What you remember

My memories of childhood don't include my parents very much.

I think that's just fine. I don't think it's indicative of anything other than that my parents gave me my space and didn't helicopter over every little thing. (Additionally, I suppose, my memories of childhood are more of when I was eight or nine, say, than when I was four or five.) My mum was at home, my dad was at work. I played at friends' houses and they played at mine; I played outside on my bike with the other kids on the road, and I read books by myself. Lots and lots of books.

Watching Dash and Mabel going crazy together the other day, a friend commented that they're great friends. Well, yes, they're great friends who beat each other up and push each other's buttons and drive each other nuts on a regular basis. "They're very close," I said, because I think that describes it better. When someone habitually sits on your head or wakes you up by jumping on your belly or thumps you in passing because you told them what two plus two was and you wanted to work it out yourself, they're not so much your best friend as an unavoidable part of your day, every day. And because that person would defend you against bad guys and robbers and bedtime, and holds your hand walking down the street, and is always there to scream beside you as you jump up and down on the sofa, you're okay with that.

I love that. I never had it, and I love that they do. I love that when they think of their childhoods they'll think of each other, not so much of us. The parents should be a constant, that's all. A non-variable presence that provides security and stability and a sense of the where the edges lie - what can be done, what's available, how grown-ups behave in grown-up land. Everything else about childhood, really, is about the children.

The Talk

What is this "Talk" they speak of? There are so many talks you can (should? might? are forced to) have with your kids.

For instance

• How babies are made

and don't think you've got away without covering

• How babies get out of there

and of course, the quite tricky

• Why people would ever want to do that

and also

• No they don't do it at the wedding, they wait a few hours and do it in private; and they've usually done it already by then

Then then there's the whole road down which you might not want to travel that begins with

• What's a bad word?

• Why I won't give you any examples of bad words

and

• Why I think you'll probably know what I mean when you hear one

And finally (for this non-exhaustive list) there's the bathtime-inspired selection of Talks:

• Girls don't have penises

• I promise, that's not a penis

• Why you shouldn't let your sister touch your penis

• Why you definitely shouldn't encourage your sister to touch your penis

• Why I don't care that you don't mean it and won't actually let her grab it

• Enough already this bath is over get out right now

Junior midwifery

Dash is anti-marriage these days. He doesn't mind it for other people, and agrees that men and women should be allowed marry whomever they love, but feels it's not for him. So he won't play marrying with Mabel any more, but she's managed to get around that, thanks to the Mr Rogers episode on d-i-v-o-r-c-e that she saw last week. "Let's play babies," she tells her brother. "We don't have to be married. We can be divorced, except you still live here and we have a baby."

Mabel loves to hear the story of when she was born. Or the story of when Dash was born. She particularly relishes the part about my waters breaking (first sign of labor, both times) and also how everyone I called in the early moments of my first labor had their phones turned off. (True story.)

We have a book called the Usborne Book of Knowledge, but neither of the children are remotely interested in learning about birds, or vehicles, or any of the sections other than the one on the human body. Mabel likes the page about how our bodies fight germs, and how bones fit together, but mostly she likes the two that detail how a baby is made and how a baby grows and is born. Lately she's been drawing babies in circles and telling me, "That's the bag of waters."

Then we have the first-aid book, which is a proper grown-up book that has somehow made its way onto the kids' bookshelf. Mabel likes to leaf through that and ask me what's wrong with all the people, or what might have happened to them if I don't know. There's a picture in there of a birth, just in case as a first-aider you come across some poor woman in the last stages of labor and need to do more than just boil water and find towels. It exhorts you not to pull on the head of the baby as it emerges. Good advice.

Yesterday I was complicit in a game of babies that was going on around me. Every few minutes a baby would be placed up my sweater, and then pulled out with a flourish.

"Oh, I can feel it starting to come down," I'd say.
"Push, push," they'd tell me, delighted.
"I can see the head," crowed Mabel.
"Twist it so it comes out," advised Dr. Dash.
"No, don't twist it," I said, concerned for my child's welfare.
"It's a girl! Congratulations!"
"Yayy! I always wanted a baby sister!"

