Joust plain wrong

On Sunday, my Dad executed his signature move -- the one in which he steps out under the premise that he's leaving on a home-maintenance-related errand, but then squeezes in a stop at a toy/sporting-goods store in order to buy me something I have no idea I can't live without.

Like shields.

After studying technique through 100+ viewings of The Backyardigan's "The Mighty Knights" episode (which officially ties "Chichen Itza Pizza" for Best Episode EVER), my dad thought I might enjoy a sword and shield of my own. So that I might hunt dragons.

And while we picked out two swords (one for me and one for me) a couple of weeks ago, it turns out that Toys R Us is not the place to go to stock up on medieval accessories.

The LEGO Store is.

And it is conveniently not all that far from Lowes.

When he returned home, he presented me with a bag. I opened it to find a red shield with a lion and a pink shield with a unicorn wearing a crown. My mom, already a bit tiffed by the hour-and-a-half "run out to Lowes," explained with annoyance that you can't buy just one pink unicorn-queen shield. That the dragons would be safe because the only thing we'd be trying to slay is each other.

At which point Rowan and I began a tug of war (complete with shrill screams) over the shield.

The red one. With the lion.

Point: Dad.

Jillie from the Block

Yesterday we braved the ferocious heat for the annual block party -- or as everybody four and under knows it, Run-and-Play-in-the-Street Day. A mixture of jubilation and utter confusion.

I mean, yesterday I wasn't allowed to play near the end of the driveway and today I'm encouraged to kick off my shoes and run through a hose spraying right down the middle of the road??

It boggles the preschool mind.

As my sister and I reveled in our Halley's-Comet-like ability to play in the street, my mom took a moment to reflect on our very first block party two years ago, when I was only as big as Rowan is right now.

Jillian and Daddy 2008

Rowan and Daddy 2010

The thing about our block parties is that every year they get better and better.

We were off to a rocky start in 2008 when my parents deemed me too little to participate in the water balloon fight. I figured, There's always next year!

2008

And lo and behold, last year, not only did I get to participate in the water-balloon fight, Elmo and I got to drive a police cruiser (in park)!

2009

As if that wasn't cool enough, this year, the police officer brought a dog and we all got to watch while it ferociously attacked the officer's arm. Or, as I referred to it, played fetch.

That, combined with temporary tattoos, face-painting, candy and another visit from the Fire Department -- which once again turned on the great big hose and let us all go for a run -- made this year's block party the best ever!

I'll admit, I did declare the world to be wrong and unfair when I was not allowed to participate in the dads'-only game of Baggo. But my tantrum came to an abrupt halt when my neighbor informed me that I had "won an award for...(long pause)...being out in the sun the longest" and that I should come and collect my prize. That and the arrival of my BFF Allie helped me let go of my unrealized dreams of being the 2010 Block Party Baggo Champion.

I figure, There's always next year!

Rowan had to call it a night after deciding that the only acceptable means of entertainment was bathing in/drinking from a puddle in the road left over by the fire-truck hose.

Apparently, as far as the block party "Rules of the Road" go, that's still not okay.

I told Rowan not to hold her breath for next year.

Better off Red

Three weeks into my second session of swimming lessons, I have officially been PROMOTED! I am a Red swimmer now, rather than White.

From a technical standpoint, that means that I jump into the pool independently (not to mention with great glee) and can hold my head under the water for at least five seconds.

From a non-technical standpoint, it means I'M AWESOME.

The tears come down like rain

Almost two years ago, my mom took me for my first day of school. I was in a new place with new teachers and new kids I had never met before. And after she stayed with me at this school for a couple days, my mom hugged me goodbye and left.

And it was AWESOME.

While other kids were a little teary, I was like, "Come back for me if you've got time, Mom...if not, I'm good." (Okay, so at the time my vocabulary was limited to about 10 words, but that's what I was thinking in my head.)

Rowan, on the other hand, prefers that my mom not leave the room....ever. Not just the classroom, but really any room. And somehow, when my mom walked her into a classroom for the first time last month -- a classroom filled with kids without their mommies -- Rowan instinctively knew it was going to be no good for her.

And so she cried.

Moms like to tell other moms that the crying's only a temporary thing. That it just lasts the first few minutes. Or the first few days. Or the first few weeks.

But they just don't know Rowan.

