Sun-Warmed Studio Welcome

We climb up the long flight of wooden creaky stairs to the upstairs studio. Why are so many dance studios up flights of wooden stairs?

Three women and their children are clustered in the small lobby, wrestling small ballet slippers and and tights onto pint-sized feet and legs. They hail me cheerily, and I greet them back. When I notice the preponderance of white leotards and pink tights, skirts and slippers, I exclaim, "Oh! I didn't realize there was a dress code!" My remark serves as part question and part apology. It tells them "It's my first time - don't judge me!" In fact, I know that lots of dance studios have a dress code for their students, but I can't remember if this one does or not.

"Oh, there's no dress code," a woman laughingly informs me. "Some of us are just a little overly-excited about little girls dancing!" I giggle too, because really there is a lot of pink in the air. My little girl is dressed in various shades of purple. Today she has a colorful tree with a perched owl embroidered and appliqued onto her purple shirt. The pants are new purple leggings with a flower scatter print, (they of the purple pants song fame).

I peek in the door and see a small gaggle of little girls playing with shiny striped hula hoops. The teacher, a dark haired woman with a big smile catches me peeking in and tells me "I usually put something in the center of the room to start so the children can play while we wait for everyone to arrive." She herself is wearing a green knit top and loose black gauchos, and bare feet. Her small daughter is running around in everyday little girl clothes. Socks or bare feet are fine, I'm told. It seems to be a laid back atmosphere.

The little girl seems excited by the new scene. A floor-to-ceiling mirror along one long wall reflects everything back to us while wooden barres line the rest of the brick walls. Sunlight streams in the windows and makes pools of warmth on the cool floor. We step in and out and move the hoops around our waists and over our heads.

Another woman introduces herself and says, "Make yourself at home - don't mind us - these girls have known each other forever." One little girl comes over and says "What's your name?" Another little girl comes up and waves at TLG. The little girl doesn't know what to make of it, but she seems okay with the attention. Nothing like her run-and-hide shyness last year.

After a while, a few more children come in, and we begin. Make yourselves really really tall, then make yourselves very very small, now really tall again. We stretch and curl and smile. We end on the floor pretending to be seals stretching our backs and barking. We rest for a moment on the dusty floor, half blinded by sunshine. The little girl smiles at me. She likes it.

We take hands in a circle. I'm grateful and impressed that the little girl takes hands with the others. We make the circle stretched out and big, then bring it in to make it very small. The teacher's smiling eyes flit around the room observing and encouraging. The little girl follows along. I'm thinking this dance class thing might work out.

Then we progress to dancing around the room with the music, first "ice skating" then tip-toeing, then marching, and galloping and more. The little girl is grinning and dancing. The teacher reminds us to play "freeze" every time she shimmers the tambourine to transition to a new dance. I notice that I'm the only one in jeans instead of yoga pants. Next week I'll wear something more casual suitable for rolling around on the floor!

Later we play with scarves, read a book about moving different parts of our bodies, and play with a parachute. TLG is eager to get underneath, but we move on after a brief play. We finish with a few ballet arm moves, which most of the little girls quickly lose interest in. I'm surprised that my little girl isn't the only one uninterested in more formally structured activity, but relieved as well. This class is about right for her. She's still the tallest, but maybe not the oldest. My tall little girl fits right in.

Next week we'll bring the pink net skirt and leather-soled slippers.
--

Climbing and Tumbling

My daughter has outgrown her tumbling class. Not that they do anything extraordinarily difficult there, much less real tumbling. Mostly, the children run circuits around the blocks and mats, and practice clambering over, around and under things. But there is an incline to practice rolling or somersaulting, a short wooden bar to hang or swing from, bridges to cross, arches to crawl under. The course is different every time.

In the beginning, her greatest challenge was being around the energetic tumble of other children. She'd startle and cry any time a child pushed past her. She'd spend a long time watching what everyone was doing and where they were. Sometimes she'd watch so long that she'd hardly have time to play before the session was up.

Slowly, slowly, she learned to tolerate being around rambunctious personalities or overly friendly toddlers, and to enjoy the physical challenges and accomplishments that could be had.

