Anna's imagination has literally exploded. All over my living room. She is a champion at pretend play - building block castles, cities and towers, which she then populates with her beanie babies, Fischer Price Little People and various other critters that have invaded my once-clean house. She makes up stories to go along with her play and frequently she tells those stories to me. However, there are only two story lines that she follows consistently (in some variation).
They are:
1. "Once upon a time there were THREE MON-SERS!!!! And one fall down he CRY!"
2. "God Jesus was borned and he gonna love us. All....Night!"
Her facial expressions and gestures while she's telling these stories make it more of a performance than a story. And she ends each story with "That's a good story, mama?"
Yes, honey. They are great stories. No matter how many times I hear them, because I think it's both sweet and amazing that she's beginning to be able to grasp the idea of storytelling and imagination.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Living the Dream
Well, here we are. Finally. I'm down to working two days a week and am spending the rest of my time home with Anna as I've been wishing and hoping to do for the past two and a half years. And you know what? It's as fun as I imagined it would be!
We spent this week taking down our Christmas decorations, organizing toys, books, closets, etc (wherever I can convince Anna to play for 10 minutes on her own, I try to clean or organize there at the same time).
We spent a good chunk of time at the library yesterday and then read tons of books when we got home. She's helped me cook. I've helped her color. And then there was the "Let's play doctor" incident where she tried to shove a cash register key into my ear to get the french fries out.
Yes, french fries. Apparently her McDonalds cash register-turned-x-ray scanner informed her that my ear was harboring delicious morsels and she decided to remove them with the little yellow plastic key.
Her bedside manner is SERIOUSLY lacking. I'll be seeing a new doctor next time a tasty treat mysteriously finds its way into one of my ears. For nearly an hour she shouted at me to "LAY DOWN ON THE FLOOR, DON'T WAGGLE (wiggle), DON'T LAUGH, DON'T TALK and LET ME SEE YOUR EARS...NOW!" Oh, and she forced me to wear a bowl over my face (I think it was meant to be a surgical mask). I'm still traumatized.
I've since caught her using her "x-ray" on both cats and Hubby. None of whom went running and screaming for the hills as I suggested they should. Suckers.
We spent this week taking down our Christmas decorations, organizing toys, books, closets, etc (wherever I can convince Anna to play for 10 minutes on her own, I try to clean or organize there at the same time).
We spent a good chunk of time at the library yesterday and then read tons of books when we got home. She's helped me cook. I've helped her color. And then there was the "Let's play doctor" incident where she tried to shove a cash register key into my ear to get the french fries out.
Yes, french fries. Apparently her McDonalds cash register-turned-x-ray scanner informed her that my ear was harboring delicious morsels and she decided to remove them with the little yellow plastic key.
Her bedside manner is SERIOUSLY lacking. I'll be seeing a new doctor next time a tasty treat mysteriously finds its way into one of my ears. For nearly an hour she shouted at me to "LAY DOWN ON THE FLOOR, DON'T WAGGLE (wiggle), DON'T LAUGH, DON'T TALK and LET ME SEE YOUR EARS...NOW!" Oh, and she forced me to wear a bowl over my face (I think it was meant to be a surgical mask). I'm still traumatized.
I've since caught her using her "x-ray" on both cats and Hubby. None of whom went running and screaming for the hills as I suggested they should. Suckers.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Who Rang That Bell?!
I love the Wizard of Oz. As a kid, I think I probably watched that movie at least 100 times (a week). And I remember always thinking "Jeez, what a crab" about the guy who answers the door when Dorothy & Co. reach the doors to the Emerald City. "WHO RANG THAT BELL?" While, yes, he is supposed to find out the answer to that question, you'd think maybe the greeter to the sparkling green paradise would have a little more patience and class while performing his duties.
I realized something this weekend, though. That poor door greeter, it wasn't his fault. He was just sick to death of political supporters and politicians themselves ringing the doorbell. He was probably incredibly relieved to see a walking talking bag of straw and trembling feline instead of some suited-up, fake-smile wearing liar toting enough literature to have single-handedly taken out half of America's remaining trees.
Ah, campaign season...
