Home unimprovement

My Mom and Dad say that having kids teaches you a lot of things. Like how to be selfless. How to be patient. How to be a mediator.

And, sometimes, even how to degrout a tub.

See, Rowan and I were hanging out in the tub last month, as we tend to do after the productive part of bath time has concluded. We have a lot of bath toys and, as a result, can amuse ourselves for extended periods of time.

Which my mom thought may provide her with the opportunity she had been looking for to go across the hall and print out a few pictures for a book Rowan needed for school. As I've mentioned once or twice, Rowan's had some slight "adjustment issues" with the whole school thing, and my school's social worker suggested to my mom that putting together a book of pictures of Rowan doing all kinds of fun things at school could help to convince her that it's not such a bad place after all.

My mom wasn't sure exactly how effective those pictures would be when Rowan didn't actually appear to be happy in any of them, but a summer filled with enough tears to make the animals think about pairing up convinced my mom that anything was worth a shot.

Since we're both pretty boisterous in the tub, my mom kept an ear out as she printed out those pictures to ensure that nobody was doing anything that sounded death-defying or otherwise dangerous, and that there were no bath brawls over our most favorite toys -- namely, the measuring cups.

What she heard were the normal sounds of two kids playing in the tub. But what she couldn't possibly hear (or see) was that look Rowan gets in her eyes when you just know she is looking for something extremely naughty to do. Like throwing a full cup of cheerios from the tray of her highchair. Or ripping a page out of a library book.

I'm SERIOUS. There's "a look."

Always looking to outdo her last naughty antic, Rowan proceeded to pick the grout out from between the tile and tub. They sell TOOLS to do this. Rowan did it with only a few chubby digits.

Guess "This Old House" was right when they said you don't need a special tool to remove grout, only the determination to do it right.

At any rate, when my mom reappeared in the doorway a few minutes later, she was greeted by two happy children and a tub full of black grout. In the interest of not completely embarrassing my sister, I am not mentioning ALL the ways in which she defiled the tub during those few minutes.

Interestingly, I deemed none of this important enough to inform my mom about before her return.

After a clean-up that my mom rated an 11 on the 1-to-10 Scale of Disgust -- and, needless to say, a SECOND bath -- my dad had to go to the hardware store and buy a tool to remove the rest of the grout.

Seems like wasted money, if you ask me. We obviously already had one pair of capable hands.

And that's how my dad learned from the guy at Lowe's how to properly degrout a tub. And how my mom learned that sometimes it's best to just let kids work out their adjustment issues on their own.

But, for whatever it's worth, Rowan did just have her first completely outstanding week at school.

And our tub looks brand-spanking new.

Looks like we're all winners.

Here I am at the "scene of the crime" back when I was Rowan's age. And the most devious activity I could possibly come up with was eating a washcloth. Does make you kind of marvel at Rowan's creativity.

No-cry zone

The wonderful thing about my Nannie is the fact that she subscribes to a no-cry policy. And by that, I don't mean that crying isn't tolerated.

I mean that anything that causes crying isn't tolerated.

Eating vegetables. Bedtimes. Discipline of any kind. What have you.

It's a policy that Rowan and I wholeheartedly support.

That's why when we hear that Nannie is coming over to babysit, we both immediately sit down to draw up our list of demands wish list of activities. Usually, going to bed is not on it. Because, inevitably, somebody always ends up crying.

And that's against policy.

Last night, we were delighted to learn that we'd be hanging with Nannie while Mom and Dad went out to dinner for their anniversary. And, of course, it was no surprise when they rolled back in around 9:30 pm and found Rowan and me awake and enjoying a snack in the kitchen.

My Nannie assured them, however, that it was not because somebody pulled the tears card at bedtime.

It's only because we, ourselves, had just arrived home, as well. I suppose we could have left Chuck E. Cheese before they actually closed down for the night. But somebody, no doubt, would have cried.

And that's against policy.

The sweet taste of success...

...has a bitter aftertaste of concrete.

My dad took me out on my rollerblades for the first time yesterday and I was surely disappointed to discover that they don't work very well. They kept knocking me down, and I'm all, I made all my pee-pees on the potty for this??

I complained about the faulty rollerblades to my mom on my way up the stairs to take my bath, and she fed me some line about practice.

As if I have time for that now that I can't just pee in my pants and move on with my day.

Oh, cruel world.

On a roll with potty control

After one failed potty chart after another and countless trips to Costco for Pull-Ups that my mom swore would be her last, I finally did it. I filled up all fourteen squares on my potty chart with stickers. Each sticker represents a glorious accident-free day.

And after eight months of fighting the process, I finally received the carrot that had been dangled in front of me from the day all the potty-rama started:

ROLLERBLADES!

As we all reflect on this long, LONG process, we come away with a couple key learnings. For me, it was that making all your pee-pees in the potty isn't such an unreasonable proposition after all.

As far as my parents are concerned, they've learned that if you're going to dangle a magnificent prize in front of a three-year-old to motivate them, you should probably take a moment to confirm that said magnificent prize actually exists.

In other words, do you have ANY idea how hard it is to find rollerblades in a youth size 9?

Impossible.

Hopefully the lone model of adjustable youth-size 10-12 rollerblades in existence will suffice.

Neighbors, consider yourself warned. The sidewalks are no longer safe.

Picking teams

Two weeks ago, school started and once again I was reunited with all my best friends -- or, in other words, everybody in the class. With the exception of one little kid who didn't return from last year, my mom is fairly certain that I think everybody I've gone to school with is pretty wonderful.

I've learned through my research (and by research, I mean those times when a pre-recorded show turns off and I catch a minute or two of big-kid programming like "Phineas and Ferb" or "The Suite Life of Zack and Cody") that everybody doesn't really stay friends forever. Apparently when you get older, you have to pick a team. Like the jocks. Or the nerds. Or the cheerleaders. Or the kids who like to wear a lot of black.