She learned to climb up large blocks, step from one to another and leap off onto mat or trampoline. She'd jump on the mini trampolines and hang from the monkey bar, kicking her legs out in front of her. She learned to climb under an arch, or better yet, to scale the side of one, grasping with fingers and digging in toes as if she were a rock climber. And she would heave herself to the curved top, and then stand there balancing with a huge grin, delighted at gaining her perch. I once saw her rock standing on an upside down arch as if it were a surf board!

She's learned to love playing with large balls and parachutes. She's learned that we have to put on socks and shoes before we can pick out a sticker, and how to wash her hands after class. Her successfully stepping backwards off the handwashing stool (instead of falling off sideways trusting me to catch her), was among my proudest satisfactions. She certainly has gained more knowledge and confidence in her physical capabilities.

It's been so fun to see her progress over the last year and a half. In the last month, however, I've seen a shift in her focus.

She used to run up and down "the mountain" or roll down it when she was feeling inspired. But will she try a somersault? Noo. Well, she did once or twice for Daddy. Now she plays she is going to "the beach" and tells me we need to put on sunscreen so she can sit on the sand. She has no further interest in the monkey bar, but she'll steal the pillows from around the base, drag them underneath an arch, and pretend she's sleeping in her "house."

She used to climb into "the doughnut" (two arched mats arranged to make a circle) for the fun of it, to enjoy flopping onto the wall, about chest high, and pushing herself forward and sideways to drop into the hole. Now she imagines the doughnut is the swimming pool, and she wants to "swim" in it or go fishing.

Sometimes a parent or instructor will make discrete pitying noises. "She'll get there," they say. Many other kids her age, after all, have either moved on to the big kids tumbling class or are off to preschool. But where is it exactly she needs to get? As with any other development, she'll do something when she's darn good and ready, and no pressure, er, "helpful encouragement" will sway her if she doesn't want to do something.

We seem to have hit an impasse. Apparently she has mastered the parts that interest her, and has no interest in further complicated maneuvers.

It's not as if she's not capable of being active. In fact, after a tumbling class, she seems eager for more activity, and will literally run laps around the large bathroom before I can persuade her (tackle her) to settle down enough to wash her hands.

And when she goes to the park, she'll clamber up planks and ladders, sliding headfirst down slides, throwing herself across nets and onto complicated courses.

Not to mention the irrepressible running that bursts out any time she gets to any space large enough to jog a stretch. She runs as if she has so much energy, she simply must put it somewhere. But that 'somewhere' doesn't seem to include structured tumbling.

No, right now it's the imagination that is calling her, and she's so fully engrossed in imaginative play that all that lovely apparatus merely stands in as a landscape of possibility.

So I'm thinking we should give tumbling a rest for now, or least after my punch card runs out next month. Maybe a local toddler dance class will be more to her liking. I already have found a possibility nearby. I'm crossing my fingers that it'll be the next fun challenge.
--

Imagine what you could do with it!

I witness the power and elasticity of imagination daily.

The spent glow stick has been part of a necklace, a fishing pole, a fiddle bow sawing at her arm, a drumstick, a straw for her doll's juice, and more.

The magnetic letters that I spent months tracking down are mostly played as "sandwiches" that the little girl stacks and leaves as offerings around the table. Sometimes she serves her animals at the small table. Mister Fish the bath toy and the tiny glow-in-the-dark ducks become "trout pasta" and "spaghetti" when carried in small cups, and she serves them as well.

Her pile of animals and dolls take on new personalities to act out favorite scenarios from familiar stories. Monkey is now called "Moose" and eats food or visits Beaver in his house. At the playground, one area is always "Beaver's house," and another area is always "Mommy's house." Moose, rabbit and squirrel always visit.

Her doll "Dee" frequently falls to the ground like Little Bear's friend's doll, "breaking her arm," Oh! oh! , necessitating "taping" and snuggles. The "tape" may be an empty spool of thread or a hair clip. Whatever can be made to stand in the dramatization of the moment. And the little girl's toys are all actors on that stage, as beloved as any highly-designed-and-crafted plaything.

Following that thought, I'm realizing that highly realistic toys can be quite cleverly done, but they can end up jumping ahead in the creative process by filling in what could be, would be the child's part in the play. You could make an analogous parallel between reading a story in a book and seeing a story in a movie. The brain is not required to fill in the extra sensory details, so it just ... doesn't. Thus those neural pathways don't get as much of a workout.

So why short-circuit the leap of imagination by filling in all the details? Don't we need to leave something creative for her to, well, create? What's the fun in merely filling in the blanks?

