"Ready or Not"

We dropped Juliet off at pre-school for the first time today.  Playschool, actually.  She was so excited.  When I got home from work, I asked Juliet what had happened at school.

"Mommy and daddy ran away," she said.

We didn't run away.  Juliet's teacher had told us at the parent meeting that we could only stay for fifteen minutes.  If you stay longer than fifteen minutes, your child will never be able to separate from you.  Ever.  So, we stayed for fifteen minutes. 

We played with a racetrack, a kitchen and a barn.  We played with each other.  We did not play with anyone else.  Juliet was well prepared for what was about to happen next.  We had told her a hundred times and read her books about it.  We had even suggested that when other kids cry, she should give them hugs.  On the way to school, she calmly explained to us that we would drop her off, that daddy would go to work, that mommy would get coffee, that she would hug the other kids who cried and that mommy would pick her up and take her home.

She was fine with it.  Excited about it.  Until is was about to happen.

Juliet didn't cry.  She answered yes when we asked if we could leave. Walking out the door, I told myself not to look back and did anyway.  I noticed Juliet about to look at me, and, well, I ran away.  Then, I think, she cried.  Or maybe she didn't.  Maybe she gave out hugs and words of encouragement.  I don't know.  I left Juliet at school, and I went to work.  And we were all so grown up.  Ready or not.

 

 

 

 

"Three Minnies"

Melissa and I were driving home from the Lodge at Woodloch.  We had been away from Juliet for four days, the longest time in two years and also forever.  We couldn't stand to be away another minute.  I drove fast.  We got lost.

We drove along winding mountain roads through forgotten mountain towns that looked somehow familiar.  We couldn't make sense of our printed directions, the intermittent street signs or our inability to understand either. 

Then, we passed a landmark.  Not a place we had passed on the way to the Lodge, but a place that I had passed before, I could have sworn.  Costa's Amusement Park.  Mini golf.  Go carts.  A happy place.  I had been there.  I did not know when.  Or how.

Until I saw the sign for Lake Owego Camp, the all boys overnight camp where I had gone when I was ten.  Ten seconds later, we passed Camp Timber Tops, the girls camp that had always seemed five mission impossibles away, but was suprisingly about a hundred yards down the road.  A minute after that, ee sped by Alice's Wonderland, the convenience store where you got to go if you had the cleanest cabin ten times in a row.  Driving past these memories in utterly the wrong direction made me happy.  I asked Melissa why.

"It reminds you of simpler times."

She was half joking.

"It's wild how easy it is to make a kid happy," I said.

"I miss Juliet," Melissa said.  "I think we should turn around."

"She gets happy for one M&M."

"So happy she pees."

"When's the last time you got so happy you peed?"

A single M&M is so exciting to Juliet that she will force herself to pee, on the potty, even if she doesn't have to.  For one M&M, she'll squeeze a drop, and be the happiest munchkin you ever saw when she gets her reward.  She won't ask for another.

The one was enough.

In M&Ms.

It takes three Minnies, apparantly.

The three Minnies were with Juliet when we got home, a present from her Bubby.  We wondered whether they came in a set, and figured probably not.  Juliet invited the three Minnies into her crib, with her two Monkeys, Monkey Pillow, Brown Kitty (who is orange), White Kitty (who is white), Purple Kitty (who is arguably purple), New Monkey, Elmo, Little Elmo, and, well, you get it.  One M&M.  Two Monkeys.  Three Minnies. 

Whatever it takes. 

I want her to be happy.  It makes me happy, happier than camp.  So happy, I could pee.  And that's pretty happy.

"I'm a Woman"

It's been a while.  I know.  Three months.  A lot happened.  Melissa is pregnant again.  Which is good, because Juliet grew up.  She's a woman.

It didn't happen gradually.

Which is weird, because I feel, well, lapped?

She still has moments where she can't help but act like a child.

But those moments are becoming few and farther in between.  I have those moments about as frequently as Juliet does.

And Juliet finds them, well, hilarious.

She's laughing on the inside.  On the outside, she's mocking me.  Juliet thinks it's funny that she's grown up in less than two years, and that I am still acting like a two year old after...I can't even remember how long it's been.  I have double digit white hairs, though.

I remember when I was little, and I wanted to be big.  And being big meant being old.  Which meant being cool.  Now I want to be little.  Being big involves too much time in the office.  It's not as cool as I had thought.  Spending the day with La La, blowing bubbles and getting an M&M every time I pee on the potty (seven times, so far) sound like more fun.  But I guess the grass is always - whiter?

I try to tell Juliet not to hurry.  I tell her to eat only french fries for dinner and to color on the floor.  And she still does those things, but those things don't seem to make her seem any more like a baby.  Growing up is funny.  People decide to grow up - it doesn't just happen.  And Juliet has made her decision.

"Girls, Girls, Girls"

Before Juliet was born, I promised her that I wouldn't dress her in pink, paint her nails or call her princess.  Pink is her favorite color.  Last night, Melissa painted her nails blue.  Then pink.  I don't call her princess, but a rose by any other name...

She also loves shopping.  Particularly for shoes.  That, however, isn't what you think.  This is not a cliche female shoes obsession.  At least not completely.  Juliet's infatuation runs far deeper.  It isn't just about silver glitter covered Mary Janes, purple Sauconies or the beloved pink booties (which I was forced to hide permanently).

Juliet is also obsessed with socks.  It started with Alex's socks.  Alex, of course, is Juliet's stuffed monkey.

I don't know who bought Alex.  He appeared one day, wearing overalls, underwear, shoes and socks.  It was all removable.  It was too early.  Juliet would try to unbutton the overalls, and, when she couldn't do it, she cried.  Same with the shoes.  And the socks.