Five minutes later I was safely delivered of two more babies in quick succession. Easiest pregnancies ever, I have to say.

Perfect two

Years ago, years and years ago, we took a few days in the Wesht of Ireland, and we drove there in my tiny wafer-thin car, and at some point along the road to Clifden, or Roundstone, or somewhere like that, I conjured up our imaginary future children in the back seat and made some brave, foolhardy even, remark about how young Ermingarde and Lavinia would react to whatever nonsense had just been said. Not to mention the little fella. We had to think for the little fella's name, but settled on Murgatroyd, which is the name of a duck, for reasons that are not actually clear to me.

To be honest, I don't even know if Lavinia was Lavinia, though I know Ermingarde was definitely Ermingarde, unless she was Ermintrude.

That was probably the first time we discussed our imaginary offspring. No, that's not true. We first discussed names when we'd been going out only a few months, less than a year, certainly; and at the tender age of not yet 21, that's a long time to be dating and still early on for such weighty discussions. We were in Lisbon, on a bench in the gardens of the Monastery of Jeronimos, I believe, though that's not important; I'm just giving you a sense of place. B had mentioned that he was partial to a particular girl's name, and I commented that, since putting it together with his last name would make the name of a famous film star, that would not be practical. Our friend appeared around the corner just as I was saying, "Well, if we have a girl, I'm not naming her that," and was justifiably a little concerned, no matter how much I reassured her that the whole conversation was extremely hypothetical.

But by the time we were driving to Roundstone it was eight years later and it was all just that little bit less hypothetical, even though at that point our permanent residences were an ocean apart and we hadn't quite figured out how to get around that fact. This was the trip where we both agreed that we wanted to get around it, although it took another 18 months for events to conspire to let that happen. 

And I think it was then, after conjuring Ermingarde and Murgatroyd and their sister, whoever she was, that we agreed that 2.5 was a good number of children. Two and a half. Very sensible, though maybe not entirely practical. Two, with an option on a third, was how we left it.

And thus it stayed, for a long time. But the option has never been taken up, and it's due to expire very soon, if it hasn't already done so. Maybe it's because I can't remember what the other girl was called. Maybe it's because I can't even imagine having another girl or another boy; or not having one or the other. By which I mean, that if a hypothetical third child was a girl, I'd still be sorry about the boy she wasn't. And if it was a boy, likewise.

So I think two is it. And two is perfect, because we have two perfect children, no matter how much and how often they drive us both demented, individually and one at a time, and we want to run away and drink a lot of wine and sleep forever. We'll still keep 'em.


This post is part of a virtual baby shower in honour of two of the Irish bloggers who have welcomed and are about to welcome their own perfect second children. Many congratulations to Aine of (the currently on hiatus) AndMyBaby and Lisa of Mama.ie.

Yesterday's post in the bloghop was by Laura at My Internal World, and tomorrow's will be from Kieran at Go Dad Go.

And today's mystery letter is S.

Full circle

When Dash was three and in nursery school, his classroom began getting the kids to "sign in" every morning.

Yes, I know that sounds a bit pushy, but really, it was the lowest of low-key. They would print out a class list with the large letters of each child's name in dots, so that the children just had to find their own and try to trace over it. By the time they started kindergarden, a year and a half later for most of the class, they'd be expected to recognise and write their names - this was just the beginning of a very slow ramping up to that.

Honestly, even the following year at nursery school, signing in was absolutely all the writing they were expected to do - though of course if they wanted to do more, they could, and they did talk about the letters and have a show-and-share (bring in something starting with your assigned letter and tell the class about it) once a week. I love this school and its ethos is all about learning through play.

Anyway, every morning I'd bring three-and-a-half-year-old Dash to school, and his 14-month-old baby sister would grab a pencil and yell "Ning! Ning!" and try her best to sign in along with everyone else. "Ning" meant pen or pencil in Mabel-ese."Ning circle!" she said.

And this week Mabel, in the same classroom, with the same teachers her brother had, started signing in. Because she's a girl (maybe) and because she's six months older than he was in this class (November versus April birthday), she's already pretty good at writing her name, and tracing over the letters was no challenge. Some of the younger boys, I could see, were much closer to where Dash was at that age, just digging the pencil deeply across the line of letters in an angry-looking scribble. That's fine - it's totally age appropriate, and so long as they're learning to know how their name looks by seeing it every morning, it's a start.

