It's a waiting room, so why don't I wait here

On Wednesday, we took Rowan to the doctor for an ear infection.

It's a fact that most kids dread doctors -- Rowan included. She's always elated when we arrive in the waiting room filled with toys and books, but then cries furiously when we get to the exam room, as if to say, "Darn it, they tricked me again!"

I, on the other hand, LOVE going to the doctor's office. I love the toys and the books (even if they are all circa 1982), I clean up in the sticker department, and nine times out of 10, Rowan's gotta do the hard work (shots, swabs, scopes, etc.) while I sit by and draw pictures on pharmaceutical Post-it notes.

For me, the most difficult part of going to the doctor's office is deciding which book to bring into the exam room when they call our names in the waiting room. This week, as I sat with a lap full of books, Mom told me that I had to pick just one to take in with me. I sat thoughtfully for a moment before responding, "It looks like I have too many books.

Guess I'll have to stay here."

Someone get the hose

A subtle reminder that, when it comes to Rowan, the consumption of yogurt is not a sport for the unsupervised.

The storm after the calm

When it comes to the blog, a week of little action is bad for business, so to speak. So to make up for a whole lotta nuthin' to write about last week, I made sure that this past weekend's agenda was filled with much adventure.

On Friday, in celebration of his birthday, Daddy came home early to take me to the opening day matinee of Shrek 4 in 3D! We followed up the movie with a little happy-birthday singing and Chicago Cubs cupcakes made with a blue frosting so indelible, it was both intriguing and disturbing.

And the prospect of de-icing Rowan post cupcake? Both intriguing and disturbing.

Rowan: Human Party Blower

Saturday, Papa and Yaya took us on our first trip to the beach -- or, as the snobs from the "real" coast refer to it, the lakefront.

Sunday, I made my school-gymnasium debut with my very first ballet recital. Our routine was understated and beautifully simple, and I executed it with grace and enthusiasm.

For the most part.

It turns out that whoever said "The show must go on" obviously never had their flower fall out of their hair partway through the opening number. While my colleagues distracted the audience with a lot of running, skipping and jumping, I bawled my way to the side of the "stage" where Nannie (my impromptu wardrobe manager) replaced the flower.

And, alas, the recital was saved.

We capped off a weekend of many firsts with a poolside lunch at Nannie's house, where I snatched Rowan's water wings and went for my first jump off a diving board.

Finally, before I log off for the day, I'd like to issue a public and official apology to my sister, to whom I have given much grief over her undying loyalty to crawling (or refusal to walk, depending on how you look at it). It was wrong of me not to acknowledge her transition to a full-time walker on May 5, the day she finally mastered standing up without assistance.

May 5

Way to take that next step, Rowan! (Pun intended.)

Trouble

While most kids my age are begging their parents for the battery-operated kiddie Jeep, I've set my sights on something closer to the luxury end of the spectrum.

Not to drive, of course. I'm only three. That'd be crazy.

Just to sit in in the garage. I'm pretty sure I can talk my dad into it -- I'm just waiting for the right time.

Like when my mom's not in the room.

The swing of things

It's great to have a dad who enjoys the same things that you do. But this seems excessive.

Sk8er

It has been argued that what children see on television can often influence them to do dangerous things. This is, in fact, true.

Sunday, after our Mother's Day dinner with Nannie, we stopped at a toy store in search of an Elmo that Rowan could call her own. (As only Rowan would do, she shook her head "no" at all the Elmos and left empty handed.) In the spirit of fairness, I was given the option to pick out one thing, as well. And my choice was simple.

A skateboard.

After seeing it on TV a couple of weeks ago, I have been regularly reminding my mom and dad about my interest in learning how to ride. This seemed like a generally bad idea to my mom, who as a child only ever rode a skateboard on her stomach, using her hands to "paddle." (One of many reasons why my dad is grateful that the genetic lottery appears to have awarded me his athletic abilities.) My dad was all for it.

Wednesday, I took out my skateboard for the second time and showed Rowan how to land a switch 360 kickflip over a six-stair set.

Which is skater lingo for saying that I scooted my way down the sidewalk.

No good could come of this.

Chips off the old block

There are two things you can expect when it comes to my mom's grocery-shopping habits:

1. Every week she will accidentally bring home more of something we already have way too much of, the combined supply of which could keep our fridge (and perhaps one of our neighbor's fridges) stocked for weeks.

This, for example, was the week we accidentally ended up with waaaaay too much milk. And, for those of you wondering, yes, that IS another partial gallon of milk cut out of the picture all the way over on the right.

10 cartons and 3 gallons adds a whole new meaning to the slogan, "Got Milk?"

2. The bulk of what she buys for me and Rowan will be organic or, at the very least, all natural.

Which is why if we want something really tasty, we gotta wait until Dad gets home.