A little more than one month after she started at her school, Rowan still prefers to spend the majority of her 1+ hours in tears. Occasionally she'll stop to check out a toy or have a small bite to eat. But overall, she really dedicates herself to the cause.

This week, greeted in the mornings by rainy weather, Rowan has insisted on spending her entire time at school crying in her raincoat. Although the teachers try intermittently to take it off, she just won't allow it.

The teachers say it's comforting for her. It seems obvious to me, however, that an hours-worth of tears really warrants a raincoat, no?

Monday: Don't be fooled. Rowan only looks happy because she is SO grateful that my mom came back and got her.

Today: Still crying a little bit in her sleep on the car ride home. :(

Day of the Dad

On Sunday afternoon, the Inn at Papa and Yaya's hosted a lunchtime BBQ in celebration of Father's Day. The whole G-Fam was there, including Nannie, Nana Lil and Aunt Jamie, which made for good company with which to raise a sippy cup of pink milk and honor Papa and my dad.

After five months of practicing taking pictures with the digital camera I got for my birthday, I decided it was time to move onto a slightly better piece of equipment and so I talked my mom into letting me capture a few pictures of all that family love with her SLR. My mom said she would serve as my assistant by wearing the camera strap around her neck.

I was allowed to hold the camera, though, and pointed and hit the shutter release all on my own. And this is one of the first pictures I took, in its completely unedited state:


My mom says that my Aunt Jamie was a good sport to sit there so patiently for so many shots. When my mom insisted that I release her, I moved onto my next subject:


My mom only cropped this picture a little!

Sadly, she only let me be the chief photographer for a few minutes. The rest of the time she kept the camera all to herself.

Kind of a bold move for someone who's so preachy about sharing.

I didn't take these pictures, but they're okay anyway:






So, I know what you're thinking: What's up with the matching outfits?? For those of you who know my mom, you know it's not in her nature to allow us to leave the house in matching ensembles. (A pair of matching Lucky Brand embroidered dragon jackets (in size XL and 18 mos) says my Dad feels differently on the subject.)

The things is, though, that the day before Father's Day, Nannie bought us both the same fabulous dress from the boutique where I'm fairly sure Fancy Nancy does all of her shopping. And with one kid that melts down over not being able to pick out a dress before breakfast and another who throws herself to the ground if denied the right to wear her favorite pair of shoes, there was nobody willing to volunteer to tell either one of us that we had to wait 'til tomorrow to wear our Fancy Nancy dress.

They say you have to pick your battles. But my mom says sometimes you have to avoid your epic wars.

Tight quarters

Lately, my nights have been plagued by leaky diapers. Not sure if any of you deal with the frustration of waking up in the middle of the night to find that your big-girl pull-up has failed you, but no matter how many brands we try, and no matter the size, I seem to be enjoying fresh linens between 2 am and 5 am at least twice a week.

The timing makes this only a minor inconvenience to my mom. And the fact that it takes a bit of slick maneuvering to make a twin sheet fit on a toddler bed is only a minor inconvenience to my mom. (Nobody makes high-fashion bedding like mine for toddler beds, sadly.)

The only thing that makes this bi-weekly exercise a MAJOR inconvenience to my mom is the fact that it requires removing and then replacing an entire community of friends and books.

To those of you who've been reading this blog for a while, you'll remember the time that my dad was allowed to go to the Disney Store unsupervised. You know, that time he thought that buying every member of the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and then placing them all in my crib was a stroke of pure brilliance.

April 2009

Well, in the last 14 months, I've managed to finagle Big Mickey, Little Mickey, Baby Elmo, Nordstrom Elmo, Big Elmo, Red Mickey and two Pink Minnies into the bed. Right around the time my parents discovered that there was very little room left for me, they declared a moratorium on new friends.

Occassionally, my mom asks if perhaps one friend might be willing to forfeit his/her spot in exchange for a place of prominence on the floor right next to the bed. But I've asked around and any one of my friends would be completely devastated to be displaced.

Then came the obsession with reading.

Since my books keep me occupied during those times when I should be sleeping but am not (e.g., the days I wake up at 6 a.m., the days I forgo nap), Mom and Dad have allowed me to bring books into my bed.

The only problem is that now I refuse to sleep without certain books in my bed, too.

Luckily the assortment of books I need in order to sleep is changing constantly, as many of them are from the library. So my parents are quite confident that soon they'll be able to make juuuuuust enough room to squeeze a 3-foot kid into this bed.

Somewhere.

