "That's it!" she yelled.  "Five minute timeout for not listening!  I'm tired of it!"  Then she stomped out of her playroom angrily while I looked on in alarm.

Be mindful: Big Brother is watching.  And imitating.

I may have been embarrassed that Minnow told the nurse about the old poop or her coach about the forgotten water bottle, but how much more embarrassed would I have been if, instead, Minnow shared that on the way to soccer practice, Mommy called the driver in front of her a "jerk-face" for cutting her off.

"Mommy, I need you to stop yelling," Minnow had said.

"Yeah?  Well I need this guy to stop being a jerk-face!" I replied.

I am certain that I am destined for "unpersonhood"- or at least "unmommyhood"- in Minnow's world when we meet up with her former babysitter for brunch in Bronxville last Saturday.  Somehow we get on the topic of ice cream and Minnow's babysitter asks her, "Does your mommy let you eat ice cream?"

"Not really," I say.  "I'm a mean mommy."

"You're not a mean mommy!" Minnow retorts.  "You're the best mommy."

I am astonished, mainly because her words are so... unrehearsed!  I feel redeemed.  It is clear that Minnow is aware that I am flawed, but at only two years and nine months old, she seems to understand that I am doing my best to be a good mommy to both her and Peanut, every day.

And that is the truth.

Why I Watch "Toddlers and Tiaras"

With the updates to the house almost complete, Peanut due to arrive any nanosecond, and temperatures reaching the high 80s (we don’t have central AC, but I’m sure you guessed that), tensions have been running high in the C household.  Apparently, my husband and I aren’t the only ones coping with copious amounts of stress.  A few days ago, Minnow asked me to get her coloring books and crayons so she could color at the kitchen table.  I obliged, and as she sat coloring I scrubbed some dishes in the sink.  A few minutes later I turned around to find her methodically peeling the wrappers off each crayon. 

“Minnow, why are you doing that?” I inquired.

“Because it helps me feel better.”

Interesting.  When I’m stressed I usually make a list or go for a long run, but, you know, different strokes for different folks.

I mean, can you blame the kid for feeling a little frazzled lately?  According to Baby Center, toddler stress is real, and can be brought on by the following:

“…having too many planned activities, the lack of a stable routine, feeling sick, a move, a separation from a beloved caregiver, or the arrival of a new sibling.”

In the last three months Minnow has been through two moves; has gone from living with her beloved grandparents and favorite dog, Harry, to spending the majority of her days with just me; and is anticipating a new baby to disrupt the only-child lifestyle she has enjoyed since birth.

Rationally, I understand what’s going on but, emotionally, my stressed-out toddler is making me feel like I am failing miserably at motherhood. Her usually cheerful and cooperative personality has been replaced by someone who, in her own words, “[Doesn’t] want to do ANYTHING!.”  Our mornings usually start out well, but unravel after she has finished her breakfast.  For example, on Tuesday I wanted to bathe Minnow before her swimming lesson at noon.  First she screamed because she didn’t want to get into the tub.  Then she screamed because she didn’t want to get out of the tub.  She refused to use the potty, then she refused to put on her swim diaper.  She fought me with feet and fists as I struggled to get her into her car seat, and sobbed during the five-minute drive to the pool, “But I don’t want to go to swim lessons!  I don’t want to do ANYTHING!”

Then when she got to the pool, she said, “Mommy, can me pick out my own goggles?  I want the pink ones!”

Every day has been like this since we moved into the new house.  It’s like living with someone who suffers from unmedicated bi-polar disorder, which I guess most toddlers do, in a way.  My days are spent dreaming up ways to keep Minnow happy, and those ways usually include too many Annie’s Cheddar Bunnies and too much time spent watching “Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood" on the iPad.  At times like these, when I’m feeling like just about the most unqualified mother in America, only one thing will lift my spirits:

“Toddlers and Tiaras.”