But I remember thinking how lovely it would be when Mabel finally got to this stage and was allowed use the ning for its intended purpose, and here we are, and yes, it is.

Not actually signing her name right now

Pretty cool

Dash is still pushing the envelope with his sister, and she's still yanking his chain:

- I love you a million. But I love mummy and daddy and friend-across-the-road giant.
- So do you love me giant?
- No.
- Tell me the truth.
- I love you seven. That's the truth.
- But do you love me infinity? I love you infinity.

**********

Somehow, a dichotomy has been established in our house between cool and pretty. Cool things are boy things and pretty things are girl things. Every time I hear some variation on this being trotted out, I tell them "cool can be pretty" and "pretty can be cool" and "nothing is just for boys or just for girls" and I hope some day it makes it through and out the other side by osmosis because at the moment they are rigid in their definitions.

**********

And I want to tell my daughter something:

Pretty is fine, but you don't need to be pretty*.

I want you to be strong, I want you to be heard. I want you to stand up for yourself and for others. Polite is good, consideration is vital; but I want you to above all keep yourself safe and sane, which means demanding the respect that is due to you and no less, as a member of the human race and as a woman.

• First, use common sense. You're smart. Act smart.
• Second, listen to your gut. Follow your spidey sense, never discredit a "feeling".
• Third, it's never too late to make a change for the better.

Pretty is fine, and good is nice, but strong is beautiful. Be strong, my beautiful daughter, and you will rule the world.


*Inspired by this blog post I happened upon recently, which quotes (but doesn't really attribute) a famous thing Diana Vreeland once said. And I have no idea who she was, but she seems cool.

A lucky escape

They are thick as thieves, these two, these days. The terrible twosome, double trouble, a handful indeed - at times, two handsful and then some.

She has some clothing on, I promise. You just can't see it.

Remember last summer, when I was a little wistful because Mabel was in a hating phase, experimenting with mean words and cruel actions, and pushing her brother away? Since then she has definitely discovered the power of cooperation, the delights of teamwork and also how much fun it is to gang up on one defenseless parent. At bedtime. When the other has gone to a meeting. For instance.

I had a big long whiny rant here about how tired I am and how hard it is and why am I supposed to not just lock them into their rooms at bedtime to avoid all that undignified crying (of mine), but luckily for you, then I uploaded the photos and would much rather show you some more of those instead.

 

Then they noticed the snow.

Hooray for hand-me-down coats, thrift-store snowboots and yard-sale snow pants. Hat from Dunnes Stores.

Not enough for snowmen, but just about enough to make a grassy snow angel.

There's a fence there before the big drop, you just can't see it.

The snow brings all the kids to my back yard. (That's Mabel and Dash on the left.) After half an hour's sledding there was hardly any snow left on the grass, so they were forced to abandon sled and go to school instead.

Comparative dissonance

Every morning, Dash runs into school with a big smile on his face. Every afternoon he runs out to sneak up and Boo! me with another big grin. When I ask how his day was, he says, "Great!"

(Well, there was one day when he said "Fine." But then he followed it up with, "No, I'm only joking, it was great.")

This really is the best thing in the world. It makes up for all the dawdling and nonsense getting out the door in the first place; it (almost) negates the stress and hassle and nagging of homework. He loves school, he loves his teacher, he's happy to be there every day. I am totally delighted and hope it lasts forever - even though that's not likely.

Mabel, on the other hand, has cried and wailed her way into the classroom every day so far this week. On Monday I took pity on her and gave her a pass, as we were only back from Ireland and she'd been awake since 3.30 (and up since an hour later). So I took her home with me, on condition that she would go to school on Tuesday. 

Predictably, on Tuesday she was just the same, but my heart was hardened towards her and besides, I had to go to the dentist. I left her in the capable hands of Miss B and she was perfectly happy at going-home time. Since then I've learned to ignore the collywobbles that only come on once she's sitting in the car and remembers where we're going. She's fine, and the return to a little routine is good for all of us.