My husband thinks that the more abstract the toy the better. He's disappointed that I found a toy camera at the consignment shop. He's afraid that it will push out the hinged-triangle-shape baby teether that has been her "camera" for years. But I'm not sure we could keep her from leaping ahead of the mere reality in front of her. Even the most mundane and boring/exciting objects are pressed into service of the story at hand. This evening she was "serving" chalk sticks to "Moose." It might have been "Birthday soup."

Meanwhile, back amongst the random bits of junk, I mean, toys on my kitchen floor, I realize, yes, those are not really useless items but the raw materials for all sorts of crazy and amazing toddler stories.

I bought her a children's large magnifying glass in the guise of a snake. It's a cool toy, no doubt, but you know what the little girl calls it? A banjo. That's right - my daughter plays at being a musician. The play kitchen spatula is a trumpet - you knew that, right? But the harmonica? That's just a harmonka. Just call her Short Girl Jones. I'll let you know when she goes on tour.
--

The Monkey Goes For A Walk

So the little girl had a great Halloween out and about.

She doesn't have a concept of candy yet, although she's learned that chocolate is "Mommy's snack."

She might have a concept of dressing up; she does love wearing her bunny ears from the festival or the monkey suit I bought for her for the occasion.



She really does NOT understand what we are doing shambling through the dusk and dark, knocking on doors and dodging other pint-sized fairies and superheroes.

She does not understand the concept of presently yourself in a picture of cuteness and performing the ritual words to receive a piece of miniaturized candy in return, but she's getting there.

We've posed for the obligatory costume pictures, and the little girl is eager to move on and won't sit down. She pats the pumpkins, sniffs the mums. "Smell flower" she informs us.

As we start off through the neighborhood streets, we stop to admire a little boy's bee costume. "What does a bee say?" we ask her. She stares. "What does a bee say?" The little boy stares. "Oh, and you are a monkey," the boy's mother responds. "What does a monkey say?" my husband prompts. The little girl scrunches up her face in a grin and makes a little half-hearted grunting.

Candy and thank yous exchanged, we leave, the kiddos still awkwardly wondering if their super smart parents have suddenly lost their minds.

We follow clusters of children that detach themselves from their front doors to gather in little flocks of costumes, flying up the street.

We amble along in the near dusk, pointing out decorations and displays rather than approaching every lit door.


We pass friends we know from church just setting out with their passel of youngsters, and chat in passing. My friend wears cat whiskers and ears. "Our candy is on our front porch," she calls. "Go get yourself some KitKat bars!"

Further down the street, we hail our handyman contractor pulling his little boy in a wagon. We greet his wife and mother-in-law with smiles and handshakes, but all of our attention is on the kids anyway. His son sees the monkey costume and sings us a verse of monkeys jumping on the bed. We wave good bye - "I might be over next week after all," Paul calls, - and continue down the middle of the street following a small pack of young girls leggily dressed in either red or white dresses. I can't figure out who they are supposed to be. Dusk is falling fast into night.

A looming tower of pink and orange glowing inflated pumpkins sway in the slight breeze, and a moving spider the size of a Mini catches our eyes. It sparkles with dark glitter. Then the sounds of live old-time music beckons us across the boulevard and into the lawn party of a neighborhood church. We are surrounded on all sides by anticipatory teens, wee Elmos and princesses, and adults shepherding their charges among the garish lights. A tall Zorro with a cape ambles by. A mummy stands listening to the music, while his wife comes over with hot cider.

The cops lets another crowd across the street. It's a happening scene of every age and ethnicity swirling by. The little girl only has eyes for the band, who bathed in pink floodlights, singing in vigorous harmony, a spectacle among spectacles.

After a while, we retreated to quieter and darker streets, interspersed with lights casting strange shadows and flickering colors, beckoning us to new doorways.

On the "toddler-friendly" route, we find a friendly Italian greyhound, a little boy dressed to match his puppy, a family who recognizes us from the park, and a lavish display of spiders, real small-animal skulls, and taxidermied rodents against dramatic drapery. One woman fastens a glow stick around the little girl's wrist.