Because nothing polishes of a day's worth of organic berries, veggies, chicken and energy bars better than a SuperStack of Reduced-Fat Original Pringles -- coincidentally, my dad's favorite after-work snack. And you can always count on my dad to share more than a few -- even (much to my mom's dismay) when he snacks on them before 8 a.m.

And so the fact that Rowan has started asking (and by asking I mean yelling in a relentless sort of way) for chips at afternoon snack is something that my mom must blame entirely on my dad.

The process that Rowan goes through to ensure that every last crumb makes it into her mouth is an art form really, and a written explanation could not possibly do it justice. And so I have uploaded this video.

My sister's keeper

Lately I've been struggling at school when it comes to working out my interpersonal problems the right way. Although I am a pro at reciting the "use my words" mantra, I find that my hands often do the talking before my mouth can get out even a syllable.

I'm working on this.

Interestingly, however, I am unflappable when it comes to my little sister.

Okay, so occasionally when we both go after the same toy, I flap just a little. I might whine or shriek over who has rights to the toy, but after the ruckus subsides, I always -- and I mean always -- turn over the toy to my sister. Even if my mom's ruled in my favor.

In fact, I'm always looking after her, whether helping her find a missing friend, teaching her manners or offering her praise or positive reinforcement. My mom is hopeful, however, that she'll look elsewhere for guidance in gender identification and the proper use of pronouns.

Let's scoot

Nearly one year ago, my dad introduced me to my first scooter.

May 2009

And while I will always have fond memories of my first means of independent transportation, I couldn't help but notice this Spring that my scooter was the only one on the block with a platform large enough to host a small gathering.

After I spent several afternoons chasing down the big kids on my street to beg for a turn on their sleek Razor scooters, Dad ran out of the house with the excuse of picking up something computer-related and just happened to come home with this shiny pink Razor scooter. (My mom says it was almost certainly right next to the wireless keyboards and portable hard drives.)

And in much the same fashion, he went online last week at my mom's request to buy a back-up supply of Rowan's favorite lovies and today a scooter of his very own appeared on our doorstep. (A purchase, he argues, that was absolutely imperative in order to avoid paying shipping on those little lovies.)

So tonight (after dinner but before bedtime) was spent racing each other up and down the sidewalk before taking a leisurely scoot around the block.

And while I could argue that this new daddy-daughter activity is proof that my dad is in many ways a big kid stuck in a grown-up's body, my mom argues that it's really just proof that my dad can no longer be sent for simple household items unsupervised.

A little pushy

It is a well-known fact that I am a daddy's girl. Since I was about 3-months-old, my face would light up as soon as my dad would walk in the room, and it would fall as soon as he walked out. I shed many a tear over nothing more than my dad leaving my line of sight.

Fast forward three years and I remain as obsessed as ever. It would only be a mild exaggeration to say that no one else exists when my dad's in the room.

In the meantime, the universe sent a peace offering to my mom in the form of Rowan, who has taken parental obsession to a whole new level, but with my mom, rather than my dad. It finally looked as if everything was even in our house.

But lately, Rowan's becoming a little Dad-obsessed, forcing us to jockey for his attention when we're all together.

This morning, before he left for work, my dad was holding Rowan when I asked to be held, too. Luckily, he's skilled enough to hold us both at the time same time.

Only as soon as he picked me up, Rowan shook her head "no." And tried to push me down!!

Game on, Rowan. Game ON.

Desperately seeking Scott

Saturday morning, I was in the middle of playing in my room with Rowan when I turned to my mom and asked, "Where's my dad?"

And before she had a chance to respond, I added (for clarification purposes), "His name is Scott. Have you seen Scott?"

Happy Mother's Day!

For as long as I can remember, I've had an on-again, off-again relationship with the telephone. When I was two, I used to badger my mom and dad to make calls. Once the person I had requested to call was on the other end of the phone, however, I would often sit in silence.

Now that I'm a year older, I generally have something interesting to say, but am often not in the mood to talk on the phone.

Luckily this morning I was feeling both chatty and in the mood to make some calls, because I had a lot of Happy-Mother's-Day wishing to do!

I called my Grandma, my Nannie, my Nana Stelle and my Nana Lorraine (aka Nana Rainey). And when I was done with that, I hopped in the car and wished my Ya-Ya and my Nana Lil a Happy Mother's Day in person. Earlier tonight, we took Nannie to dinner at a restaurant so fancy that we didn't even have to stand at a counter to order our food.

Below is a little photographic synopsis of some of my family's Mother's Day festivities.

Up is down and black is white

At the beginning of the week, I came home with an invitation for my mom to a Mother's Day Tea at my school. When we arrived for said tea yesterday morning, I was bewildered by the startling lack of scones and jam, delightful finger sandwiches and...wait for it...tea.

