Houdini

The other night, while we were in Caitlin's room going through her lengthy post-bath/pre-bedtime book reading and toy playing routine, she opened the door from her room into the bathroom, and I swore a lot of swear words. Loudly.

Because while Brigid has always been relatively well-behaved and has (up until these last few months, anyway) tended to listen to us when we've told her no, Caitlin has never really had any moment when the word no has made any sense to her, other than already knowing that if she makes a really sad face and starts crying when she hears it, she can at least get hugs out of the deal. And while we have no hope in stopping her, we have at least managed to contain her behind closed doors, when we just haven't had to energy to stop her in her quest to destroy every room of the house on a daily basis. And now that hope is gone. GONE, I TELL YOU.

Oddly enough, my dogs ALSO know how to open these doors, and we're already in the habit of keeping our back door locked, so various creatures currently living in my house can't let themselves in and out of it without my knowledge. And while I'm fairly confident I don't have to worry about the dogs learning to unlock the doors in order to get them open, I'm guessing I don't have that luxury with Caitlin, and she'll learn to use that lock well before I'm ready for that to happen.

I'm going to have to take a page from my friend Jen's book, and deadbolt every door in the house, at Steve's height level or something, just to keep her from wandering the neighborhood on her own.

She's going to be...fun...as she gets older, I think.

I believe the word you're looking for is 'ornery'?

Yesterday, shortly after Steve and I got home from work, I went looking for Caitlin and found her elbow deep in toilet water, because if the bathroom door is open, Caitlin is drawn to the toilet like kids are always drawn to that one thing in any room that you want to keep them away from the most. And if the toilet seat is up? So much the better.

I have to physically pull her out of the dog's water bowl on a daily basis. If I turn my head for five seconds after I feed the dogs, I have to fish dog food out of her mouth, because she's decided to join them in a snack. If you happen to leave your phone lying around, she will find it, chew on it, then chuck it across the room, grinning like a fool. She will also look you directly in the eye, pull her pacifier out of her mouth, drop it on the ground of whatever public place we are at, then smile evilly at you.

You would think that it would be impossible for an adorable little one-year old to have an evil smile, but you would be wrong. I am not exaggerating in the least bit when I tell you that you can see exactly what she is thinking when she does something she knows she's not supposed to do, and what she is thinking is 'SUCK IT, MOM AND DAD. HA! I WIN.'

She directs that same look at me when she's fussing about something, and Steve picks her up to comfort her.

If you tell her not to do something, or make a move towards her to stop her from grabbing at something, or try to pick her up before she attempts to crawl face first down the stairs? She does it faster. She grabs it faster. She crawls faster.

SHE WILL NOT BE STOPPED!

If I didn't already drink, she would be the one to drive me to it, I think. As it is, my wishlist from here until she is 35 will consist of gift certificates to Wine World, ok? Please shop accordingly.

Thanks.

Things I Love About Three

*Last night, we took Brigid and Caitlin to a park near our house for Food Truck Tuesday, and Brigid spent a majority of the night sticking blades of grass or random pine needles between two of her fingers, then coming up to us with a pained look on her face, asking us to remove the splinter. Then she'd giggle wildly every time we acted like it was a terrible ordeal. I have no idea where she came up with the idea for that game.

*The last few mornings, Brigid has come downstairs, yawned loudly, and told me that she didn't get enough sleep because her toys have kept her up all night. Three nights ago, it was the Doc McStuffins trio of Lambie, Chilly, and Stuffy that kept her up, talking. Two nights ago, it was Thumper. Last night, her rubber lizard, Spot, and her rubber bunny, Bunny, threw a party. She's hanging with the wrong crowd, that kid.

*On Monday, I was pulling some stuff off of the kitchen shelves, in an effort to declutter the house a little bit before we put it on the market. Brigid helped me pack the things away in moving boxes, to be stored in my SiL's garage until we (hopefully) sell the house and (hopefully) find a new one. Brigid then took it upon herself to start a pile of toys to be packed away, yelling 'I WANT TO PACK MYSELF' at me when I told her it wasn't time to pack her stuff up, yet, before collapsing on the floor in hysterics. She then slammed the door on her way to the time-out chair, where I found her asleep five minutes later. That one doesn't necessarily fall under the things I love about this age, but you have to admire her initiative, I'd say.

*She asks for things she knows I'll say no to, things she doesn't really want, and when I do say no, she's fine with it. Then she looks at me, smiles, and reminds me that she gets a gold star on her behavior chart for not arguing with me when I say no. I'm glad to see she already knows how to cheat the system. This bodes well for the teenaged years.