Still, when it comes to elementary school, I hope she's as happy every morning as her brother. I hate hardening my heart.

Pop quiz

Dash wanted to give Mabel a little quiz this morning. He wrote

1 + 1 = 

on a piece of paper and gave it to her.

"I'm not sure she wants to do a quiz right now," I said, not wanting him to be disappointed, but trying to protect her from the unreasonable demands of academic life at the same time.

"Mabel, Mabel, what's one plus one?" he asked, undaunted.

Mabel picked up her pencil and scrawled a careful squiggle after the equals sign.

"Mabel, is that a two?" he asked.

"Yes, it's a two."

"You're right!"

Hooray for acing tests. And for brothers who know how to set you up for success.

Pop psychology

I read a definition somewhere (somewhere, I don't know, don't pressure me, okay) of an introvert as someone who needs solitude to recharge and an extrovert as someone who recharges by being in the company of others.

I'm honestly not sure where this puts me - I think probably more on the introvert side of things, as I can't imagine feeling re-energized by being in a large group of people - but on the other hand, I do always enjoy being in a group that I feel part of. So I suppose it's not that I seek solitude, but more that it is always there on either side of time with others. Maybe this is because of my only-child status - the default was being on my own. I can imagine that for a child from a bigger family, the default would be a group setting, whether you liked it or not.

Anyway, I'm coming to the conclusion - now, for the moment - that contrary to expectations, Dash is my extrovert and Mabel is my introvert. If you know either of them in person, at least the second of these statements might come as a surprise.

Dash, even though he has gone through stages of crippling shyness (see four-and-a-half, for instance), really loves being in a group setting once he feels comfortable there. I think that's why he's enjoying school so much this year - he knows he belongs there, and it's his rightful space among others. He has always hated being alone - sending him to his room would create more tantrums than there were to begin with - and he is still incapable of playing on his own for any length of time. He craves company.

His sister, in contrast, has always seemed like the outgoing one, but she's also the one who can entertain herself quite happily. She really seems to need time to immerse herself, several times a day, in play with the dollhouse people and the dinosaurs and the elephants and the dogs and the Strawberry Shortcakes with all their intricate family dynamics and crazy goings-on. I think it's how she processes everything that happens. (I know I said she's going to be a lawyer, but she'll be a writer too. I'd put money on it.) And at school, her challenge is often to play (nicely) with others instead of just doing her own thing.

Of course, their personalities aren't set in stone, now or perhaps ever. And I think intro/extroversion is more of a scale than an either/or. But it's fascinating to see these little pointers emerge, and to wonder what use, if any, I can make of this pop-psychologizing.

Tempus

The National Arboretum happens to be just a 15-minute drive from our house, in good traffic. And yet, we don't go very often, because once you've fed the koi, there isn't all that much for the kids to do - adults like the herb garden and the bonsai exhibit, and it's a great place to bring your mother, if your mother is like my mother, but for the children it usually lacks a little je ne sais quoi, where quoi is probably a playground.

But this morning we went with some friends and found that there is a playground, or at least a play area, with big logs to sit on and jump off, and a place to dig, and some sand to sit in, and the kids all enjoyed themselves mightily and we felt smug for exposing them to Nature so well.

Then I came home and wandered through the photos: these are from the first time we went to the arboretum. Mabel was about three months old, and beginning to smile enough for me to capture it on film digital.

And Dash (not yet three, back when he was Monkey around here) was running up the water feature by the columns that are meant to make you think it's the Acropolis of Washington DC or something.

This was today, at the bottom of the same water feature.

Time. Doing that passing thing it does. Crazy.

Deep down inside

Shhhh! Don't say a word! I'm hunting wabbits.

No, no, I'm not. But the two children have been playing together - actually, honest-to-dog playing together - quietly, even - for quite a while now. They're saying quite disgusting things, if I bother to listen, about things their imaginary moms do (not me, obviously not me), but I don't care. "My mum messes around her face" was one of the nicer ones that Mabel just came up with.

But I think it's been a while since they've done this. There's been hilarious running-around-the-house-someone's-going-to-put-an-eye-out playing, but not much sitting down with toys together playing lately.

