A seat at the table

Confined to the floor for almost her entire life, Rowan was thrilled to sit in a chair yesterday for the very first time! (I'm not counting the Elmo chair, 'cause if it's hairy and talks, it doesn't count.)

After the novelty of the situation wore off, Rowan got right down to work checking e-mail, IMing her peeps and updating her Facebook status: "ROWAN is sitting in a chair, yo."

I'm out of the monkey business

Today was the big Purim parade at school, and at last my mom learned the answer to the burning question of the week: What kind of a costume can you make from a pillow case and one tube sock?

This.

A monkey, obviously.

I get it. My room at school is "The Funky Monkeys," so it was certainly a clever theme.

And while I put on a brave face for the big parade, inside my heart was breaking. Because this holiday, as it was explained to me by my mom, is all about kings and queens and good guys and bad guys...and dressing up like kings and queens and good guys and bad guys.

And a school FULL of little girls in beautiful princess dresses verified my mom's account.

But instead of a beautiful gown, I was stuck in a rejected bedsheet.

Oh cruel world. I'm a princess, not a primate.

Playlist of a preschooler

While I might like my television shows, toys and dinnerware themed with princesses, Mickey and Elmo, one place I prefer for them to keep out of is my music. I'm not a Barney-singing, Elmo-humming lover of kiddie CDs.

I have sophisticated taste when it comes to what I listen to. I always have.

I prefer the classic recording artists, like Lady Ga Ga, Uncle Kracker and Kelly Clarkson. I recognize their songs immediately when they come on the radio, which is why a few weeks ago in the quiet halls of the pediatric dentist's office, you might have heard a resounding, "UNCLE KACKER!!!"

I like to be in charge of the radio when we ride in the car. I know in three seconds or less whether a song is acceptable. If it's not, I used to whine and cry, "New song. Neeew sooooooong!!" But I've since refined my approach and simply say, "No, thank you."

Unless my mom is not prompt in responding.

Then I have to follow it up with, "No, THANK you. No, THANK YOU. NO THANK YOU!!! NOTHANKYOUNOTHANKYOUNOTHANKYOUNOTHANKYOU!!!!!!!"

I'm all about my manner words.

With a 15-minute commute to school each way, I get plenty of time to enjoy listening to the radio. Which is why I can sing Miley Cyrus like THIS.

Okay, so I'm one of THOSE people. Those people who don't know most of the words to the song but insist on singing along in a vague kind of way.

But I don't sweat it.

With such demanding choreography, I'll be lip synching at all my live shows, anyway.

Reading the signs

Since Rowan was 5-months-old, my mom's been trying tirelessly to teach her baby sign language. If I had a dime for every time my mom signed "eat," "more" and "all done," I'd be paying someone to write this blog for me while I ride my pony in the backyard.

Despite eight months of dedication on my mom's part, the end result was Rowan signing "more" two times back in October and repeatedly beating her hand over her mouth while saying "aaah" in a way that is too ambiguous to tell if she is signing to eat or just enamored with the sound.

I'm pretty sure, however, that taking your bib(s) and all the food from your tray and tossing them to the ground is the universal sign for "all done."

Mom doesn't seem to appreciate the fact that Rowan uses this sign at every meal.

Why, yes, that IS a piece of food all the way back there by the closet. Rowan's got a good arm.

I wanna hold your hand

So it's pretty obvious at this point that Rowan's taking her sweet time walking. But we've got places to go and things to do together, so I decided today that it's about time to help this process along.

Luckily Mom had the camera sitting on the counter to capture this impromptu moment...

No pacifier sucks

Behold, the last documented photo of Rowan with a pacifier. This photo was taken on January 21, right before the multi-step process of weening my little friend off the bink.

Rowan's had a three-paci habit for about as long as she can remember, and that's not the kind of thing you just quit cold turkey.

At every naptime/bedtime, Rowan would willingly go into her crib as long as she had a paci for the mouth and a paci for each hand. So exactly one month ago (in preparation for this day), mom nixed the two back-up pacis and replaced them with little blankies. Rowan expressed her discontent with this trade exactly once and never spoke of it again.

However, prying that final paci from her mouth -- which mom's doing today, on Rowan's 14-month birthday -- is not going nearly as well. After 30 minutes of screaming/crying at morning nap and 45 minutes (and counting!) of screaming/crying at afternoon nap, it is quite evident that we've angered the baby.