Confession: There are few things I enjoy more after putting Minnow to bed than kicking back on the couch with a bowl of Edy's Slow Churned ice cream (or a Shake Shack shake, if my husband is so inclined) and watching two or three episodes of this TLC gem.  The mothers of “Toddlers and Tiaras” help me realize that even on our most out-of–sorts days, I could be making far more questionable decisions as a parent.  After all, I can honestly say that I have never:

- Spray-tanned my toddler;

- Fed my toddler Pixie Sticks, Red Bull, or something called “Tinker Tea,” which is, evidently, a concoction comprised of Pixie Sticks, lemonade, and soda (soda!);

- Called another person’s toddler “ugly;”

- Suggested to my toddler that “stripper” is an acceptable career choice, as long as she does it “fabulously;”

- Criticized my toddler for not having (or doing- I don’t know what the correct terminology is here) “pretty feet;”

- Allowed my toddler to ride in an ATV, with or without a helmet;

- Put false eyelashes on my toddler’s eyes, false teeth in my toddler’s mouth, or makeup on my toddler’s face (Although I have, on occasion, painted her toenails the same Essie color as my pedicure, so we could match);

- Told my toddler, in either a positive or negative way, that she looks like a “prosti-tot;”

- Allowed my toddler’s lunch to be spoonfuls of mayonnaise (mayonnaise!) straight out of the jar;

- Threatened to “kick the shit” out of another parent in front of my toddler (or ever!);

I don’t mean to criticize other people’s parenting styles (cough, cough); after all, being a parent is, by far, the most challenging thing I’ve ever done, and I went to law school.  I don't doubt that the parents on "Toddlers and Tiaras" genuinely love their children, even if they have a funny way of showing it.  I’m just saying that the next time Minnow wants to lament her misfortune because I insist on washing her hair or giving her something other than carbs for a snack, she might do well to think about little Mackenzie or Brooklyn, who certainly have more stress in their lives than she does.

Homestretch

It’s hard to believe, but we are moving into the new house this Saturday, almost two months to the day after we moved out of our Bronxville apartment and into my inlaws’ home on Long Island.  My in-laws have been so gracious and accommodating during our transition into homeownership, and I know they will miss the way Minnow’s exuberant singing, ukulele playing, and knock-knock jokes can fill a big home, but I think they’d agree that eight weeks is just about the maximum amount of time that three generations can comfortably reside under one roof.

When I say it’s hard to believe, I mean that I truly cannot fathom how our house will be ready for occupants in four days.  Every time I walk through the rooms I am overwhelmed by the number of moldings that need to be scraped and painted, the boxes of furniture that need to be built, the layers of dust that need to be eradicated.  I’d analogize it to a paper in college whose submission date is looming.  You know that it’s due by a certain date, and you know that you will submit it by that date, but you have no definite idea how that will happen; you just sort of trust in miracles.  

What doesn’t help is that all of my contractors like to begin phone conversations with, “Mrs. C., we have a problem.”  They then go on to describe said problem, which rarely amounts to much of a problem at all.  It’s like they’re constantly hedging my expectations, as a means of insurance.

For example, on Friday my floor guy, Stanley, called while I was waiting on an infinite line at the DMV to change the address on my license.

“Mrs. C., we have a problem.”

“What’s the problem, Stanley?”

“It’s raining outside.”

“I’m aware of that, Stanley,” I said, staring at my soggy Hunter boots.

“Well I’m trying to apply the second coat of polyurethane to the floors and it’s not adhering.  The weather is too wet.  The floors are not dry.”

“Okay…”

“So I will have to turn up the thermostat in your house, allow the floors to dry overnight, and come back in the morning.”

“That’s not a problem., Stanley,”  I replied.

And it wasn't a problem.  Because we don't live there yet.

Similarly, this morning, while at Starbucks, I received a call from my paper hanger, Tony.

“Mrs. C., we have a problem.”

“What’s the problem, Tony?”

“Your hot water is not running.  If you don’t have hot water, I can’t wash the glue off my brushes.  If I can’t wash the glue off my brushes, I can’t hang your paper today.”

“That’s not a problem, Tony.  We turned off the boiler.  The boiler switch is at the top of the basement stairwell.  Turn it on.  You’ll hear the boiler kick in.  Wait a half hour.  You’ll have hot water.”

And I was right.  I’m a freaking genius.

Of course, usage of “We have a problem” is not exclusive to my home contractors.  When I called the body shop last week to check on the status of my Jeep repair, the owner began with, “Well, we have a problem...”

“What’s that?” I asked, feeling like I just might lose my marbles. 

“When we inspected your car more closely, we found additional damage to the suspension.  The insurance company needs to resend its adjuster to make a secondary estimate.  We’re looking at another week, at least.”

Unfortunately, this is one problem I cannot solve, and I so desperately want my car back.

All of this is to say I really don’t know where mothers found respite from life’s little “problems” before Starbucks.  I am there at least once a day, sometimes twice if the day is shaping up to be particularly “problematic.”  Minnow has become so familiar with the green mermaid logo that she points it out from the backseat whenever we pass a store. 