And that's how I learned that, to some, "tea" is code for juice and muffins. We were duped!

Never one to turn away from a social gathering, however, I stayed to mingle with my classmates and their moms; but I left my juice and muffin untouched. Out of principal.

At the "tea," I gifted my mom this lovely hand-decorated spoon. Covered in paint and adorned with a photo of me, this spoon -- clearly designed to withstand nothing but admiring looks -- was the perfect gift for my mom, who cooks almost nothing (well).

Luckily the "birthday celebration" on the calendar for later that morning did, in fact, turn out to be a real birthday celebration, complete with party hats and treats. I wore my party hat all the way home in celebration of the fact that in a world where "tea" means "brunch" and wooden spoons are for show, some things remain simple and true.

Oh, birthday parties, you never let me down.

Allow me to vent

For many artists, music is a means to vent. For me and Rowan, vents are a means to make music. We both thoroughly enjoy brushing our fingers across the metal and singing/shouting along to the sounds.

Dad always insists that we stop. (Music snob.) But Mom figures, What's the harm? It's not like we're strumming the vents with metal spatulas.

But you know what they say: It's all fun and games until someone pulls a vent out of the wall.

Way to go, Rowan.

If we're forced to take up more conventional instruments, there's no way we'll be ready to tour by summer.

A little drywall dust never hurt anyone.

P.S. Dad, hope this post was a gentle-enough way of telling you that someone pulled a vent out of the wall in the family room yesterday. Kids! What are you gonna do??

Spare (me) change

On weekend mornings, my dad disappears into his gym for a couple of hours to go exercising. I've often wondered why he does this, when it dawned on me last week that he needs to keep his strength up for arduous tasks like carrying my activity table up/down the stairs three times in one week (at my mom's request).

It may appear at first glance that my mom's a bit indecisive, but the fact of the matter is that she just hates change. Anything new (ranging from a new paint color to a new house to a new location for a piece of furniture) always seems like a bad idea in some way to my mom until she lives with it for a bit and decides it's perfect.

Like the table. As soon as Dad invested 45 minutes converting it (from an activity table to a table with chairs) and moving it out of her office, she thought of all the good times Rowan and I had around that table while she was working on her computer. And she thought about how Rowan always made a break for the table as soon as she finished crawling up the stairs. And she thought about how hard it was going to be for Rowan to have a seat in the big-girl chairs. And she felt nothing but remorse for suggesting we change anything at all.

While my dad refused to put the short legs back on the table, he did humor her by moving it back up to her office four hours later. And six days later, he humored her by moving it downstairs yet again. Turns out my mom just needed a little time to sleep on it.

And I tell you this story not because it's particularly interesting, but rather to help you better understand why I fear change so deeply.

It's obviously hereditary.

Neither Mom nor Dad will soon forget the time they converted my crib into a bed (much to my delight!)...and then back to a crib a few hours later after a tidal wave of tears and a late-night run to Target for carpet shampoo. And the time I fully subscribed to the potty training program for one week and then decided there was nothing wrong with diapers after all. And the time my Mom and Dad flanked my dresser with beautifully coordinated chairs in the afternoon only to remove them a few hours later when I found they prevented me from sleeping.

This weekend it was the decadent new pillowcase and blanket my Nannie designed for me -- complete with one of my favorite characters -- which elicited shrieks of delight when I saw them on my bed....followed a few hours later by a request to replace them with my scratchy Dora pillowcase and old blanket.

Suppose I should take some advice from my mom and just sleep on it.

Passenger in training

After much discussion about my dad's travels on the train, which he rides almost every day to work, Nannie took me on Saturday for a train ride of my own. My first one!

While Daddy rides his train to work (boooring), Nannie and I decided to ride ours to lunch in Lake Forest at an outstanding hot dog restaurant. We got to ring the bell at the Lake Forest train station to alert our friends of the incoming train, and I got to meet the driver of the train (the "onuctor") both ways!


I don't know about you, but I think these onuctors look equally as pleased to make my acquaintance.

We were joined on our travels by my new friend Eli, whose grandma is a friend of my Nannie's. Not surprisingly, he passed my rigorous requirements for friendship and in no time was being harrassed to hold my hand.

To ensure we had adequate sustenance for our journey, Nannie stopped at the grocery store and bought foods packed with vital nutrients, like frosted cookies and the Goldfish assortment pack.

And to remember our trip, Eli and I got matching magnifying glasses, which we managed to make good use of at the train station to find our way back home.

It was such a fun morning! Guess I'm a pretty lucky kid to go on such a fantastic adventure. But not as lucky as my dad. He gets to ride the train almost every day!!

Hopefully once in a while they let him ring the bell, too.