I know now that I've said it - no matter how quietly - it will all fall apart, but it's been nice. Ironic, even, since I came here to tell you about how rotten Mabel has been to her brother lately, and maybe write my way into some sort of explanation of it for myself.

For a while now Mabel's been telling poor Dash that she hates him. Then she rubs it in: "I love Mummy, and I like Daddy, and I hate you, Dash. You're poopy and I hate you forever." Stuff like that. Which is all well and good and developmentally appropriate, I'm sure, but the poor boy believes her, no matter how much I tell him that she's only saying it and that really, deep down inside (just like Anthony, if you've read about Anthony) she loves him. "No, I don't," says Mabel.

So then he has to go and ask her to pour lemon juice on his paper cut, thus:

- Mabel, who do you like?
- Mummy, and Daddy, and everyone, and I hate you.
- Mabel, if Mummy and Daddy weren't here, who would you like?
- I'd still hate you.
- If there was nobody else in the world except me, would you like me then?
- No, I'd hate you. You're poopy.

Of course, in between times they play together, or sit together companionably, and everything's just fine because she's forgotten her fraternal stance, but then she remembers and thinks she'll just stir things up a bit, so she pinches him. Viciously. For no good reason, as he always tells me.

"I did have a good reason. But it's a secret," she retorts.

And for the most part, he doesn't fight back. He's not a saint, so sometimes she gets her just desserts, and other times he just idiotically hangs out waiting - even asking, literally - for more; but so often he's sad about it, and he tries his best to be a really nice big brother. He picks things up when she drops them, and finds her toys if she wants them, and generally does her bidding in the hopes of winning favour. (Sometimes I wish he'd be a little more assertive. She's got assertive all sewn up, and then some.)

Trying to parse her behaviour somewhat, I suppose she's testing her boundaries and playing with her power. She's pushing him to see if she can really push him all the way away. She doesn't dare do that to me (since I'm attached to the very important boobies, remember) and Dash is a far easier target than Daddy. She's learning that she can bestow or withold affection, how it feels to be mean, and how it makes other people feel. Not a fun thing to watch, but I suppose it's necessary.

One day last week when she was horribly overtired, having needed a nap but only got ten minutes in the car, and then managed not to go to bed until too late, her sobs gave me  some insight into her psyche: "It's not fair," she hiccupped at me, "that Dash was the first one out of your tummy."

That's it, basically. There's no competition like a three-year-old's competition, and no matter how many times she bests him by announcing "Whoever's a girl wins! I win!" her brother will always have won the first, the biggest, the most important race of them all. He was born first. Until she comes to terms with that, she's just going to have to work out her resentment with all the immaturity she can muster.

(I've reserved Ames & Ilg's Your Three-Year-Old: Friend or Enemy from the library, and in fact today's outing was meant to be to pick it up, but we haven't made it out yet. I read it back when Dash was rising three, but I think a re-read would be timely. I'm hoping it will tell me this is very normal behaviour for her age, but for the moment I'm just spouting psychobabble off the top of my head. So don't sue me if I'm way off target.)

I hope that she soon decides it's more fun to be nice than mean. This morning she did announce to Dash that she likes him, to his secret delight, so maybe things are moving in the right direction. Or maybe she's just toying with his affections. I already feel sorry for her first boyfriend. Make that her first five or six boyfriends.

Detente

Branching out

Please excuse the radio silence of late, but I'm still figuring out how to navigate this two-children-all-day thing. I can check my Facebook and fire off a quick desperate e-mail or two in search of a playdate, but getting several minutes together at a time and having my mind in a suitably composed frame to put together a blog post is another thing entirely.

My plan was to blog in the evenings now that Mabel will be going to bed early instead of napping, but last night I was too tired to even pick up the detritus of a day's play from the floor and make my own post-prandial cup of coffee (mine's a decaf, thanks), let alone figure out how to entertain people all over my very small corner of the Internet.