“Oh, Mommy!  There’s Starbucks! We go get coffee now?”

Minnow likes Starbucks because it usually means a treat for her, as well.  When we walk through the doors she immediately struts toward the cold case, grabs a Horizon organic vanilla milk box, and places it on the counter.  “And a bagel with cream cheese,” she tells the cashier.  Sometimes she mixes it up and orders a bag of organic dried mango slices instead.  Truly, we are (or at least I am) raising the Starbucks generation.  But what can I do?  Even the strictest moms have to make concessions sometimes, and lately I've been making a lot of them.

I’m just trying to be a good mom, in spite of all the problems.  Today I had to take Minnow to the new house while I awaited a furniture delivery for the nursery.  I brought snacks and books and movies to watch on the laptop during the two-hour delivery window.  We sat on the floor in the playroom, which is the only room in the house not being worked on, and which is currently serving as the holding area for the furniture and boxes that have been delivered to the house.  “Don’t touch anything, “ I commanded.  “It’s very dusty.”  As we watched an episode of Wallace and Gromit, I became aware of a cloud of dust swirling above our heads.  That’s when I realized that the painters were sanding the moldings and trim down the hall.  The old moldings and trim!  Laden with lead paint!  Creating lead paint dust!  Causing lead poisoning!

“We have to get out of here, Minnow!” I said, gathering the laptop, her diaper bag, and her organic vanilla milk box in my arms.  We would have sat outside in the yard, but it was raining, so instead we sat in our parked car.  Rain pelted the windows I had rolled down a crack for ventilation while Minnow watched her movie in the backseat and I checked emails on my iPhone.  She never made a peep of complaint, but I still felt like all of my new neighbors were spying on us and thinking, “What a dreadful mother!” 

And while I am confessing my deficiencies as the mother of a toddler, let me also say that during this time of upheaval, it has been extraordinarily difficult to even remember that I am pregnant with a second child.  I mean, who forgets that she is pregnant?  But I do, during most waking hours of the day.  (Nighttime is a different story.  Kicks to the bladder as you’re trying to fall asleep are powerful reminders.)  This morning, as I unlocked the front door for the painters, one of them grinned at me and said, “She’s almost here!”

“Who is?” I asked, glancing over my shoulders.

“The baby!” he said, and pointed to my stomach.

"I hope not!" I replied, but then I realized, he’s right.  Peanut will be here in just over four weeks and I am so unprepared!  It is impossible to indulge the nesting instinct when one doesn’t have a nest.  I haven’t washed a single onesie to date.  I don’t have appropriately sized diapers for a newborn.  All of the nursery furniture is in storage.  At this point in my pregnancy with Minnow I had Crockpot meals prepared and in the freezer.  I had washed and rewashed her entire miniature wardrobe.  I had assembled all the baby equipment I naively believed were essential to her baby amusement.  Don’t even ask me where the travel swing is right now.

It sounds awful, but my thoughts have been so consumed by what’s been happening at the new house that I hardly have the energy to give poor Peanut a second thought.  On the one hand, managing the renovation of an old, quirky house certainly helps speed up the tedious third trimester.  On the other hand, holy cow!  I am having a baby, like, next month, and every time I answer the phone someone is telling me, “We have a problem.”

Wait a Minute, This Song Is a Metaphor

“1901” by Phoenix is playing on the radio while Minnow and I drive to the Long Island Children’s Museum on a rainy April morning.  At the conclusion of the song the DJ mentions that at this year’s Coachella Festival, Phoenix invited R. Kelly on stage to sing “Ignition Remix” while they performed “1901” in an unexpected musical mash-up.  I started laughing as I imagined R. Kelly commanding the crowd to “Bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce,” while Phoenix sang, “Fold it, fold it, fold it, fold it.”

“Why you laughing, Mommy?”

“Oh, Minnow!  I miss that song.”

I haven’t heard “Ignition Remix” probably since sophomore year of college.  It was THE song of Spring Break 2003, when my girlfriends and I partied at the beaches and clubs of Nassau, Bahamas.  Now here I am navigating a slick boulevard in Nassau County, NY with my toddler in the backseat, and all I want is to be ten years younger, sipping a Bahama Mama while wearing a midriff top in some seedy Caribbean nightclub. 

At the next red light I download “Ignition Remix” onto my iPhone and plug it into the car stereo.  Within seconds the familiar keyboard intro is filling the interior of the Jeep.

No I’m not trying to be rude,

But hey pretty girl I’m feeling you,

The way you do the things you do,

Remind me of my Lexus Coup.

