Hair of the dog

Lyla pulled a dog brush out of the drawer. Remarkably, she knew what to do with it.


In news that is thankfully unrelated to brushing your hair with a dog brush, on Sunday we're going to Lyla's friend Anja's house to sled down their hill. This winter, Lyla's outdoor activities have included being carried from building to car, and vice versa. Yesterday I set her down on the driveway just to see what would happen, and she cried. So sledding should go well.

No matter. I talked to Anja's mom today and asked her what she thought the over-under was on how long the girls would last. She put it at eight minutes, so I took the under. The never-used sled we're bringing is designed for a baby; it looks like a large red version of the cubby drawer you had in first grade, only with a rope. I wonder if Lyla will try to snowboard on it. Or brush her hair with it.

Procrastinating the chill

It's 8:12 in the evening right now. Last night despite the quiet start, Lyla performed a coughing concert most of the night. I got probably four hours of sleep total.

So now after a full day of work and an evening of baby, we finally get Lyla down to bed, and what does Julie do? She comes downstairs and decides it's time to tidy the house. Not time for fun. Not finally time for relaxation. No, the refrigerator magnets that Lyla pulled off earlier must be returned now. The toys on the floor cannot wait another second.

Julie's a procrastinator: she waits until the last minute to chill out. Now we're better; the house is tidier and we've kissed and made up. I'm writing the blog, she's playing Shaun White Snowboarding on the Wii, and we'll be watching Project Runway and eating ice cream before long. But it was touch and go for awhile there. I seriously thought she might start dusting the bookshelves.

The way I figure it, Lyla has a 50% chance of being totally nutty since I'm normal and Julie's totally nutty.

Eager gag reflex

Last night Julie and I sat downstairs and listened to Lyla cough and hack in the baby monitor. There was no crying, no wheezing, nothing to compel us to rush upstairs, just that Virginia Slims cough. Eventually, it stopped.

Around 10:00 we crept upstairs to go to bed, and Julie cracked open the nursery door. Whoa, it reeked in there, like a dormitory bathroom after a long Saturday night. Lyla's eager gag reflex clearly had kicked in sometime while coughing. Now she was fast asleep in the bile with chunks in her hair.

So we felt like awesome parents, especially when we closed her door and pondered the merits of just letting her sleep through it. It sounds callous now, but a sleeping baby is a sleeping baby.

We woke her up in the end because she smelled so rank. Also because we agreed that if we were in her position, sleeping in our own barf, we would want to be woken up. But Lyla was not pleased to be roused, stripped, and hosed off in the tub. Then again, I hope at some point she thought to herself, "Hey, I don't smell so hideous anymore! Maybe I'll get a boyfriend after all." (Or a girlfriend. We don't judge.)

Tonight she's upstairs sleeping and not coughing. My fingers are crossed that all the workers in her snot factory went home to their families for the night.

Little errands

Julie and I like to send Lyla on little errands to keep her busy. It's a game to her, but to us it's the precursor to chores.

"Lyla, can you give Mama this cup?"

"Ooh!"

Then she runs babbling to Julie, who thanks her and turns her back around with something to give to me. This can go on for 20 minutes.

She's a dedicated worker most of the time, but occasionally she engages in off-task behavior.




But eventually with encouragement she finishes the job.

Mama on a catapult

I know this is difficult to believe, but Lyla has very little common sense. But whenever you tell her she shouldn't do something, she sobs and sobs, as though you've just placed Mama on a catapult and shot her into the ocean.

For instance, I think we would all agree that a lotion bottle does not belong in the diaper pail. Now find a way to explain that to this 14-month-old who is delighted to put things in other things. Go ahead, I'll give you until the next paragraph to brainstorm.

All set? "Lyla, we don't put lotion bottles where your poopy diapers go." And zing, Mama becomes a speck on the horizon before landing with a tiny splash. Nice try, though.

"No no, Lyla." Zing!

"Lyla, can you go find a book?" Zing!

"Lyla, can Daddy have the bottle?" Zing!

I think this means she's a toddler.

The balloon and the honeypot

There's a Winnie-the-Pooh story where it's Eeyore's birthday and Pooh decides to give him a pot of honey. Unfortunately, Pooh's hunger kicks in and he eats all the honey. So he gives Eeyore an empty honeypot.

Meanwhile, Piglet decides to give Eeyore a balloon, but it pops. So he gives him the broken balloon. You would think these gifts would sadden Eeyore to no end (everything else did, after all), but he happily puts the balloon in the honeypot and takes it out again. He loves them; they are the perfect gifts.

As a child, I found this story completely depressing. What was the message? That if you got two pointless gifts for your birthday, you could play with them pointlessly? I didn't understand it at all.






I understand it now.

Imaginary food

Lyla's head creates elaborate scenarios. For thirty minutes this afternoon she walked around and ate imaginary food out of that cup. I found myself getting curious about what was in there. "Lyla, can you feed some to Dada?"

"No no," she said while shaking her head.

"Oh yeah? Well saying no twice while shaking your head is sooo redundant."

"Nice comeback, Dad." Okay, that part was an elaborate scenario in my head.

But look. Even Tulip got in on the action.



Whatever. I bet it was nasty anyway, like breast-milk pudding or something.