Speaking of which, though, my little corner is getting a tiny bit bigger as of today, because I'm now also writing at The DC Moms, and I'm proud and delighted to be there. You'll discover, if you follow that link, that I'm not Maud, or even (not) Maud, over there - I'm Christine. But I'll stay in that amount of semi-seclusion for now, as while I don't want to pass up the opportunity to send a few more people this way, I'm not ready to go full on public. I like to retain at least the illusion of anonymity.

I hope I won't be blogging less here as a result of blogging there - I think the two should be complementary. The tone over there is less intimate and more journalistic, I suppose, so while my voice should be the same, and the subjects won't be very new, I'm hoping you won't find any repetition if you read them both. Should you be so inclined.

Right now the children are playing so nicely, so quietly and collaboratively - at least, they're close to each other and not fighting - that I almost don't mind the new mess they've created. I'm sure I just told them we were going to clean up so that we could test the new vacuum cleaner, but I suppose that will keep for a few more minutes, until they start jumping off the coffee table and hitting each other over the head again. Maybe I can even find us a playdate for tomorrow before that happens.

Simultaneous chaos and tranquility

The opposite of nemesis

Dash only has six more days of school (not that anyone's counting), and Mabel has two. So, I have two more days (next Monday and Tuesday, to be exact, not that I'm obsessing about this or anything) to do things without children; after which I'll be permanently overrun, harried, and either too apathetic to stop the fighting, or else barking orders like a sergeant major and getting increasingly frazzled while they completely ignore me.

We will also be living in increasing squalour and subsisting on cold pasta and wild strawberries foraged from the unmown back yard, because I don't see myself getting any housework or shopping done while they're both home. And remember, this year Mabel won't be napping. So by the time we go to the pool in the afternoons, she'll be overtired and the stress of getting her to leave at the end will be hardly worth the strain of getting them both there in the first place. (I would love to go to the pool in the morning, but it doesn't open to the public till 11, and going at lunchtime is asking for sunstroke/meltdowns/disaster.)

Don't worry, I'm sure I'm exaggerating. Dash has a week of camp, we're going to the beach for a week, we will have playdates and see friends and enjoy our freedom from the tyranny of school timetables and homework. I might even get the groceries delivered, or something.

I only mention it because this morning Mabel and I had a nice time, just the two of us. We tried to do this last week when I took her to Target on Friday morning and it all unravelled into a disaster because it turned out she was tired and hungry and in no mood to be helpful or even just neutral about the trip. I had to grab the essentials (milk and Gatorade) and retreat while I still had a shred of dignity. Then I came home and complained to Facebook, who told me in no uncertain terms that my mistake was trying to put "reasonable" and "three-year-old" in the same sentence.

But today, it worked out well.

First of all, I snatched victory from the jaws of disorientation, when I took the wrong exit and still navigated sure-footedly to the right place. (Mabel: Why do you always say that? Me: Say what? That I took the wrong exit? Surely I don't.) That seemed like a good omen.

Then we picked a toy for her right off the bat, and one for her absent brother too. I know, I know, bribery is of the devil, but I'm grateful to Target for providing the banks of one-dollar crap at the front doors, because they understand my life. Much as I hate to bring home extraneous junk, and spend money on things we didn't need, and make the kids think they're entitled to something new every damn time, and be a bad parent - today the payoff was worth it. Mabel found a lavender-coloured squishy rubber porcupine that entertained her for the next half hour, and I got Dash a couple of torpedos to throw around in the pool, because I learned my lesson last week at school pickup, my lesson being:

1) Just because he wasn't there doesn't make it fair that Mabel got a new thing and he didn't.
2) Mabel can in no way be relied on not to tell him that she got a new thing.

In fact, no. 2 went more like this:

Me, on the way to school: Mabel, don't tell Dash you got a new thing. Or at least, don't gloat.
Mabel: Okay, I won't gloat. I'll taunt him.
[Five minutes later, Dash runs out the door from school]
Mabel: Look, I got a new toy and you didn't.
Dash, to me, his theory that he is the unloved child finally proven: Waaahhh. Why didn't I get something?
Me, to the amassed other parents: Parenting fail.