By the third play of the song, Minnow is singing toot toot and beep beep along with R. Kelly.  By the fourth play of the song, I start really listening to the lyrics and realize: This song (like R. Kelly himself) is horribly inappropriate for young children! Especially smart, impressionable ones.  I had no idea what this song was actually about, probably because I was drunk when it was popular.  It’s not about cars!  It’s a metaphor!

And then another thought dawns on me: What other questionable music is my daughter absorbing while cruising in the car with me?  It drives my mother-in-law batty that Minnow’s favorite song is “Time Spent in Los Angeles’ by Dawes.  The chorus goes like this:

You’ve got a special kind of sadness,

You’ve got a tragic set of charms,

That only comes from time spent in Los Angeles,

Makes me want to wrap you in my arms.

But according to my daughter, the chorus goes like this:

You’ve got a special kind of sadness,

You’ve got a special kind of sadness,

You’ve got a special kind of sadness,

You’ve got a special kind of sadness… (And into infinity).

“I don’t like that song she sings,” my mother-in-law says.  “It’s about sadness.”

“It’s not, really.  It’s about California, which is pretty much the opposite of sadness,” I reply.

But I still feel guilty because Dawes is certainly not Mozart.  In fact, Mozart is not on Minnow’s iTunes playlist, but Mumford and Sons, The Lumineers, and Loudon Wainwright III are.  It’s my fault.  I’m not one of those moms willing to listen to the “Hokey Pokey” on repeat in the car.  Driving is stressful enough.  But, admittedly, I was growing weary of  “I Will Wait,” “Ho Hey,” and “Daughter,” so I sort of embraced that the kid was digging R. Kelly.

I am hoping Minnow will forget all about “Ignition Remix,” by the time we leave the Long Island Children’s Museum, but when we get back into the car she immediately requests the “car song.”

“What song?” I ask, feigning ignorance.

“Toot toot!  Beep beep! Cars talking, Mommy.”

Minnow continues to ask for the “car song” each time we get into the Jeep for the next few days.  On Sunday morning, as we’re driving to church, Minnow again makes her appeal. 

“What is she talking about?” my husband asks.

Reluctantly, I turn on “Ignition Remix,” and, without missing a beat, Minnow starts singing the words, like, perfectly. 

Sipping on Coke and rum,

I'm like so what I'm drunk...

“Do you play this song for her?” my husband asks.

“Not all the time,” I reply sheepishly.

That night, on our way home from dinner, my mother-in-law is sitting in the backseat with Minnow. 

“Car song, car song!” Minnow demands.

“What song does she want?” my mother-in-law inquires.

“Uh, I don’t know,” I lie, mentally willing my husband to drive faster toward home.

“Toot toot!  Beep beep, Mommy!” Minnow reminds me.

“Oh! That one.  The wheels on the bus go ‘round and ‘round, ‘round and ‘round” I improvise.

And that is probably the closest we’ve ever come to listening to kid-friendly music in the Jeep.

Over the Bridge, Pt. 1: Home Is Wherever I'm with You

We’re halfway across the Throgs Neck when I catch a glimpse of Minnow, quietly cuddling her favorite purple dog in the backseat, and burst into tears.

“What’s that noise?” she asks, craning her neck to see around the boxes and mounds of clothing we’ve loaded into the car. 

My husband shoots me a reproachful look.  I’ve made it a rule to never let my children see me cry, but the events of the past month have tested that rule’s durability.  “Mommy is sad,” he states simply. 

“I didn’t even let her say goodbye,” I emit between sobs.  “She has no idea that she’s never going back.”  In our haste to pack the car and beat the late-day traffic, I had completely forgotten to ceremoniously mark Minnow’s last exit from our apartment by having her wave bye-bye to each room, as I'd planned.  It was, in my hormone-fueled estimation, an epic mom-fail.

“She’s two,” my husband reminds me.  “She’s already over it.”

To prove his point he addresses our daughter through the rearview mirror.  “Minnow, you know we’re not going to live in A7 anymore, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Because Mommy and Daddy bought a bigger, better house.”

“Yeah.”

“But that house isn’t ready yet, so we’re going to stay with Mimi and Grandpa for a little while.”

Minnow doesn’t respond.

“Is that okay with you?”

“Yeah.”