Which I think is a bummer.

The joy of being three is that we're all part of the same team. We all enjoy quality circle time, playing outside and rocking out to classic tunes played on an acoustic guitar. We all enjoy playing with the same toys (unfortunately, often at the same time), regardless of whether it's a truck or a pink castle.

We know we're on the same team, because when it comes right down to it, we're all just little people trying to get through the day without wetting our pants or letting our parents walk all over us.

My dad says that if he and my mom had met in high school, they probably would not have been friends because they were on different teams. He says it's because he was a jock and my mom was a dork classical musician. For the record, my mom says that anybody who refers to playing in the Aspen Music Festival as "going to band camp" shouldn't be a trusted advisor on the social structures of the world.

At any rate, my mom and dad aren't sure at what point the activities I pursue predestine me for a certain team. While they both want me to learn and enjoy the types of things that make me happy, my dad just wants to be sure I don't get detoured from the track that will ultimately lead to gold in women's snowboarding at the 2026 Winter Olympics.

As such, I have been an avid scooter rider since the summer of '09 and this year got my first skateboard. My dad tried to sign me up for private skateboarding lessons (stop laughing, it's TRUE) but we were turned away because, according to my dad, my age has blinded them to my overabundance of natural talent.

So, as you might imagine, it concerned him a little bit when I dropped my scooter mid-ride last month, picked up two sticks from the sidewalk and announced that I was playing the violin.

Bibbity Bobbity Boots

It is a fact that I love books. And through my reading I've learned that there are lots of different kinds of people in the world. Princesses. Fairies. Pirates. Dwarves. British kids.

But my favorite people of all are fairy godmothers. They're my favorite because they are extremely resourceful and capable of solving all kinds of problems -- especially those related to fashion. No formal evening wear? Done! No shoes to go with that outfit? No problem!

My fairy godmother lives in an attic in New Jersey. And every so often, she grants fashion wishes. And she knows me SO well that sometimes she grants them before I even have to bother with all the wishing business.

Like that reversible cashmere cupcake sweater in 2007.

You can't see it, but the cupcake was on the back. Trust me, it was awesome.

And the Hello Kitty raincoat this spring.

I looked bewildered on the outside, but on the inside my soul was smiling.

And just last month, it was the most sensational pair of Hello Kitty rainboots ever.

EVER.

My mom says that randomly receiving a gift of Hello Kitty rain boots when you are three is the equivalent of walking out your front door and finding a bow-wrapped Lexus in your driveway when you're 40.

With my Hello Kitty rain attire in order (with the exception of getting the coordinating umbrella, which my mom insists would end badly for all sorts of reasons), my life is now complete.

Except maybe for the Lexus.

But I hear that fairy godmothers take care of transportation issues, as well.

My fairy godmother's attic

Carded

Every year around the holidays, people like to send us pictures of their families with nice notes on them, like "Happy Holidays!" and "Season's Greetings."

I'm a big fans of photos. Especially when people I know are in them. And especially when the people I know are me!

But my mom says that we're not the sort of people who send these special cards to all of our friends and family when the holidays come. For two reasons.

The first is because she has trouble doing things in a timely manner if they don't carry the threat of a fine. Which is why just last week she finally threw away that thank-you note for our neighbors that she kept meaning to walk down to their house.

The thank-you note for the present they gave me for my birthday.

Last winter.

(BTW, Mrs. N., if you're reading this blog, I really DID love the Calico Cat nursery.)

My mom says she just knows she'll be forced to scratch out the holiday message on the bottom of those cards and replace it with another thoughtful note, like "Happy Martin Luther King Day!"

The other reason she says we don't send out a picture to our friends is because of The Great Mother's Day Photo Session Fiasco of 2010.

What was supposed to be a 30-minute "mini" photo session with a professional photographer turned into a 15-minute "micromini" photo session after the photographer suggested we call it a day. Turns out there are only so many ways you can photograph a family when one member only wants to do the cling-t0-Mom pose and then ceases to offer cooperation in any form shortly thereafter.

Apparently a picture of my sister with a face half-covered by a pacifier sporting a koala chokehold on my mom does not a special holiday picture make.

But after taking an outstanding candid at the park this week, my mom is rethinking her ability to commit to sending out a special picture this holiday season to everybody we know.

Just in case she never gets around to it:

Wishing you a joyous holiday season and encouraging you to press a head in 2011!
xo, Jillie and Rowan

Underwear goes inside the pants

In 2004, the single "Underwear Goes Inside the Pants" was released as part of the musical project Lazyboy, which featured spoken commentary about modern-day life set to hip hop-esque beats. Before long, it topped the iTunes download chart.

While my mom says she thoroughly enjoyed it, I can name at least one person who's surely never downloaded it.

Shortly before leaving for gymnastics earlier this week, Rowan raided the underwear collection Mom keeps stashed in the downstairs closet for Project Pee-Pee-in-the-Potty. After carefully evaluating the sticker charts and Pez-based incentive program, Rowan apparently decided that she was ready to be recruited onto the project, as well.

Although she considered a number of different options for accessorizing her outfit, Rowan settled on one pair of Sleeping Beauty underwear. Inside out.

So avant garde.

And my mom, never one to stifle a fashion-forward spirit, let her wear those inside-out, outside underwear to gymnastics and to the grocery store. Rowan got a loooot of admiring looks.

I mean a LOT.

Sucking it up

Word on the street is that Rowan's pacifier-using days are numbered because the habit's gotten a little out of control.

In a statement released yesterday via her publicist, Rowan argues that these allegations are completely unfounded.