And then we had a lovely time (back to today, I mean) wherein I got to wander around, try things on, even swimwear (Mabel, at the top of her voice, in the changing rooms: "Are those new underpants, Mommy?"), find the right moisturizer instead of just bunging the nearest thing in the cart and running, and check out at our leisure. Then we had a snack at Starbucks and I congratulated myself on my lovely, cooperative daughter. See, Facebook? Perfectly reasonable. Sometimes.

Mabel rides

Two years ago, for his fourth birthday, Dash got a two-wheeler, with training wheels. One year ago, when he was just five, we took off the training wheels and he was off like a shot, more or less. Yesterday, his three-and-a-half-year-old overacheiver sister caught up with him.

This astounding precociousness is down to two things: personality and a balance bike.

Thing the first is that Mabel is a much less cautious child than her brother. He tests the waters gingerly; she dives in. He takes it slowly, wary of pitfalls; she forges ahead. Sometimes it's because she has him to show her how it's done, because he's done all the hard work of worrying; but often it's just because she's not so much a worrier as a doer. She climbed all the way round the climbing-frame dome before he ever did, when she was two and he was four point five.

She also happens to have an innately good sense of balance, I think, because for all her rushing in and scaling unsuitable objects, she rarely comes a cropper. (Skiing is probably next on her list.) I have to admit that though "sporty" is probably the last adjective anyone would ever come up with to describe me, I was a bit of a tomboy, mountain-goat, wannabe-gymnast as a child, and I did have a bike just as tiny as hers which I insisted on learning to ride without training wheels. I remember a lot of scabby knees, but I think I was four when I was riding alone.

But the other thing that led directly to this development was the balance bike. Last year when Dash was zooming all over our cul-de-sac with his newfound skills, Mabel was desperate for a bike of her own, with two wheels, not three. I finally found a balance bike (no pedals, just for gliding along with one's feet) small enough for a petite two-and-three-quarter-year-old on Craigslist, and brought it home triumphantly. The nice lady threw in a little pink scooter for another $20, and it turned out to be the scooter rather than the bike that Mabel fell in love with and has been using to get her speedy thrills ever since.

Until about a month ago, when she nonchalantly picked up the little pink balance bike and started whizzing around on it. She knew what to do all along, but it just seemed to fall into place and she was sitting on the saddle and pushing along with her feet and balancing, just like that. When her little boyfriend across the road got a pedal bike (that's too big for her, because although only two months older he's quite a few inches taller), it turned out she could actually ride it pretty well, with an adult to start and stop her.

So Facebook came to the rescue, as I sent out a quick APB for a 12-inch-wheeled bike for Mabel, and a friend responded within the hour that she had one her daughter had never used, taking up space in the shed, needing a good home. We brought it home yesterday, pumped up the tyres, lowered the saddle all the way, Mabel jumped on, and that was the last we saw of her.

Well, sort of. She still needs help starting off, but thanks to the balance bike she's very good at putting a foot down when she stops. (Dash, in contrast, used to the training wheels holding up the bike in repose, would forget to take his feet off the pedals and just sit there and promptly fall over sideways.)

It seems to be a tiny generational gap between her brother and her. In just two and a half years, balance bikes have gone from being European wooden models that only Germanic types had (because this is how kids learn to ride on the Continent) to much more easily found metal ones. I saw two of her classmates whooshing around on Strider bikes last year before I went looking for Mabel's one, and since then I know of at least five other local children her age who now have pedals on two-wheelers, and several others who are proficient with their balance bikes but don't feel like taking the next step just yet.

It is odd, though, watching your baby pedal off, unsupported, seeing wings sprout from under her shoulderblades and take her away from you, as fast as her little legs can carry her.

The mouths of babes

 (With apologies for repetition to anyone who's read my or my husband's Facebook status updates recently.)


 Mabel was looking for a library book.
- Tits, tits! she exclaimed.
- Um, I prevaricated.
- Tits. I want tits. You go into dem tits!
 Then I realised she was looking for the book called You'll grow into them, Titch.

 ----------------------------

The kids got one of those swirly hooded chairs from Ikea for Christmas from a generous aunt. They have amused themselves ever since by pushing each other around, demanding to be pushed round by us, pushing themselves around with hands or feet, or closing themselves both in and doing I don't know what.

