Sunday, October 16, 2011

"Isn't She Amazing?"

I was describing how Juliet had put the triangle block through the triangle hole. Once. She had also taken a wrapper off a Starbucks straw. And pointed to the apple in The Hungry Caterpillar, and said, “apple.” My buddy acted impressed.

“That’s next level shit, dude,” I said.


“Yes it is,” he said. “Sit, Rosie.”

Rosie is my buddy’s dog. She sat.


It’s possible that the things I find so amazing might not be – amazing. Like when she was only a couple of weeks old, staring at the mobile in her crib.


“She loves music,” I told everyone.


It may have been that she wasn’t strong enough to move her neck. Because she wasn’t. Every parent thinks that the things their babies do are amazing. And every parent thinks that every parent thinks it, but that they are the only one who’s right.

I try to prove it to people by making her do her tricks. I know that Juliet knows that a cow says “moo.” That a sheep says “baa.” And that a pig makes a sound like hocking a loogie. Juliet knows that she can make me look like a jack-ass by not cooperating when I ask her to do her routine in front of people I am trying to impress.


She is a genius. This morning, she stuck her finger in her nose.


“This is your fault,” Melissa said. “You spent all day with her yesterday.”


“Maybe she has a booger,” I said.


“She farted and laughed about it.”


“Wa-wa?” Juliet asked.


She meant water, waffle or the Wiggles. Before I could figure it out, Juliet was pulling her purple dog, Violet, out of the toy box. She pushed Violet’s paw.

“Five minutes of sleep time music now,” Violet said.


Juliet’s lower lip curled, and quivered. The music started, and Juliet cried. I pushed Violet’s paw, and the music stopped. Juliet composed herself. She pushed the paw again, and cried, again. She wasn’t ready for bed, and she wanted me to know it. She understood.

She understands!


Juliet is making connections a minute. She pushes the button for the elevator. She’s been giving extra hugs to the Phillies Monkey since they got knocked out of the playoffs. And the other day, when I was at work, and Juliet was at home, she leaned over and kissed a boy.

Amazing?

I’m not sure…

Sunday, October 9, 2011

"Breaking the Girl"





I once had a girl. Or should I say, she once had me.


We walked Juliet to the kitchen store today at 12th and Walnut. We wanted to buy a blender small enough to make smoothies just for her. Melissa walked out of Starbucks and handed me an iced red-eye. Juliet reached out her arms, squeezing her little hands, for her coffee, or for one of us to pick her up, or both. When she got neither, she cried.


“I’m worried she thinks she can get whatever she wants whenever she wants.” I said.


“A woman in the mommy-group said they can’t really be disciplined until they’re two,” Melissa said.


“They don’t understand.”


Juliet understands that the light switch turns the lights off, and that fishes make a fishy face. She knows that the cow says moo and the sheep says baa. She’s still not sure what the three singing pigs say.


“She understands ‘no,’” I said.


“But she’s so cute,” Melissa said.


We sat on a stoop. Juliet got distracted by a stuffed bear on the dash of a parked car. She shrieked and pointed at the bear that wasn’t hers. She looked at me, wondering why I hadn’t made it hers yet. She cried.


“She to learn not to cry every time things aren’t exactly like she wants,” I said. “It’s something she should start getting used to. The sooner, the better.”


“She’s just acting the way one year olds act,” Melissa said.


“Do you want to break into that car, or should we just leave?”


It started when we first floated the no more bottle idea. Juliet knew immediately that something was up. Every morning had started with a bottle, and then, suddenly, it didn’t.


“Ba-ba?” Juliet asked.


We put milk in a sippee cup. She threw it. She refused oatmeal, and even cheese. She cried. She was on strike.


We’ve tried four kinds of sippee cups. The last ones had a nipple for a sippee. It was a bottle, only with handles. She understood what it represented, and she didn’t like it. We don’t want to starve her. We love her too much. We triple lock. She understands, and she’s using it against us.


Juliet suddenly stops crying about the bear. A woman walking a dog passes. She points at the jack russel terrier and pants. She looks at us. We roll our eyes. Time to go. Follow the doggie.


“She’s the boss,” Melissa said.


“She’s the queen,” I said.


“I was supposed to be the queen,” Melissa said.


“Ba-ba?” Juliet asked.


Of course.