Sometime during the year that I was 3 I learned about the birds and the bees. I was a curious child and I asked my mother how babies got made. I was also tenacious because I was not satisfied with a simple when-mommies-and-daddies-fall-in-love-and-get-married-they-have-babies answer. I wanted to know the mechanics. "Yes... but.. HOW??" So she explained.
Apparently that trait has rubbed off on my princess. On the way home from daycare:
Sugarplum: Mom, before babies get born and you have a baby in your tummy, how does it get there?
Me: Umm... well.. that's kinda tricky.
Sugarplum: But how?
Me: Well... when mommies and daddies are grown up and fall in love and get married, they can make babies.
Sugarplum: HOW??
Me: Well... they can cuddle up together and use their private parts
Sugarplum: Private parts? What's that?
Me: Well.. you know.. your private parts.. when you go to the potty? Your body parts that no one touches?
Sugarplum: ok.... but I want to have a baby in my tummy while I'm young
Me: No baby, your body is not ready to have a baby in your tummy.
Sugarplum: YEEESSS!!!!!
Me: No baby.. you have to be a grown up.
Sugarplum: But I want when I'm young!!
Me: Well, you'll be young for a long time baby.
Next thing you know, she'll be asking me loudly in a crowded movie theater whether or not I masturbate. Like mother, Like daughter.
Stop laughing mom.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Personal Space
Sugarplum sometimes has trouble respecting personal space. She wants to climb on you to get your attention. She wants to sit in your lap or stand on your legs. This is all well and good if you're her parent but not so much if you are the 10 year old at the daycare lady's house after school and you're trying to do your homework.
So they've been talking about personal space. How everyone has some and how it needs to be respected. If someone asks her to move from in front of the TV she should. If they don't want to be tackled, she should not instigate a wrestling match.
Apparently SOME part of the message is sinking in, but it's still a work in progress. She seems to understand that her space should be respected but we're still working on the do unto others part.
Yesterday morning while I was in the bathroom getting ready for work:
Sugarplum's Dad: Good Morning baby
Sugarplum: Nooooo
Sugarplum's Dad: Can't I have a snuggle?
Sugarplum: No.. this is MY personal space. Move over Daddy!
So they've been talking about personal space. How everyone has some and how it needs to be respected. If someone asks her to move from in front of the TV she should. If they don't want to be tackled, she should not instigate a wrestling match.
Apparently SOME part of the message is sinking in, but it's still a work in progress. She seems to understand that her space should be respected but we're still working on the do unto others part.
Yesterday morning while I was in the bathroom getting ready for work:
Sugarplum's Dad: Good Morning baby
Sugarplum: Nooooo
Sugarplum's Dad: Can't I have a snuggle?
Sugarplum: No.. this is MY personal space. Move over Daddy!
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Dreams of my Father
When I started up this here blog, it was to chronicle life with my daugther. My thoughts, my impressions, my experiences as her mother... but when I sit down to blog something.. it all flies right out the window. I think of some funny story to tell on the way to work or home from daycare and by the time I arrive at a computer, it's gone.
I've been off for a week and am catching up on my reader thinking I should find something to write about.. and then her post saved me... and I decided to steal a previous daily writing prompt.
*******
The year that I turned 8, I lived in Germany with my father and brother. I missed my mother terribly, but I would not trade that experience and can honestly say that living in another country made for one of the best years of my life. My mother knew it would which is why she let us go. She is so wise.
Before returning home in the summer of 1986, my father became sick. My mother came to pick us up and flew home with us in late July. My father followed a couple weeks later. He was home for a few days, maybe a week or two, before being admitted to the hospital. I think he was there for about two weeks or so.
One Saturday morning in September, the phone rang. Early. It was the hospital nurse calling for my mother. She left right away. Before heading out I asked her if I could come too. "Not this time. Maybe next time." It was always the same answer. So I poured a bowl of cereal and turned on cartoons waiting for my brother to wake up and join me.
When my mother returned home, we turned off the television. She told us that she was informed when she arrived at the hospital that she was 60 seconds too late. My brother went to his room. I began to cry as the information she had just given us sunk in. She took me to the backyard and told me to pick a cloud. She told me that from that day forward, he would always be there, behind that cloud, watching over me and protecting me.
It's been 22 years since my father died. I've dreamt of him twice. Neither of them were bad dreams, but after the first one, I woke up terribly upset. I missed him. I thought about how he wouldn't be able to take pictures of me in my prom dress. He wouldn't be there for any father-daughter dances. He wouldn't be able to give me away at my wedding. He wouldn't meet his grandchild(ren).
