Comma Dot Comma

There has been much grieving around our place for the past few days. The grieving manifests in one key way: Abigail’s two favorite stuffed animals, Kitty Cat and Little Bear, have been sleeping all day instead of playing with her like usual. She finds each of them an out-of-the way spot to rest, gives them a blanket, and carefully arranges a toy bottle next to their mouths. Every so often she checks on them. They wake up and she holds them like babies, feeds them their bottles, and tells them, “More sleep!” Then she puts them right back to bed.

Abigail has suddenly had to give up the special empty bottle she sleeps with like a pacifier, after twice biting chunks out of the nipple while trying to fall asleep. There is no way we can have her in there unsupervised gnawing on loose pieces of silicon! The first night was a horror, involving wailing and barfing and the parents giving in for one last time. We decided to go cold turkey on all bottles, not just the pacifier one. The next day, we did a special ceremony in which we went to the store and picked out special big-girl cups for her to drink her milk from and then came home and threw away her special bottle. She did it herself. She bravely went to sleep without asking for it or crying, drifting off in about an hour, which is normal for her. We were amazed.

I still remember how relieved and astonished we were to discover that Abigail, who had always rejected pacifiers, could put herself to sleep sucking on a bottle. After so many months of struggle with naps and bedtimes and midnight wakings, we clung to any sign of progress. We shoved her special empty bottle in her face whenever she seemed ready to wind down for a nap or bedtime. And, although initially we were bigger fans of the bottle than she was, it ultimately grew into a special comfort for her. In the mornings I would let her suck on it for a few extra minutes while she was waking up. Then I’d remind her to put it back in the bed so it would be there for naptime. My obedient little girl still hasn’t fully figured out that she has opportunities to resist my requests. She always handed it right to me or cheerfully threw it into the crib. After a few seconds it would dawn on her what she had done and her face would crumple and her eyes fill. She begged to get back in the crib for a few final sucks. Then she would be ready to leave the bottle behind.

Abigail was both game and brave that first bottle-free night, until she woke up at 1 am and couldn’t put herself back to sleep. A series of foggy, poorly reasoned parental decisions led to her still being awake at 9 am, with a sleepless mommy and daddy griping at each other about every little thing while Abi, cheerfully if lethargically, went about her day. I finally got her to sleep by putting her in the car to take her to the library.

Big Girl Abi is now re-teaching herself how to fall asleep, and it makes her very sad and anxious each time she faces the prospect of that dark room. She used to enjoy the time to herself to talk and make up songs until she wanted to sleep; now it feels like a chore. She has switched from asking for her bottle to asking for her special blanket, and she tries not to cry. Last night when her daddy took her off to bed, her eyes grew suddenly wet and her voice quavery: “Night night, mo- o- ommy.” How I wanted to rescue that brave and forlorn wee one from her fate! But her daddy made her laugh and feel safe and loved, and ready to try again. Hooray for Abi, who slept. She is sleeping significantly less without it, alas. I hope it’s just the transition.

The little 3′x4′ section of brick patio in our backyard is now officially Party Central. Abigail organizes maybe a dozen parties there each day, sometimes four of them in a row. The parties only last a few minutes each, so it works out. Something fun will happen, such as her Wonder Pets rescuing her from where she was stuck in a box, and she will shout, ” Pah-ee!” She gathers up the guests and heads to the patio.

Her parties always go a certain way. First, there is dancing. Next, there is a game. Finally, she serves food and juice. Invitees include two or three of her favorite stuffed animals, and me if I’m available. When I’m there, I provide the music for the dancing (a little song I made up whose only words are “We’re gonna dance and have some fun”) and snack food. When I’m not there, they dance without music and munch on plastic hot dogs and sip imaginary juice from cylindrical blocks. Abigail only knows a few games: Ashes Ashes (aka Ring around the Rosy) and Patty Cake. She will hold her animals by the paws and spin with them on the grass, shouting, “Ashes, Ashes, ALL FALL DOWN!” She likes very dramatic falls, and she especially likes asking everyone if he or she is okay afterwards. For Patty cake, she carefully manipulates their paws for the clapping and patting part, then jumps up, throws her arms into the air, and shouts “TOSS IT!”

It took me a handful of parties to figure out where she got the idea: An episode of Barney in which they travel the world looking for ideas for their own party, repeatedly discussing options for food, dancing, and games. I guess I’ll give uber-annoying Barney a pass this week since he has inspired such a celebratory atmosphere chez nous.

I was trying to wrap and box a gift that had to go out by mail that day. The gift was awkwardly shaped and the only wrapping paper I could find was a bit too small. The only tape I could find was a big roll of packing tape. I folded and squished the gift into a more manageable form and struggled to fit the paper around it. The tape was not down with my plan to slice it into smaller strips and kept balling up. Meanwhile, Abigail cavorted around the office, throwing packing peanuts, successfully (!?!) prying the tops off of markers, and otherwise having fun in a room where she is normally not allowed. She bumped into me during a third attempt to close up and tape the end of the package. “Forget it!” I said in a harsh, irritated voice, throwing down the package. “This is impossible!”

Abigail stopped in her tracks, crestfallen and silent. She rushed from the room and began to whimper and call for her daddy (who was not there) to pick her up. “Sorry, Mommy! Sorry!” said 19-month-old Abigail. I chased after her in a wave of guilt and cuddled her.

“Oh, honey, you don’t have to be sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong. You were just playing; I like it when you play! I was mad at the present, not you. I’m sorry for talking in a mean voice.” She let me pick her up. “Mommy sorry?”