*She read Brown Bear, Brown Bear to her baby sister on Monday night. I'd tell you all about it, but I'm too busy being dead from all of the cute. Because it was the best thing, ever. Then she told us that she read the book so well because she used to have it, but she couldn't find her copy anymore. And Steve made the rookie mistake of telling her that the copy in Baby Caitlin's room was her copy, but we were giving it to Baby Caitlin to read now. And then she tried to take it back, because it was hers. And she started crying when we told her she should leave it in the baby's room. But the reading part? To her baby sister? That part was still cute.

Blondes have more fun?

Because my mother asked me last weekend if poor Caitlin had any hair, yet, since she couldn't see any in the pictures I've been posting lately, I've been trying really hard to get it to show up on camera. Because she does have hair! I promise! I could even stick a bow in there if I wanted to! But, MAN...

...that kid is BLONDE. And I have, it seems, officially been saddled with two blonde haired, blue-eyed, Georgia peaches, one of whom has already informed me that she is pretty because she has light hair.

And when I asked her if that meant mommy wasn't pretty, with my dark hair? She patted my cheek gently, before informing me that, yes. That's exactly what it meant. 'But it's ok, mommy,' she said.

So, to recap: Brigid is blonde. Caitlin is very blonde. I am not pretty because I am not blonde.

And I need a stiff drink and a manual on how to break your three-year old of her mean girl mindset before she becomes seriously convinced that she is better than other people because of her hair color. So.

That should be fun.

Discipline. (I don't know how it works.)

I have this kid, see? And she is smart. She's adorable and funny and silly, and she's just too smart for her own good. And I don't know what to do with her right now.

Lately, this kid (we'll call her Brigid) has been testing her boundaries with me in ways that I wasn't expecting until she was a teenager, when I assumed she'd start telling me she was going to a friend's house, so she could go somewhere else to meet up with some boy or something. But she's not a teenager, and yet...the other night? She waited until she thought Steve and I were asleep to sneak into our room with her flashlight, hoping to find an iPad to take back to bed with her. You know, so she could stay up all night to watch her shows, even though she's probably seen each one a million and a half times. And when I 'woke up' and caught her?

She pretended that she had come into our room, at 11 o'clock at night, to grab the rubber band that was sitting on my nightstand.

(For those of you keeping track at home, she's smart enough to lie to me, but not smart enough to realize I wasn't born yesterday. When she does realize that I'm smarter than I look? I might be in serious trouble.)

This isn't the first time she's snuck out of her room to find the iPad we've taken with us after letting her play with it for a few minutes before bed. Several times, when I've checked on her before heading to bed myself, I've found her asleep with on next to her.

She talks back to us. She does the opposite of what we tell her to do, every time we tell her to do something. She won't stay in her bed, ever, when she's supposed to be going to sleep. She won't clean up after herself, or help us when we ask for help, or even take herself potty (which she did at school ALL OF THE TIME!!!) without a meltdown of epic proportions. And I can't help but wonder how much of this is just typical toddler behavior and how much of it is OMG WE'RE RAISING DEMON SPAWN DOWN HERE IN GEORGIA SEND HELP NOW!!!

So. Discipline. She needs it. And I need to figure out how it works. I have some vague thoughts of behavior charts and consistent punishments and all sorts of things that I think will make both my husband and my mother-in-law (who will be responsible for enforcing these new rules with me) hate me forever, but that's about as far as I am right now.

BUT THINGS WILL CHANGE! SOON! I GUARANTEE IT!

She doesn't look worried, does she?

Contemplating the Next Level

When I was a kid, I took ballet for approximately half a second, before the teacher told my mother she was wasting her time by keeping me in the class. Now, I think that advice had more to do with my complete inability to pay attention to ANYTHING the teacher would tell us to do, but given my general lack of grace, there's a good chance the ballet school just didn't want to have an injured toddler on its hands after I'd done something spectacular like falling over while standing still.

I may or may not have seen Brigid do just that very exact thing in her final ballet class last weekend.

She doesn't plie when the teacher tells her to plie. She doesn't point her toes when the teacher tells her to point her toes. She doesn't spin when the teacher tells her to spin.

She does, however, spin when the teacher tells her to stand still.

She fell over three times in her last class. She didn't wait her turn to do ballet walks across the floor. She never walks on her toes when the rest of her class does, even though she won't stop doing it when she's at home. When she was supposed to be sitting in a circle with the rest of the class?