This last was going on the day after Christmas, with - apparently - something they were using as a pretend screwdriver, when I heard the conversation go something like this:

- Stop screwing [it?] around!
- I'm not screwing.
- You have to stop screwing now.
- Now I'm screwing! Screw, screw, screw...

 ----------------------------
 
Lately, Dash's fourth-birthday presents of Zingo and Junior Yahtzee have been experiencing a resurgence. Mabel is perfectly well able to play Zingo, though she gets bored with Yahtzee and wanders away after a few throws of the dice. A few days ago Dash and his dad were playing Yahtzee. They got to the end, when you have to add up the scores to find out who won.

Dash: Now for some math!
Mabel: No it's no-ot!
Dash: You don't even know what math is.
Mabel: Yes I do. Granny goes to math.

Aspirations

Dash came in to wake Mabel and me up one morning recently, because he thought his father was out running (which he wasn't, and I would have quite liked to catch a few more z's, but that's another complaint). The ensuing conversation, after some formalities like "Go away," and "Why are you here?" and "Please let us sleep," went like this.

Dash: Mabel, when you're a grownup, do you want to be the President?
Mabel: No, I want to be a carpet cleaner.
Me: A carpet cleaner?
Mabel: No, I didn't say carpet cleaner, I said comic reader.

Sibs

The other morning, while Dash was doing his thing in the bathroom, Mabel raced up to the door, burst in, yelled, "Privacy!" at the top of her voice, and ran away again. I think she's got the idea, but her execution is a little off.

Galileo

The temperature has dropped, like a body from a leaning tower*. On Friday morning it was warm and muggy and I was complaining about how going outside was like walking into a sock. A sock that had just been peeled off a very sweaty giant. By Friday before dinner, the kids were out on their bikes again and the humidity had blown away - it was still t-shirt weather, but delightfully fresher. On Saturday morning we were at the nursery school yard sale in our fleeces, and I couldn't pick over the clothes because my fingers had all gone bloodless. (I have Reynaud's. My fingers go numb and look like they belong to a corpse in record time. It's my party piece.)

Tomorrow, allegedly, it will get nicer again and maybe we'll have some actual autumn weather, because going straight from summer to winter is no fun and gives you very little playground time.

Another thing that I hope is short-lived is this new phase of Mabel's. The one where she shrieks a lot, and makes irrational demands, and won't take no for an answer. Mostly it's the shrieking that I object to, since the others are pretty much expected behaviour for a 2-3-year-old. Not exactly helped by her brother, who does things like this:

Scene: The car.
Monkey leaps into his seat and fumbles for the seatbelt. He's in a high-back booster and can click himself in very well. I'm usually a little slower putting Mabel in her seat and settling her five-point harness around whatever baby/t-rex/horsie she insisted on bringing.

Monkey: I won!
Mabel: No! I won!
Me, wearily: It's not a race.
Monkey: It's a race! I won! I'm happy! Mabel, you're sad because you didn't win.
Mabel: I'm not sad! I'm happy!
Me: Monkey, please don't tell her how she feels. That's not helping.
Monkey: You came second, and Mummy's going to come third and she's very angry.
Me: No, I don't care. I'm not angry about the race. Because there is no race.
Mabel (increasingly upset and agitated): I won! I'm happy! You're sad!
Monkey: No, I won! You're sad!
Me: Argghghhh.
Mabel: aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh
My eardrums: Kabloom.

Every damn time.

*Wherever I first read about Galileo and the Leaning Tower of Pisa, it referred to the speed of falling bodies. I assumed he had taken dead people and thrown them off the tower. It wasn't till much later that I discovered it just meant objects, so in my head there will always be visions of the great scientist hefting corpses over the parapet to measure how quickly they fell.

Should I be worried?

The groom was late. "Get up! It's the marrying day!"
"Marry, marry, marry!" The bride was enthusiastic.
[Mwah, mwah, mwah]
In the blink of an eye, time passes.
The groom has turned his hand to midwifery. In red super-hero cape and spiderman gloves, Monkey scrabbles at Mabel's tummy and presents her with...
"One hundred million babies!"
"Yaaayy!"