It is now perfectly clear to me why kids my age are still nursing the paci habit. Paci withdrawal seems awfully painful.

For everybody.

UPDATE: After 11 sleepless hours (no afternoon nap and 1.75 hrs worth of attempts to put Rowan down for the night), we are admitting defeat. Rowan fights dirty, I tell you.

Independent party

Now that I'm three, I've decided it's about time to take on some new responsibilities -- most recently, wardrobe management. I'm cutting back on my stylist's hours and not only choosing my own outfits, but putting them on myself, as well.

Like my outfit today. I chose the pants because they're pink and because my dad brought them back for me from Vegas. (You can't see, but that's a Harley logo at the bottom. Edgy.) They may be a bit short, but they're long on style.

And I chose the shirt because it's pink, and obviously everything that is pink matches. The headband may be red, but it's got a bow on it like Minnie Mouse's and, therefore, was nonnegotiable.

I totally get now what Coco Chanel meant when she said, "I don't do fashion, I am fashion."

Great expectations

In the business of life, sometimes grown-ups are like bad clients. Their expectations oftentimes need a little recalibrating.

For instance, take Mr. Holiday. Mom was just sure that once he and I got better acquainted, the house would be quiet until 7 am. And while he's very good at what he does, there's nothing he can do about the fact that I live under the same roof as a 1-year-old. A 1-year-old who was happy to sleep until 7 am everyday...until about two weeks ago.

Rowan knows not of Mr. Holiday, and even if she did, she wouldn't respect him the way I do.

Until they make a Mr. Holiday, Jr., for the short kids, looks like Mom's going to need to be at peace with sleeping until 6ish.

And while we're on the subject of grown-ups with expectations that are a bit out of whack, I'd like to address the makers of board games for kids my age. Maybe it's just because I'm a freshly minted 3-year-old, but "The Rules" are merely a suggestion of terms my brain cannot possibly digest.

Turns out, though, that you don't have to "get it" to love it. I'm just saying that maybe they should put "3+" on the box followed by an "lol" or maybe one of those little winky face emoticons.

And it must have been those same grown-ups that decided that a 3-year-old was dexterous enough to dress this micro Snow White in a tiny rubbery wetsuit-like ballgown without the assistance of an adult...or a pair of tweezers.

Oh, grown-ups. They think the funniest things sometimes, don't they?

Teething: The Good, The Bad and The Ugly

The GOOD thing about getting molars

Reject everything you're offered in a fit of infant rage and Mom will break down and give you a popsicle for dinner. Pure genius.

Toddler friends, TAKE NOTES.

The BAD thing about getting molars

Nighttime conferences with mom to discuss said molars result in a little less beauty sleep for everyone.

The UGLY thing about getting molars

On Saturday, in lieu of a nap, Rowan opted for redoing her crib in a distressed finish. Using nothing but her teeth.

It goes without saying that Mom was pleased.

Not sure, by the way, that I see the point in forking over the extra coin for organic food, Rowan, if you're just going to turn around and EAT PAINT.

Happy Valentine's Day

May you be surrounded by true love and tasteful accessories.

Pretend with Pencils: What's the point?

One of the best things about being in preschool (aside from snacktime) is that twice a year (Valentine's Day and Halloween) I get a bag full of gifts: cards, playdough, candy and even books! The one thing I'm always at a loss for what to do with is pencils.

While a nicely sharpened pencil may be good for the SATs or the NY Times crossword, it's not so practical in the hands of a two- to three-year-old. In the interest of not poking out anybody's eyes (mine, Rowan's or anyone brave enough to come over and try to share my toys with me) we have quietly been amassing an impressive collection of unsharpened pencils in "the junk drawer."

At a playdate on Thursday, my mom was talking about the pencil issue with my friends' mom, who said that her kids like to pretend the unsharpened pencils are magic wands.

Following an exciting Valentine's Day party at school on Friday (or, as I referred to it, a "Happy Valentine's party"), I quickly fished the pencils out of my bag and handed them to my mom.

"Here," I said, "these are for you, Mom."

"You know, Jillie, " she said, "these look an awful lot like magic wands."

"No," I retorted matter-of-factly, "they're pencils."

End of discussion.

Crafty

With minimal assistance from my mom, I handcrafted these lovely personalized frames for a special dinner last night with my Aunt Jamie and my Nannie. Now I'm considering taking time off from preschool to go into business for myself. With my artistic sensibilities -- not to mention my charm and a killer pair of pigtails -- I'm certain I could build and sell my custom frame company, buy one of those tot ferraris and return to school before they even teach us to read.