She would run over to me for a hug.

And when I would tell her to go back to the circle and listen to the teacher?

She would look at me with big eyes and say, 'But, mommy. I just wanted ONE hug.'

(In case you're keeping score at home, the kid is winning. Every battle. And that's not even counting the Friday night coin-in-the-fountain wish she made for me to 'stay home with [her] FOREVER'. If you're looking for my heart, it's in a million pieces on the floor of a Mexican restaurant in Atlanta, Georgia, ok?)

Now, some of this might have to do with the fact that I'm in the room with her during the lesson, which isn't allowed in the next level of classes at the Atlanta Ballet School. And maybe I can take comfort in knowing that Brigid wasn't the most poorly behaved student in the class, just an easily distracted follower.

But, if I'm not in the class, if I can't even see the class except for a few scheduled parental viewing days during the year, how do I know she's paying attention? HOW DO I KNOW SHE'S NOT THE LITTLE RINGLEADER OF DISASTER?

Look at her. You're telling me she's not capable of leading a ballet-shoed revolt of tiny tutu-wearing ballerinas?
The Atlanta Ballet won't even know what hit them.

Slow Down (Part II)

Speaking of growing up, have a mentioned that I am also the mother of a teenager?
Every conversation we have goes something like this:

Brigid: Mommy, can I have some M&Ms?
Me: Sure. You can have two.
Brigid: Ummmmm, how about four?
Me: No, not four. I said you could have two.
Brigid: But mommmmmmmmy...

OR! There's this one:

Brigid: Where is my frisbee? I want to play with it.
Me: You can't throw your frisbee in the house.
Brigid: But why?
Me: Because I said so.
Brigid: But mommmmmmmmmy...

Or. You know...this one:

Brigid: I don't want it to be quiet in my room. Can you turn on my iPad? (There's a white noise app we use...)
Steve: Ok. But it's going over here on the shelf so you don't play with it instead of going to sleep.
Cut to me going into her room 30 minutes later to find her playing a game on the iPad that she'd climbed up her bed railing to get down...)
Me: You're supposed to be asleep, kiddo.
Brigid: I'm sorry, mommy.
Me: What are you sorry for, B?
Brigid: I'm sorry that you found me playing games.

Or...the one we have every night:

Brigid (2 hours after she was supposed to be asleep, sneaking into my room for the 15th time): So, ummmmm, I was hoping, ummmmm, I could sleep in your bed tonight?
Me: No, kid, you need to sleep in your own bed tonight.
Brigid: But mommmmmy...
Me: OH FOR THE LOVE!!! FINE. Get in the big bed. Just please, please, PLEASE stop whining. Please?

And then I wonder why she always expects me to cave to her every demand...

Bed Hog

Steve was off on an out-of-town three day work trip earlier this week, and Brigid managed to find the silver lining behind missing him by telling me several times during her bedtime routine that the big bed was just my bed, since daddy wasn't home, then sidling into my room while I was trying to work at 9:30PM to weasel her way into sleeping with me.

For my own good, of course. I'm sure she just didn't want me to get lonely.

Of course, Tuesday night, she slept RIGHT NEXT TO ME, with her legs draped across my body, following me around the bed in her sleep when I tried to put some distance between us, before waking me up at 3AM to tell me she didn't want to cuddle with me anymore, like it had been my idea to have her sleep on top of me all night.
She looks like she feels bad about the whole thing, doesn't she?

Brigid's Best Friend

Brigid has taken quite a shine to our female cat over the past few months. Because Gracie is less excitable than our dogs, but friendlier than our male cat, Brigid can lock the poor cat in her room for naptime or bedtime, and Gracie is ok with this plan. But...then Brigid got tired of just sitting next to the cat. Instead, she wanted to pet her. And pick her up. And carry her from room to room.

And that doesn't even include the time she slammed Gracie in the door. I don't think that cat came out from under my bed for something like two days. Not that I blamed her, as Brigid was standing there in my bedroom waiting for her, yelling about how she needed Gracie to come out because 'I need to tell Gracie I'm sorry, mommy! I didn't mean to hurt her!'

I don't think Gracie quite understood what Brigid wanted to say.

Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that I've noticed a little more reluctance on the part of Gracie to spend quality time with Brigid these days. And then? This morning?

I found this in my bathroom while Brigid was running around my bedroom:
I'm not going to lie...I've tried something similar myself. But it never seems to work for me, you know? They always find me in the end...