“Yes. Mommy is sorry. Let’s play some more!” All was well.

It is clear that Abigail has taken this message to heart. Her least favorite part of bath time is the end, when water is poured over her head and body to rinse her off. Today, she was sick and sleep deprived and chilly when pouring time arrived and she shrieked the whole time (it was a long 15 seconds). When I gathered my sobbing, shivering girl into a big towel, she pushed on my chest. “Mommy saaaayeee,” she kept repeating. Was she saying say? or shy? or sorry?

“You want mommy to say sorry? I asked. She stopped repeating herself and perked up, which I took as a yes. I told her I was sorry that she was crying and feeling bad. I told her how sad I felt when she was upset, and I knew that she didn’t like it when I poured water on her. “Don’t like it,” Abi nodded. “Cryin. Sad.” More nodding. But, I added, we needed to wash off all the soap so it didn’t hurt her skin. “Hurt skin?” Yes. I said I was sorry she felt sad one more time and peace was restored. We cuddled in a fuzzy blanket while she warmed up. But I thought I should make a note of the first time my daughter demanded an apology from me; surely it won’t be the last.

Our back neighbor is Bud, a gruff old guy who helped build his own house in the 70s (and ours, for that matter) and has been living in it ever since. He’s in his mid-eighties and can’t see or hear as well as he used to. He’s had a few major health emergencies that have slowed him down, and he lost his wife a few years back. His many daughters take it in turns to stay with him and help him hunt down the turtles he is raising in the backyard– they perpetually break loose from the habitat that Bud has constructed for them. None of this stops him from, say, climbing up onto his roof to put a cage over the chimney when they are gone.

Nor does it stop him him from adoring Abigail. Sometimes when he notices us, he goes inside to get his camera so he can snap her picture. Mostly, I just bring her up to the fence and we shout pleasantries back and forth for a few minutes until Bud gets tired of trying to make out what I’m saying. Then he flirts gooily with Abigail, telling her how lovely she is and how big she is getting and so on.

The feeling is suddenly mutual. A few days ago, when Abigail noticed Bud banging around in his backyard, she shouted, “Hi, Bud!” We went over to the fence to get his attention. She smiled and giggled and wrinkled her nose and shrugged her shoulders while he spoke to her her, trying to be as cute as possible. “Bud! LIKE!” shouted Abigail. When he turned to go inside, she waved furiously and said goodbye again and again. “Bud. Like,” she repeated. Since that day, she has asked for Bud every single time we go outside. She likes Bud.

Nearly a week after her auntie Marie left and two weeks after her Grammy left, Abigail is still adjusting to their loss. We go in the front yard to peer at the sky and check for planes, since Abi knows they left on planes. When she spots the futon in the guest room, she says, “Mah-ie bed. Sleeps.” Whenever she sees a woman with short blonde hair, she calls out, “Gammy!” Upon awaking in the mornings, she often goes down the list: Daddy? Gammy? Mah-ie? I remind her that Grammy is at her house in California and Marie is at her house in Oregon. Abi nods sagely. “Left! Pane! Vroooommmm. Check?” So we check the rooms in the house and the front porch once more.

The other day she was having an especially rough time falling asleep. I went in to help her and it was clear that she’d been thinking about things way too much. She kept asking for all her loved ones, over and over. She seemed restless and wiggly in my arms.

“Abigail, we feel sad when our friends leave. We feel lonely and we miss them. You miss Marie and Grammy. We will see them again. Don’t worry. Mommy won’t leave you. Sometimes I leave for a little while to go teach or go to church, but I always come right back.”

Abigail relaxed. She patted my chest fondly and snuggled against it. “Mommy. Abi. HOME,” she said, with relief. One less thing to worry about.

Abigail is 19 months old today and transforming into a little girl before my eyes.

One fun new thing she does is count. She says, “Two, Free, Forve, Six!” That word blend of four and five makes me smile every time. Her knowledge of numbers is growing. She shouts “two!” when she has a pair of socks or two blocks. If she pulls a stack of shiny, aromatic boxes of mints from the junk drawer and clutches them to her chest, she shouts, “A couple!” Sometimes if I give her a fruit strip she will ask hopefully, “A couple?”

Abigail’s emotional life is getting richer as well. More than once, others in the family have questioned whether she is trying to manipulate me. For example, Auntie Marie was playing with Abi last week while I finished up some class prep. Abi kept asking me to play and run with her, and I kept saying no. Finally, she switched tactics. She would come over in two minute intervals, lay her head morosely in my lap (I was on a deck chair), and declare, “Sad!” She has told me she is feeling sad before, but this was the first time I’ve heard her do it without any tears, so it surprised me.

I think she really was sad– one result of her recent developmental explosion of growth has been a need for extra attention from mom. We are just ending a period of about four weeks where she wanted me to carry her ALL THE TIME. She also rediscovered her infant car seat in a closet and now climbs into it over and over, fake crying and wiggling her arms and legs like a small baby, waiting for me to pick her up and rock her. I coo, “oh, are you all right, little baby? Mommy’s here. Shhh…. Shhh….” She relaxes against me for about thirty seconds, sighs and says, “little baby,” and rushes away energized. Then she gets back into the car seat and we do it all again.

On the other hand, Abigail is separating from me. When she is really angry at me (when I make her put on a sweatshirt, usually), she does not want me anywhere near her. She doesn’t want to look at me and she definitely doesn’t want me to touch her. If daddy is around she will go to him; if not, she would rather work out her emotions on her own. It actually hurts my feelings a bit, after a year and a half of being her goto person for comfort in distress, even if I caused it. Ah, maturity!