As we continue across the bridge, wisps of doubt swirl through my mind.  This is what I wanted, right?  To be pregnant with our second child.  It was all I could think about in the months before we conceived, but now that we’re nearing my due date, our old life- the three of us living in a rented two-bedroom walk-up in Bronxville, New York- feels just right.  Peanut is changing everything, and I struggle against so much change at once like an overturned tortoise seeking solid ground.

As a mother, I also worry about what all this change will do to Minnow and her fragile, two-year-old psyche.  The Bronxville apartment is the second in which Minnow has lived, and the first that she has truly known but will probably not remember, in her short twenty-nine months.  We moved to Bronxville eighteen months ago after we outgrew our majestic one-bedroom apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.  What that apartment lacked in space it made up for in charm and convenience, with its sweeping vistas of the American Museum of Natural History and one-block walk to the 77^th Street entrance of Central Park.  On Thanksgiving mornings my husband and I could watch the Macy’s Day Parade balloons bob by our windows minutes before we’d see them appear on the live television broadcast.   It was a matchless home with a Shake Shack on the corner.  We were going to live there forever, or at least until we had our first child. 

But our first child, Minnow, came unexpectedly- a few months after our first wedding anniversary- and because we weren’t yet ready to shed our Manhattan skins, the three of us toughed it out in our shared bedroom for as long as we could muster.  Three weeks after celebrating Minnow’s first birthday- in true Upper West Side fashion, with afternoon tea at Alice’s Tea Cup, a picnic supper in Sheep’s Meadow, and cupcakes by Magnolia Bakery- we boxed up the life we had crammed into 600 square feet and headed north to Westchester County, where, for the same rent, we could afford an extra bedroom, a formal dining room, and double the square footage.

The Bronxville apartment was the perfect transitional residence for a family reluctant to part with the allures of city life.  The 25-minute morning commute into Grand Central on the Metro North was easier on my husband than his former indefinite sojourns underground, waiting for the B or C trains to materialize.  The Bronx River Pathway proved to be a suitable, if not wholly comparable, substitute running route for the Central Park Loop.  And although, in solidarity with our suburban neighbors, we bought a Jeep, I still preferred to do my errands the Manhattan way: By buckling Minnow into the UPPABaby and high-tailing it to the post office, cheese shop, wine store, and children’s boutique, collecting bulky packages in the undercarriage as I went.

Although I missed Manhattan terribly, the Bronxville apartment gradually grew on me.  It was there that Minnow mastered the art of toddling, and then walking, and then, to our downstairs neighbors’ chagrin, the art of galloping at 8 a.m. on a Sunday morning while pulling a plastic toy tow truck behind her.  It was there that Minnow jubilantly used the potty for the first time, before steadfastly refusing to do so again for several months.  And it was there that I discovered our cozy little family would soon be expanding. 

I will miss the mornings spent eating sliced banana and watching Sesame Street with Minnow in the sun-drenched living room perched high in the treetops.  I will miss the afternoons spent trailing Minnow as she scoots around the playground adjacent to our building in a plastic canopied car, loading invisible groceries into its trunk.   I will not miss the minutes spent pleading with Minnow to climb the 53 steps to our apartment on her own because my belly is swelling and my doctor says I can no longer carry her.  Simply put, I will miss the days spent together, just the two of us.

Like I said, Peanut is changing everything.  When we learned about this pregnancy, we knew our days of living in a spacious but inconvenient fourth-floor walk-up with no overnight parking and shared laundry facilities were dwindling.  After almost four years of renting, it was time to buy a house.

And buy a house we did, with its own driveway and washer and dryer.  It’s an old, four-bedroom, side-hall colonial with a whitewashed brick façade and impeccably manicured lawn in an excellent school district on Long Island, my husband’s native land.  I couldn’t have dreamed up a better house for our family.  When we close in three weeks, it will, without a doubt, be one of the happiest days of my life.  But right now, as we prepare to plunk all our well-loved belongings into storage and temporarily move in with my in-laws on the North Shore, I have never felt farther from that first apartment on the Upper West Side, farther from that transitional apartment in Bronxville, farther from home.  

We finish crossing the bridge and merge onto the Cross Island Parkway.  I wipe away the tears blurring my vision with a glove-compartment napkin and glance at my husband, deeply focused on the road ahead, and my daughter, drinking in the view of the Long Island Sound from the security of her car seat, and am reminded of the chorus of the Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes song “Home:”

Ahh, Home

Let me come Home

Home is wherever I’m with you;

Ahh, Home

Yes I am Home

Home is whenever I’m with you.

If home is a state of mind, rather than a place, then I am determined to make this next episode of my life the homiest yet.