Creative Solutions

Wearing gloves to bed does not, in fact, discourage thumb sucking, when said thumb sucker takes her glove off after you leave the room. We're moving on to the nasty tasting thumb stuff, next.

Brigid is thrilled.

Running the Roost

Last night, as I was telling Brigid that her third post-bedtime bathroom run of the night was going to be her last, she told me to 'take a chill pill'. And while I was giving her my best mom look, and explaining that we are NOT, in fact, allowed to tell our mommy to do anything of the sort, she laughed in my face, because she'd busted me trying to hide a smile when the words first came out of her mouth. And she had NO PROBLEM calling me out on it.

Earlier in the evening, she told Steve she didn't know if Santa Claus was going to come visit him, because he was being a bad boy. It seems that Santa does not approve of us getting angry at Brigid when she doesn't listen to us.

And in between those two incidents? She conned Steve into giving her dessert, even though she knew she wasn't supposed to have any because she'd stuck her foot in her watermelon bowl, after I asked her not to do that anymore.

(Don't even ask. These are the kinds of requests nobody tells you that you will be making someday...)

I...I don't even know anymore. There's not even any point to this story. THESE ARE JUST THE THINGS THAT HAPPEN IN MY HOME NOW THAT BRIGID IS THREE.

I've got nothing.

They grow up so fast...

When I got home last night, Brigid was playing out in our front yard with two of the neighbor boys, including the two and a half year old next-door neighbor that she's been referring to as her 'boyfriend' for almost a year, now. Whenever those two get together, each one of them tries to scheme their way into the other kid's house, because, you know...it's always better to play in someone else's house with toys that you don't have access to on a daily basis.

But because we were closing in on bath and bedtimes for both kids, I left Steve to stop Brigid from pestering Mrs. Neighbor, while I took Caitlin in for the night. Brigid, of course, came home sobbing because we'd dared to stop her from doing something she wanted to do, even though we promised she'd be able to play with her friend again today.

And I don't know for sure, but I'm guessing that whole incident had something to do with her telling us, while getting a bath later in the evening, that she wanted to go live with our neighbors now. And when Steve told her that we would miss her if she left, and that poor baby Caitlin would be sad without her big sister?

'I'm going to miss baby Caitlin.'

So. Yeah. Guess that settles that, then...
(Also, there was that moment this weekend when Brigid claims Steve said it was ok to kiss a boy when she turns five, apparently having missed the 'thirty' part of that conversation. And this little story will someday be used to explain to Brigid why we locked her up in a convent at such a young age. The end.)

Every. Single. Night.

I think we're just going to give Brigid's room to Caitlin. I mean, it's not like Brigid is using it at all. And, in fact, she keeps telling us she doesn't even LIKE that room anymore. Last night, it was something about her toy lantern, the one that she's loved (literally) to pieces, bothering her by being in there with her.

THAT'S why she felt like she needed to come sleep with us.

(Side Note, the first: I'm pretty sure she was full of crap with that one. But you have to admire her creativity, don't you?)
(Side Note, the second: It's hard for EVERYONE BUT THE TODDLER to get a good night of sleep, when said toddler is sleeping like THAT.)

(Side Note, the third: These pictures were taken last week. But it doesn't matter, because this is what has been happening almost every night for a month. We put Brigid to bed at a decent hour. She keeps herself awake by coming out of her room to request things like water, a bathroom break, or to sleep with the cat, OR she spends an hour picking out her clothes for the next day and piling them outside of her door or throwing them over the 2nd floor railing to the couch. Then, as soon as she sees the hall light go out, she gathers up blankets/pillows/every stuffed animal known to man to bring down to our room, where she stands next to the bed, staring at us silently, until one of us agrees to let her sleep with us, on the promise that she will sleep in her own bed the following night.)

(Side Note, the fourth: She will not, in fact, sleep in her own bed the following night.)

(Side Note, the fifth: Steve and I are tired, tired people.)

Cause and Effect

Earlier this week, we learned that finding Brigid like this in the morning:
Leads to something like this, later that afternoon:
(I was feeding Caitlin, and I noticed that it had gotten really quiet behind me in the kitchen. I jokingly asked Brigid if she had fallen asleep in her macaroni and cheese, and...yeah. She actually had. Go figure.)



Side Note: My parents' townhome on the beach is officially open for rental on the VRBO website at really reasonable rates, if you're looking for a great vacation spot. It's pretty quiet and somewhat secluded on this part of the beach, most of the time, but there are also fun family activities nearby, if spending all day doing nothing on the beach isn't really your thing...