The second time I dreamt of him, I got to visit him in our house in Germany. The best part was that I got to hug him again. He had been dead in my dream, but somehow, we were granted a visit. I don't know if it's me reaching out, if it's completely manufactured, or if it's real. But some part of me got to visit my daddy again, even if it was only in a dream. I wish he could visit more often.
I've been off for a week and am catching up on my reader thinking I should find something to write about.. and then her post saved me... and I decided to steal a previous daily writing prompt.
*******
The year that I turned 8, I lived in Germany with my father and brother. I missed my mother terribly, but I would not trade that experience and can honestly say that living in another country made for one of the best years of my life. My mother knew it would which is why she let us go. She is so wise.
Before returning home in the summer of 1986, my father became sick. My mother came to pick us up and flew home with us in late July. My father followed a couple weeks later. He was home for a few days, maybe a week or two, before being admitted to the hospital. I think he was there for about two weeks or so.
One Saturday morning in September, the phone rang. Early. It was the hospital nurse calling for my mother. She left right away. Before heading out I asked her if I could come too. "Not this time. Maybe next time." It was always the same answer. So I poured a bowl of cereal and turned on cartoons waiting for my brother to wake up and join me.
When my mother returned home, we turned off the television. She told us that she was informed when she arrived at the hospital that she was 60 seconds too late. My brother went to his room. I began to cry as the information she had just given us sunk in. She took me to the backyard and told me to pick a cloud. She told me that from that day forward, he would always be there, behind that cloud, watching over me and protecting me.
It's been 22 years since my father died. I've dreamt of him twice. Neither of them were bad dreams, but after the first one, I woke up terribly upset. I missed him. I thought about how he wouldn't be able to take pictures of me in my prom dress. He wouldn't be there for any father-daughter dances. He wouldn't be able to give me away at my wedding. He wouldn't meet his grandchild(ren).
The second time I dreamt of him, I got to visit him in our house in Germany. The best part was that I got to hug him again. He had been dead in my dream, but somehow, we were granted a visit. I don't know if it's me reaching out, if it's completely manufactured, or if it's real. But some part of me got to visit my daddy again, even if it was only in a dream. I wish he could visit more often.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Legacy - Part 2
10 years ago this month, two deranged teenagers walked into their school at started shooting. Accounts of the Columbine Massacre are still so disturbing to me that I want to cry. I don't understand what drives people to commit such horrible acts. Afterward, I always wondered what their parents must have been going through. What signs did they miss? How was this not prevented? How were they so out of touch with their children that they didn't know how disturbed they were? I can only imagine what kinds of questions they have asked themselves over the past 10 years. What kind of guilt or remorse they must feel for what their children did.
Then there are family members of people like Lovelle Mixon who claim that their good for nothing criminal relatives are heroes. Lovelle Mixon was an animal. He had been convicted of many crimes. He was out on parole and shot and killed 4 police officers. The only good thing to come from that incident is that he was killed to. His DNA was recently connected to the rape of a 12 year old girl. How the hell can someone like that be considered a hero by anyone?
I am amazed at how vastly different some people's priorities can be... and how some are so completely indifferent about what an incredible job it is to raise children. We mold them, we shape them, their values, their morals. How did Lovelle Mixon's parents get so far off track to raise a son capable of raping a child and then killing 4 officers? Those sworn to protect us from ourselves.
It's a huge responsibility to raise our children... one that most of us take pretty seriously. They are a reflection of us in a lot of ways. My daughter is my legacy. I want her to be good.. compassionate.. responsible.. ethical.. what will your legacy be?
Then there are family members of people like Lovelle Mixon who claim that their good for nothing criminal relatives are heroes. Lovelle Mixon was an animal. He had been convicted of many crimes. He was out on parole and shot and killed 4 police officers. The only good thing to come from that incident is that he was killed to. His DNA was recently connected to the rape of a 12 year old girl. How the hell can someone like that be considered a hero by anyone?
I am amazed at how vastly different some people's priorities can be... and how some are so completely indifferent about what an incredible job it is to raise children. We mold them, we shape them, their values, their morals. How did Lovelle Mixon's parents get so far off track to raise a son capable of raping a child and then killing 4 officers? Those sworn to protect us from ourselves.
It's a huge responsibility to raise our children... one that most of us take pretty seriously. They are a reflection of us in a lot of ways. My daughter is my legacy. I want her to be good.. compassionate.. responsible.. ethical.. what will your legacy be?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