When Juliet's fingers started working, she ripped off Alex's shoes, tossed them aside and found her first true love.  Torquise and white striped sweat socks, slightly too small for her feet.  She demanded to wear them every night for a month.  Which is gross.  Melissa bought imposter "Alex's socks" from the Gap.  Juliet could tell the difference, but forgave it because of the effort.

Then, Juliet realized that it was not just Alex's socks that she loved, but all socks.  Every time Juliet has her diaper changed, she begs, "new socks?"  At bed time, we bribe Juliet to put on her pajamas by promising to let her change her socks.  Yesterday, she looked down at her Elmo socks, and asked, "Buy Cookie Monster socks?"

But it runs even deeper than that.  On the rarest of occassions, when Juliet wears no socks at all, she carefully inspects the area between each toe.

"Toe jam?" I ask.

"Toe jam," she says.

And then she hands me some.  My princess's pea is the ook between her toes.

Mine is watching Roy Halladay give up 8 earned runs.

"Role Reversal"

It's bed time. I am sitting in the rocking chair in Juliet's room. Juliet is sitting in her little chair across the room.

"Daddy, I want to stay up until I feel like going to bed. That may be never. It also may be soon. I won't know until I am actually asleep. Can I stay up?"

"No."

"Will you at least get me cookies."

"No."

"Fine," Juliet says. "At the very least, give me your phone so I can play with it until I get frustrated and cry."

"No."

"Why don't you do everything I tell you to?" Juliet asks. "Mommy does everything I tell her to. That's why I love her more."

"Mama?" I ask.

"Yes," Juliet says. "And if you insist on putting me to bed right now, and I hope you'll reconsider, you have to sing to me like Mommy does. You have to sing 'You are My Sunshine' over and over until I tell you to stop. Or until I cry. That means stop."

"Sing?"

"Yes, Daddy. Sing."

"Socks," I say, pointing to Juliet's socks.

"Yes, these are my socks. By the way, this chocolate milk you made me sucks. I only have you make it because I don't want you thinking that you won on the milk issue."

"Bye bye," I say.

I run out of her room and slam the door. I wait, open the door and there is Juliet. Reading "Don't Let the Pigeon Stay Up Late." She looks up.

"Can I have a glass of water?" she asks.

"No."

"Can we watch TV?"

"No."

"Can you at least take the swimmie diaper off your head? It is not a hat."

"No."

"Daddy, you don't get it at all."

And then, when Juliet is at her most frustrated point, I purse my lips and lean towards her. She can't help but smile. It's got nothing to do with me, but she knows I think it does. The truth is that she just pooped. She didn't have to do, but it bought her five more minutes.

What's five minutes in the grand scheme of things?

Back on Track in Black

It's been a while. That's my fault. You didn't beg for more. That's yours. I'm back. Juliet is back. And we're pretty much all growed up. We walk. We talk. We count to ten. We sing the wheels on the bus, when we feel like it. When we don't feel like it, we don't do anything. When we don't like what we're doing, we cry until it stops.

We pooped on the toilet, once. Juliet was in the tub. She felt it coming. It was past the point of no return.

"Mama!" she screamed. "Poop."

Melissa plucked her out of the tub.

"Diapee!!" Juliet screamed.

Melissa held Juliet over the toilet. Juliet dripped and cried. Juliet pooped. Plop.

"Bye bye, poop," she said.

That's what we always say. Bubby taught us to flush the terds instead of putting them in the Diaper Geenie. Juliet's room no longer smells like shit all of the time. It still smells like shit some of the time. As does Melissa's closet. Juliet denies that there is a hidden poop in there somewhere.

"Juliet, did you poopy in Mommy's closet?" we ask her.

"No," she says. Then she says "bye, bye," and runs out of the room laughing, slamming the door behind her. Her behavior is suspect. But we can't find the evidence. She's that good.

She's better than good. She's the best thing in the world. And she's still worth writing about even though it's been more than a year. So, we are back. On track. And in black, but only because that will make everyone think of the AC/DC song. Juliet hates that song. She hates all songs except for the "Hello Song."

Bye, bye, poop.

"I Can See Clearly Now"

When Juliet first opened her eyes, they didn’t work. She had come all that way, gone through all that fuss, and, on the other end of it, everything was a blur of lights and shadows. Understandably, she was furious. She cried. And cried…

Then, one morning, Juliet opened her eyes, and there we were. Staring at her. In awe of the moment when Juliet’s eyes connected our world to hers.

“Shit,” she said.

She would have, anyway, if she could have.

Juliet has been connecting dots ever since, seeing things, hearing things, tasting things. She takes it all in, and she poops it all out. She cries while she poops, because she doesn’t like pooping. She knows what she likes and what she doesn’t like. Only a couple of weeks ago, Juliet learned to divide her world accordingly, into “yes” and “no.”

It’s not exactly a yin yang split.

Juliet is on her changing table after her bath, crying.

“Juliet, are you hungry?” I ask.

“No.”

“Can you sit still so I can get this diaper on you?”

“No.”

“Are you pooping?”

“No.”

Juliet says something I can’t understand. She’s furious that I don’t get it. The race between the things Juliet wants and the words she knows is a tight one. Melissa and I are always coming in a distant third. Juliet is seeing and crawling and talking, running ahead of us both while we talk about how wonderful and sad it is to watch her grow up so fast.

Juliet pees before I can get her diaper on her.

“Shit,” I say.

“Shit,” she says.

She smiles, and I smile.

“Juliet, do you want a cookie?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Juliet doesn’t like a lot of things, but she likes cookies. She also likes monkeys and tu-tus, and she likes to give her ma-ma and her da-da kisses like she has an endless supply. And we like that.