Although, if that's not really your thing, remind me to never vacation with you, ok?

Party Bed!

Steve spent the past weekend in Florida for his brother's bachelor party, and while Brigid didn't have any meltdowns over the fact that I was her only parenting option while he was gone (which is a welcome improvement over how little she wanted me around a few months ago), she was still beyond excited that he was finally home last night.
She was SO excited, in fact, that she didn't want to lose sight of him for something as trivial as sleep.

So...guess who slept with us last night? And guess who, at 11PM, when she should have already been asleep for three hours, was making three or four trips between her room and ours, because she apparently needed FRIENDS in bed with her, besides just Steve and I and two dogs?
It's a good thing she's so cute. And it's a good thing we're such suckers.

And it's a REALLY good thing we have a king bed. Because no amount of cuteness would sucker us into sharing a bed with her if we didn't. She takes up a surprising amount of room for someone so small...

A Break in the Rain

We had a pretty miserable run of cold and rainy weather last week that kept us from doing much beyond taking Brigid to school. And since Steve and I started to realize that we need to make more of an effort to get Brigid away from the television because she's learned to completely tune us out whenever her shows are on, we took advantage of the nice weather this past weekend to get out of the house for awhile.

I almost wish we hadn't...

Did you know that just this past summer, Brigid's legs were too short to reach the pedals on her tricycle?

They're not too short anymore.

Ok, BRIGID, you can stop with this whole 'growing up' thing you've insisted on doing any time now...

PS: Indignant baby is indignant that she isn't included on the blog as much as her sister is. I keep telling her it's because she doesn't do anything yet, but she's pissed anyway.

(Oh wait, I take that back. According to Brigid, Caitlin doesn't do nothing. 

Caitlin dances. 

Because the other day, Caitlin was lying on Brigid's bed, waving her arms over her head, while Brigid was dancing to Lady Gaga or some such music, and Brigid was pretty excited that they both liked dancing to whatever song it was that was playing at the time. I didn't have the heart to tell her that the waving arms meant her baby sister was gearing up for an epic tantrum. 

I like to think Caitlin was dancing, too...even if she did start wailing not two seconds later.)

So, not a future model then?

Hey, Brigid, that's a really cute outfit. May I take a picture of it?
Do you think that you could maybe face the camera while I do it?
And what about a smile? Or a pose? Or even a look directly at the camera?

No?

Ok, then. Thanks for playing along.

And then I bought her a pony...

Last night, Brigid wanted to listen to her Bambi book before bed. Personally, I was pulling for a reading of Belle's Christmas book, but Brigid is the boss, so, I put the CD in the CD player, handed her the book, then promptly watched her throw the book on the floor, giggling.

'That wasn't very nice, Bug. You know you're not supposed to throw things like that...'

'I'm sorry, mommy. I love you.'

Then she jumped up, threw her arms around my neck, and gave me the best hug, ever.

Point: Brigid.

I am such a sucker...

Someone had a good time here...

When I walked into Brigid's room yesterday, this was what was waiting for me:
  That is NOT what things looked like when I left her room the night before, I can tell you that much. At least my three-year old has has the look of a drunken frat boy down pat, yes?

(A brief note to Future Brigid: What I left your room the night before this disaster occurred, and you told me you weren't tired, even though you could barely keep your eyes open? And I left you with some books to read until you got sleepy? And the next morning, you told me that you didn't read most of the books because you had been, in fact, already sleepy? And then you followed that up with, 'And I'm STILL sleepy, mommy...'? And then I made you get up and go to school, anyway, because I TOLD YOU TO GO TO BED BEFORE TEN O'CLOCK, YOU RAGING GOOFBALL?

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

I hope you have as much fun taking your childhood trauma out on your own kids as I'm having taking mine out on you.

Hugs and Kisses,
Mommy)

Once again...

When Steve was a kid, his mother was constantly finding rocks and leaves and other various tidbits of stuff in his pockets. Stuff that he'd found outside, that he really loved, that he wanted to keep forever.

 

Steve was, is, and maybe always will be, a little bit of a hoarder.

Brigid brought this leaf home from school in her totebag last week, because 'I found it, and I liked it.'
And this concludes your weekly reminder that Brigid, is, in fact, one million percent Steve's child.
And also that I am screwed for the next few years.
Think happy, non-terror-toddler thoughts for us, ok? Thanks.