Blame it on the Rowan

My apologies for a silent week-and-a-half. While I prefer not to be a passer of the buck, I'd like to say for the official record that the lack of updates is everybody's fault but my own.

Most notably, Rowan's.

While the thoughts shared on my blog are purely mine, my hunt-and-peck typing skills, coupled with my inability to read or write, require me to depend on my mom for transcription services. And the demands of a certain 1-year-old have left us with no opportunity to get together.

Because if we were to sit down together at the computer, then who would notice if Rowan was to throw something of vital importance into the kitchen trash? Like, say, her right sandal. One half of The Only Pair of Sandals in All of Nordstrom that Fits Around Rowan's Pudgy Piggies.

That was Tuesday's official "deposit," anyway.

In a manner you could only characterize as extremely deliberate, Rowan walked to the shoe bin in our laundry room, picked up the sandal in question, walked in a direct route to the trash can (on the opposite side of the house) and dropped the shoe in.

Had my mom not witnessed the act, she would surely still be looking for that sandal, thinking, "It has to be here somewhere." And likely would not have been watching carefully enough to notice on Wednesday when Rowan attempted to deposit a portable phone.

While most people prefer to blame the cleaning lady when a household item goes missing, looks like Rowan better be prepared to take the brunt of it in that department.

When not trying to stealthily dispose of our most commonly used belongings, Rowan has been spending her time performing daring stunts in and around the house, including:

* climbing up and then walking around on either the hearth or coffee table, just to see if anybody notices or cares (they always do);

* walking to the edge of the monkey bars platform and jumping, just to see if anybody will catch her (luckily, they always do!); and

* navigating the rocking ottomon to get onto the rocking chair in order to rock...standing up...holding onto the chair back... just to see if that might be a good idea (it never is).

So the way I figure it, either Rowan's gonna need to learn that the trash is solely intended for items that qualify as refuse (by popular vote) and that the laws of gravity are unforgiving, or I'm going to need to learn to read, write and type.

We'll see which happens first.

Hold the mustard

While most people go to Michael's for the hot dogs, I go for the balloon dogs.

Back to basics

So you know those days when it seems like you're constantly working on your computer, talking on your cell phone or texting on your Blackberry? Rowan and I do, because we have the toddler versions of all of these devices. Since we're constantly on the go, though, we never play with any one of these devices for more than a couple minutes at a time.

My mom insists when she was a kid, most of her toys did not talk, sing, light up, encourage early literacy skills, teach a foreign language or simulate wireless communications.

Based on the fact that she still looks back on her childhood with feelings of great fondness and fulfillment, she suggested Nannie pick out a relatively modest (i.e., battery-free) toy for Rowan the last time we visited our favorite toy store -- the iPlay Super Spiral Play Tower. A glorified toy slide that promises to entertain via nothing but the laws of gravity.

Although the pictures speak for themselves, what they won't tell you is that on the morning that Mom took this toy out of the box, Rowan and I played with it together quietly for 35 minutes straight.

And while none of my toys have taught me how to complete complex equations (yet), according to my mom's math, 35 minutes of quiet time for a mom is the equivalent of roughly a day-and-a-half of free time to people who don't have little kids.

Which makes it official. This toy is thrilling for all ages.

Drive-in

I spent a moment last week pondering what could possibly be cooler than hanging out in a mini van in your pajamas with your favorite friends, watching movies and eating popcorn. I came to the conclusion that there is, in fact, nothing better. And that it does not diminish the experience in any way if the van is in park in my neighbor's driveway.

Even if it's all just an elaborate scheme to buy our moms 30 minutes to sit outside, chat and have a glass of something we're not allowed to taste.

The magic's in me

This weekend, I added a new job title to my preschool resume: Magician's Assistant.

On a visit to Navy Pier with my Yaya and Papa, we happened upon a magic show on our way to the Children's Museum. I love magic and I love shows, so we decided to stop.

As the show neared the end and I asked why I didn't get picked to come on stage, Papa explained that only kids in the first row get picked to be assistants.

Good thing Papa doesn't know what he's talking about.

Just then, I GOT PICKED! Me! The magician picked ME!

And all I'm thinking is, thank goodness Mom consented to let me wear my ballerina skirt underneath my dress today. I'm an assistant in a magic show and I look good.