At another house, the little girl actually knocks on the door herself. The woman who answers crouches down to engage her in gentle conversation while Miss Monkey carefully looks over the bowl of candy. The little girl picks up one colorful package, inspects it, then puts it back. We laugh. I snag a sparkly zebra sticker. At another house, they press small Snickers bars on both of us parents. "To keep up your stamina," they say. We are surprised to find we need it. Some steps are steep, some sections of sidewalk are dark and confusing.



Wandering about, we see a long house with colorful lights and a yard full of halloween figures. "Oo, look!" we tell her. "Look at those pumpkins, those lights!" We stop again, and the little girl takes my husband's hand (yet again), and this time, confidently marches herself right up to the front porch where, it looks like, half the family and assorted friends and neighbors wait in a tableaux. Two teen girls, waiting for us, say "Awwww" in the sweet way that only teen girls can. "It's a monkey. What a cute monkey. She even has a banana. You want some candy, honey?" "Can you say Thank You?" we prompt, and the little girl mumbles something that makes the crowd oo again. On the way back to the sidewalk, she breaks away to investigate a smiling Dracula "I love to count my candy - a! a! a!" and we have to tackle her.

We think we've broken the shyness barrier. A porch full of strangers in strange light, and she didn't even blink, much less cower. Yes, let's walk up to another doorway, knock, and see what interesting "toys" they might have!



By this time, we've zigzagged into the far reaches of the neighborhood over cracked pavement and a street under construction, trying to find a friend's house. Headlights cut through the night, revealing other rug-rats of various ages. We finally stumble over a section of roots to cross back over the boulevard to a smoother piece of pavement. Crowds are gathering around a family's Harry Potter display. People are quiet but festive, ambling with purpose.

We are becoming foot-sore, asking ourselves why, for goodness sake, we insisted on trekking all the way over to David's house. We take a quiet, easy route home. "No hills," my husband insists.

We hear music floating down the street to meet us. When we finally draw abreast of the source of music and stare up to the high porch where a woman sways, playing mazurkas and gypsy fiddle tunes, my husband says "Okay. One more." We are drawn up and up the steep steps, the little girl determined to go to the music. A young daughter smiles and fans out the packages of Skittles as if they were a gypsy's cards. The little girl reaches for the generous bowl instead. I can see she's thinking "nice! red!" We murmur our thanks, and the woman breaks into a little Mussorgsky. The Night on Bald Mountain is floats out in fragments into the quiet as another family of children arrive.

The streets home are even darker, quieter. It's a school night, after all. Cars pass, and I'm very glad that I finally attached reflective markings to the stroller. The little girl asks for cracker, and raisins, and her water bottle. The handful of candy and glow sticks we've gathered lie tossed into the bottom of the stroller.

We visit one last house on our street, our neighbors. Their daughter is getting through the last post-excitement meltdown before bed, but she quiets and comes to the door to see us, already in her pajamas. "Yes, we had a good time going around, didn't we? But now, it's late," her mother says, turning surprised eyes on us. "We are heading home right now," I assure her. "Pumpkin!" The little girl declares. "Ahhnge pumpkin." It's not too late for most people, but late for parents on toddler time. We throw together some tomato-basil soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, and roll our little monkey straight into her pajmas. We give candy to one last set of pre-teen latinos in sparkly faery finery (half a handful each since there is so much left), and turn out the lights.

After my husband leaves, I hide the rest of the mini Milky Way darks so they won't be staring him in the face when he wakes up in the morning. The candy was not the point. The little monkey went for a Halloween walk, and it was good.
--

Mid-Summer's Ode to Breastfeeding

Baby, you gave me curves, I got 'em.
Baby, I've got curves, top 'n' bottom.
Baby, those curves are just hors d'oeuvres
for all I've got to give.
So cozy up tight and give a squeeze.
You've got to eat to live.

--

I thought the little girl was starting to wean herself. One day she nursed only once for a mere eight minutes, a minuscule amount compared to the 500+ minutes per day she was chugging at the peak of her nursing. Then she realized she was going to have to ask for it was indeed going to go away forever. Now she asks to "nuss" when she wants to snuggle with Mommy, and reminds me to "sing" while I'm at it.

Our nursing time is down to less than thirty minutes a day. I find my curves gradually shrinking nearly to my old proportions. Except now everything is a bit saggier and bulgier. No, no, no. I prefer to think of them all as curves! I've still got 'em. Thanks, little girl!

--

Mees and Mon'ee Are Friends

The little girl has a new pair of favorite toys, a mouse and a monkey.