A knee for speed

In a couple of weeks, Rowan will turn 14 mos. old, and let me tell you something...the kid is not walking. Am I concerned? As someone who made the personal decision not to walk until 15.5 mos., I say no, I am not.

I think she just doesn't want to show up her big sister. I respect that.

But finding it hard to go about her business of carrying things around the house with one or no open hands for crawling, Rowan's learned to adapt her mode of mobility. If shuffling about on both knees is a milestone, Rowan's asking that her baby book be marked accordingly.

Isn't that cute?? She thinks she has a baby book.

Word to your sister

So the great thing about little sisters is how much there is to teach them. While many people boast that their babies can say mama, dada, dog and other basic words, I decided that Rowan would be better served with a more practical repertoire for communication. Which is why I've helped her develop the following abilities:

• barking like a dog
• ooh-ooh-oohing like a monkey
• mooing like a cow
• uh-ohing
• fake sneezing (a loud and very obnoxious "aaaaaah-choo!")

Sure, we may be a bit short on real words right now. Really just "mama" and "muh," which you might imagine means "more" but literally translates to, "I see whatever that is in your hands and I'd like to eat it. Now."

With a little more time, I'm sure I can help Rowan talk the talk. As for walking the walk...hey, I'm just a big sister. Not a miracle worker.

This calls for some celery

So the title of today's posting will only have meaning to you if you've seen "The Wonder Pets" once or twice...or a thousand and twice, like me! All you really need to know is that the Wonder Pets always celebrate a rescue well done with celery.

The other thing you need to know to fully appreciate this post is that I am a picky eater. And despite what they told my mom, "It tastes like candy" doesn't work...even if it is sometimes actually candy.

My aversion to trying new foods often results in a battle of the wills between me and my mom, and it's escalated to the point where she'll invest several minutes trying to convince me to try something of absolutely no nutritional value. It usually goes something like, "Jillian, try this double-marshmallow-chocolate-crispy-crunch-butter-coated cookie. No seriously, you're gonna like it. Just take a bite. Look, Rowan likes it. I heard princesses eat this for breakfast every day. Try it. Go ahead. It tastes like candy."

Despite her compelling arguments, I prefer to keep my menu of acceptable foods down to 10-15 items.

Which is why she about fell over two weeks ago when I announced that I'd like a piece of celery...because the Wonder Pets eat it. And she seemed to gasp for air a little bit when I actually ate the aforementioned piece of celery...then asked for another piece the next day...with salt...because that's how the Wonder Pets eat it.

(My mom doesn't recall the Wonder Pets ever putting salt on their celery, but she's not asking questions.)

Not one to be outdone in the eating department, Rowan's decided she quite enjoys celery, as well. But let's face it -- the kid's standards are low. She tried to eat her bowl tonight at dinner.

And while we're on the subject of Rowan, I'd just like to say for the record that we're all onto her "covert" missions to fish food from my tray after I've retired for the evening. Needless to say, if Rowan had a blog (and, sadly, as the second child, she does not), she surely would not need to trouble herself to dedicate an entire entry to her willingness to eat celery.

Hey, Rowan, meet my friend Gym

Since before she was born, Rowan's been making weekly visits to my gymnastics class. And after month upon month of quietly observing from her carseat and baby carrier, she finally got to bust out and try a few moves of her own.

Granted, she does feel as if her inability to walk may be holding her back. And her stubborn attitude is preventing her from getting high marks in the group-activities department.

Nonetheless, Miss Bonnie insists that she sees potential there.

My words of advice to you, Rowan? Stick the landing.

Good clean(ing) fun

Okay, so maybe "fun" would be a strong word to describe my first dental visit.

After staring inquisitively through the window of the dentist's office right next to my pediatrician several times, I finally got to give a dental chair a try for myself this morning. It was my very first cleaning!

The great news is that the dentist gave me a good report -- no cavities and relatively well-brushed teeth! The bad news is that this assessment required a lot of poking around in my mouth with all kinds of stuff I'd rather not have had in there.

No hard feelings, though. As you can see, Dr. Albert and I became fast friends.

Especially after she hooked me up with all this swag...an "official" photo of my first visit to the dentist, a handsome sticker, a Super Sleuths toothbrush and a bouncy ball.

I'd say we're even.

Even more exciting? I FOUND NEMO! It's true...he really was in the dentist's office.