Just so Mom wouldn't feel too bad about me making a public appearance in this outfit that I personally assembled (note the ballerina skirt peaking out from underneath my dress and the not-so-complementary tennis shoes), Yaya made sure to get The Lady with the Tail prominently positioned in the picture. Surely that means I made the fashion A-list at this event.

Too bad Mom was not there to see that I was selected for the juggling routine -- a challenging maneuver in which the magician attempted to juggle two balls and ME. And then I'm still thinking, thank goodness Mom consented to let me wear my ballerina skirt, but hey, by the way, could they possibly have granted this joker the liability insurance to attempt this stunt?

And then the guy thinks he can buy my silence by crafting a simple man's fishing rod and fish out of balloons.

And I'm all, "Sold! Would you like a receipt?"

The eyes have it

This past week, it was finally time to take my stack of beloved Charlie and Lola books back to the library. After insisting on not only reading them ad nauseum, but sleeping with them in my bed, for nearly a month, I had to return them in order to give other kids a chance to love them to pieces, as well.

In anticipation of a torrential downpour of tears and a level of devastation indescribable through words alone, Mom went online and found some Charlie and Lola books that I could call my own, including my all-time favorites, "Charlie is Broken," "I am Extremely Absolutely Boiling," and "I Want to be Much More Bigger Like You." Not to mention some new ones to love, like "Boo! Made You Jump," "My Wobbly Tooth Must Not Ever Never Fall Out" and "I Really Absolutely Must Have Glasses."

The only potential issue was the three Charlie-and-Lola-less days I would have to endure until the postman delivered my own private collection. (Apparently the looming threat of preschooler devastation does not warrant a shipping rush fee.)

Luckily the drama of putting the borrowed books back into the library book drop was nearly undetectable by the official Scale-O-Drama, and the stacks rewarded me with new Charlie and Lola books that had been returned to the library since my last visit.

While I flipped through some of the new books, they didn't excited me like the old ones I had come to love.

To pass the time while we waited for the delivery, I went for my very first trip to the eye doctor on Thursday. And because, as you know, I love going to see the doctor, I was thrilled to go for "two check-ups!" (Because, according to my math, if you leave the exam room, sit in the Children's Dilation Room for 15 minutes, and then come back into the exam room, that counts for two visits.)

After seeing lots of pictures, looking into some funny machines and devices, and squirming my way through a few eye drops, I scored a couple Dora stickers and headed out in my shades.

And the outcome of my very visit to the eye doctor? I Really Absolutely Must NOT Have Glasses.

Be like me

They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

That's just a long string of words I don't understand.

But I'm told it means that I'm supposed to think it's pretty cool that my little sister wants to be just like me. And while some big brothers and sisters are quickly annoyed by a younger sibling that follows them around, mesmerized by their every move, I don't mind it.

For instance, I don't mind when my sister goes through my drawers and picks out a pair of my pants or one of my sweaters, and then relentlessly insists that my mom put it on her, despite the fact that it is two sizes two big.

And I don't mind that she always tries to claim my fashion-forward style sense for herself. Like last week, when I declared swimming goggles to be the hottest accessory for summer and wore them around the house after breakfast. (In fact, I even picked my outfit for the day specifically to match them.)

And I totally respected how she threw a tantrum when Mom tried to remove them. Way to stand by my your fashion convictions, Rowan.

And I don't mind that she likes to crash my music-video shoots, even though her musical techniques are a bit unorthodox.

Okay, so I kinda mind when she wants to sit in my bed and read a book just like me. Not that I'm not flattered, but let's face it -- the kid's a personal-space invader and she doesn't respect the literature.

This is how we roll

When Rowan turned one, she (i.e., we) got a lot of presents. Six months later, the one present we both remain obsessed with is the bee -- a little leather bug atop a set of office-chair wheels. We find it particularly handy for the times we need to get from the playroom to the family room and just don't feel like walking.

Problem is we both like to be on the bee -- which is particularly inconvenient given that the manufacturer built in virtually no passenger room.

In a seemingly genius move, Daddy looked on his computer and found our bee a friend -- and in the next size up, which he figured wouldn't require my legs to flex in a way that looks both unnatural and uncomfortable.

Unfortunately, the mouse's popularity was fleeting and the fight for the bee's resumed.

While I have Rowan beat in size, I've discovered that her feistiness makes her freakishly strong. And while my mom tries to break up the fights with an even distribution of bee-riding rights, in my opinion, a kid with that much pent-up energy should really be walking it off.

I'm just saying.