The little brown monkey is one of those beanie-baby types that I brought out from my stash of Toys People Have Passed On To Us. The little girl had been learning the names of animals, and as soon as she saw it, she recognized that it! was! a! Minkey! I remarked to my husband that I didn't know where she would have picked up a Belgian accent* (hoho!), but the Minkey was soon transformed into a Mon'ee. And that was when she really learned to make monkey noises.

*Maybe from my habit of announcing "A bimp! There's bimp in the rhoad." before we go over a bump in the road. (Inspector Clouseau)

The mouse arrived several weeks later. I spotted it amid the huge pile of stuffed toys at the thrift shop, and something about its garish aqua green color yet sweet fabric-lined ears spoke to me. I plucked it out and showed it to the little girl. What do you think of that? What is it? She lit up and made the sign for mouse, flicking her index finger back and forth across her nose. That's right, it's a mouse! By the time we got home, it had become Mes or Mees.

So now we have the wonder twins that go everywhere together. Mon'ee! she'll demand. And once she has it in hand, she'll say, Mees! or vice versa. My husband thought for the longest time that she was mispronouncing the name of whichever she already had, but no, she was asking for them by name. If she has one, she wants both of them.

Perhaps it's that they are weighted nicely so that they sit up well. Perhaps they are just the right size and heft for easy snuggling with toddler arms. Perhaps they both begin with M? I think it's as much that she knows what they are, and knows that she knows what they are, that make them so irresistible. Before the animals arrived, she could make noises or signs to name them, but once she attached verbal name to animal, she was enchanted.

So now before we start our bedtime nursing, she has to have first one, then the other as well, clasped adoringly in her arms, possibly wedged under her chin or squished into my stomach. It makes no matter how they get in her way. There may even be a hand or two left for a cup or block. She'll leave them behind when she falls asleep snuggling with her daddy, but at least we won't roll over onto any hard edges if they get lost in the bed.

My husband came in to the office this evening after bedtime holding one in each hand like a pair of juvenile delinquents he had found stirring up trouble. What do you want me to do with these? he wanted to know, quirking his eyebrows. I grinned and reached out to take them. They can sit by my computer 'til she asks for them tomorrow.

Mees! Mon'ee! She'll rejoice, and hug them to her like her best two friends.

Before Mees showed up, we once took Mon'ee hidden in the diaper bag to the last doctor's visit. It was my trump card distraction after the little girl's lower lip started poking out in distress. Not more poking and prodding! Scary people - aaahhhhh! She clutched that monkey to her neck with no hesitation. I think hugging a little friend helped her bear the scariness in a way that even the presence of Mommy could not.

She used to suck her thumb; now she clutches the monkey. I'm thinking it's not a bad idea to cultivate a few love-transference objects. We could all use a few snuggle friends.
--

Small Accomplishments

I had minor goals today. And I accomplished several. Hooray for small accomplishments!

1. Got more that 4 hours of sleep at a time. We've been staggering our sleeping so we each get more uninterrupted stretches. This morning I woke after a *six* hour stretch, Lux-ury!

2. Took a bath. Oh yeah, this was a good one. And I managed to not fall over or soak my incision.

3. Washed dishes. This is one thing that makes me feel like the house isn't sliding out of control. My strategy: One small wash a day, regardless of how many or few. These are the other, everyday dishes; the breast pump parts get washed, on average, 8 times a day, not including the sterilizing brisk boil once a day.

4. Went for a walk in the park. Whoo-hoo! We knew it was supposed to be relatively nice weather, so we had planned for it. Still took us a while to get out. We had to work around feedings and naps for the three of us, but it was worth it. We went for a walk down the greenway with the snow still clumped alongside the path and felt sooo daring. haha! We also let baby girl know that this was one of those family things she should expect now that she's part of the family. Walking and hiking, oh my.

5. Remembered to eat the double chocolate ice cream Mr Sweetie picked up for us yesterday from a local dairy. Seriously delicious. No need to let that languish.

6. Took a short nap. This is very hard for me. When I have any available time, I always think about all the things I want to accomplish. So to actually *lie down* and even sleep for only a short time was tremendous.

7. Made new folders for baby-related paper. Health info and appliance manuals and that sort of thing. Might as well start being organized now.

8. Typed this entire post with one hand. One handed typing - whoo-hoo! And thus ends this day.
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