Time Out!

If a one-year-old gets one minute time-outs, a two-year-old gets two minutes, and a three-year-old three minutes (and so on), it stands to reason that a 30-year-old should get 3o minutes for each time out.

Am barricading myself in my bedroom now.

She’s out there, though. “Mommy!” … “Mommy?” … “Mommmeeeeeeeee!”

30 minutes. I’d rather spend it reading, or working on le manuscript, or napping. A nap would be good. Instead, she’s pounding on the door like a body-snatcher, or a zombie or, even scarier, a hyperactive three-year-old. Might have to further retreat into master bathroom.

So here I am, perched on the counter next to the sink, armed with a bottle of hairspray from 1988 and a toilet plunger. Not the time-out I needed.

Dollhouse

Z’s birthday is this Sunday, so I’ve been working on a secret project. This is a dollhouse my grandmother made for me when I was a kid. After a few years in our (now rat-free!) garage, it was filthy and needed a facelift.

Before:

After:

When she’s older I’ll tell her how I slaved over this. For now I’ll just let her enjoy it.

Portrait of the Toddler as a Young Artist

She’s not so much a “toddler” as a “careener,” but that’s a blog post for another day.

“One feather…two feathers…but he can’t fly,” she says as she deftly moves the dry erase marker across her white board. Our artist today is creating a penguin, which should be readily evident to all who view it.

Examine, if you will, the small aperture at the top of the head – the penguin’s beak. Also of note in this image is the artist’s careful handling of the marker. She clutches it in the form of such famous artists as Monsieur Pou Pou and Dame Underfungly.

In the image on the right, the artist has given the penguin so much more: an aura to symbolize the life of the penguin. The penguin’s very being is celebrated in this caul-esque addition. View below, the bottom point of the penguin, and we see another dark feature, twin to the beak rendered above. This, the artist informs me, is the penguin’s “egg.” As if I needed telling. “But you can’t see it,” she says. “Why not?” I inquire. “He’s sitting on it.” The beak on top, the egg on the bottom – the artist has expertly captured the very symbolism inherent in parent-child relationships: I exist to feed you.

Penguin Parent

Finally, in the image at left, we have the final masterpiece. This penguin encapsulates the very concept of penguin. It now enjoys legs, and some additional eggs.

The artist, while often finding inspiration in nature, works primarily indoors on days when the weather is unpleasant. Perhaps she finds this creative outlet as an escape to cabin fever, desiring to infuse her immediate surroundings with natural phenomena that encapsulate freedom and fun.

Her primary joy is in creating one small image on a blank space, and then slowly elaborating upon the image throughout the course of a morning. She often enlists the help of friends and family for filling in the more mundane aspects of her masterpieces. In the dramatic rendering below, “Cabin Below Full Moon,” the artist has expertly incorporated the more rudimentary drawings of family members into her vibrant and large-scale depiction of the natural, amorphic symphony of the night sky.

Cabins Below Full Moon

How fortunate we are to be privy to the magic of an artist’s work in progress! Now, I would like to open up my “museum,” if you will, to the Public. Do you have a favorite artist in your life? Is he or she creating awesome works of art that should be viewed by one and all? If you have my email address, go ahead and send me a jpeg file of your artist’s work. If you don’t have my email address, contact me through the tab at the top of my website. In two weeks, I will showcase the work of all our favorite artists. (No copyrighted images, please.)

Also, this Friday tune in to an interview with the talented Yvonne Prinz, author of The Vinyl Princess and All You Get is Me.

Reverse Placebo Band-Aid Drama

Z’s a happy child. She laughs, tells jokes, loves it when I hide behind a corner and scare the pants off her when she least expects it (this runs in my family).

She also tends toward the melodramatic (this also runs in my family. Fine. Just me. Shut up before I go cry myself to sleep).

Last week my mom was visiting (a.k.a. Free Babysitting While I Hide in my Bedroom with the Computer). Mom needed a band-aid, so I got her one, and I got one for Z as well. I remembered seeing this cute little girl in music class wearing band-aids all over her body – arms, legs, tummy, so I thought it would be fun for Z to have a band-aid and match her Gran. Boy, was I wrong.

I picked a spot on her hand for the band-aid, and maybe this was my mistake – the spot had a little tiny boo-boo. This boo-boo was probably 1/32 of an inch long, the teeniest scratch imaginable. But once the band-aid was in place, the boo-boo transmogrified into a Grievous Wound.

She babied her hand for the entire day, cradling it in her other hand, wrapping it in blankets, asking for an ice pack. She ate exclusively with the other hand, prefering to rest the wounded hand in her lap during meals. At first it was cute. Then it sparked a few eye rolls. If it hadn’t been coupled with whining during dinner, I probably would have been fine. (But what’s a Grievous Wound if you can’t whine about it?)

Z: I don’t want Daddy to take my band-aid off at bathtime.

Husband: I have to take the band-aid off at bathtime, but it won’t hurt.

Ever-Suffering Mother: It’ll be fine, Z. There’s nothing wrong with you.

Z: [voice substantially higher in pitch] But I don’t want Daddy to take my band-aid off! It hurts it hurts!

[dialogue repeated enough times to make the most patient of mothers (I know I can’t even hope to fit into that category – I can’t even type it without feeling like a hypocrite) loseĀ  her cool.]

ESM: If you whine about it again, I’ll take the band-aid off right now.

Z:

Alas, a few minutes later, my drama-queen-in-training could not help herself. She said something about the band-aid. Granted, she didn’t use a whiny voice, but I was done. Done with dinner, done with her drama, and done with that dumb band-aid.

I got up, grabbed her hand, and took the stupid thing off (the band-aid, not her hand). It was only hanging by one side, anyway (again, the band-aid, not her hand). And guess what: She. Was. Fine. A quick, whiny protest as I tossed the offending adhesive bandage into the garbage, and then she was back to eating her dinner.

With both hands, this time.