I have never been terribly interested in politics. I vote. I spend some time getting to know which candidates are which. A lot of what I base my vote on is purely gut - do I like the candidate, think they'll try to do their best, etc. - because regardless of whether or not they agree with me on issues like big/small government and federal spending, whatever, if the person is of faulty character, they're not going to get the job done anyway. I've tried to ignore the mountains of junk mail I've received from both political parties in the recent months, but after I cleaned up our piles of mail this weekend and filled our indoor recycle bin TWO TIMES with a majority of political fliers, I'd had enough. That is why when we received multiple calls to our cell phones and personal visits to our house (during nap time, no less), I found myself shouting, "WHO RANG THAT BELL?!"
You know what? As soon as one of them shows up wearing ruby slippers, I'll be happy to talk them. Until then, "Nobody sees the wizard!"
I realized something this weekend, though. That poor door greeter, it wasn't his fault. He was just sick to death of political supporters and politicians themselves ringing the doorbell. He was probably incredibly relieved to see a walking talking bag of straw and trembling feline instead of some suited-up, fake-smile wearing liar toting enough literature to have single-handedly taken out half of America's remaining trees.
Ah, campaign season...
I have never been terribly interested in politics. I vote. I spend some time getting to know which candidates are which. A lot of what I base my vote on is purely gut - do I like the candidate, think they'll try to do their best, etc. - because regardless of whether or not they agree with me on issues like big/small government and federal spending, whatever, if the person is of faulty character, they're not going to get the job done anyway. I've tried to ignore the mountains of junk mail I've received from both political parties in the recent months, but after I cleaned up our piles of mail this weekend and filled our indoor recycle bin TWO TIMES with a majority of political fliers, I'd had enough. That is why when we received multiple calls to our cell phones and personal visits to our house (during nap time, no less), I found myself shouting, "WHO RANG THAT BELL?!"
You know what? As soon as one of them shows up wearing ruby slippers, I'll be happy to talk them. Until then, "Nobody sees the wizard!"
Saturday, October 2, 2010
The Toddler Mommy Bill of Rights
I was celebrating one of my small victories this morning (namely, convincing Anna that going to the grocery store was in fact a cool enough reason to leave the library where puzzles, books and coloring sheets abound), and it got me thinking: There are some "rights" that Toddler Moms should just automatically be awarded. So here's my stand. For Toddler Moms everywhere!
We hold these truths to be self-evident:
1. That all moms deserve a day to sleep in without children prying their eyelids open with sticky syrup fingers before the hour of 8 a.m.
2. That as a mom, I am allowed to go out in public unshowered/with food on my clothing/with my pajamas on WITHOUT being judged. As long as I have my kid along with me.
3. That ketchup IS a food group in our house (whether I want it to be or not!) but I can still serve good food (as long as I'm OK with watching Anna put ketchup on it).
4. That someday, maybe, the interior of my car will be leather or cloth, instead of what it currently is : Cheerios.
5. That if my muscles really hurt from my last workout, I'm allowed to eat an ice cream sundae. Or two.
6. That no matter how crazy this kid is driving me before bedtime, I'll miss her the instant I close her bedroom door. And I am allowed to hover outside her bedroom door to determine whether or not she's "asleep enough" for me to go in and peek at her.
7. That moms are allowed to forget the bad things and remember only the good (Mommy Amnesia!).
8. That being a mom is both the most rewarding, fun, exciting AND challenging, frustrating, exhausting challenge we've ever encountered. And we are allowed to feel all of those things AT THE SAME TIME.
Signed,
Cheerio Mom
Amendments welcome!
We hold these truths to be self-evident:
1. That all moms deserve a day to sleep in without children prying their eyelids open with sticky syrup fingers before the hour of 8 a.m.
2. That as a mom, I am allowed to go out in public unshowered/with food on my clothing/with my pajamas on WITHOUT being judged. As long as I have my kid along with me.
3. That ketchup IS a food group in our house (whether I want it to be or not!) but I can still serve good food (as long as I'm OK with watching Anna put ketchup on it).
4. That someday, maybe, the interior of my car will be leather or cloth, instead of what it currently is : Cheerios.
5. That if my muscles really hurt from my last workout, I'm allowed to eat an ice cream sundae. Or two.
6. That no matter how crazy this kid is driving me before bedtime, I'll miss her the instant I close her bedroom door. And I am allowed to hover outside her bedroom door to determine whether or not she's "asleep enough" for me to go in and peek at her.
7. That moms are allowed to forget the bad things and remember only the good (Mommy Amnesia!).
8. That being a mom is both the most rewarding, fun, exciting AND challenging, frustrating, exhausting challenge we've ever encountered. And we are allowed to feel all of those things AT THE SAME TIME.
Signed,
Cheerio Mom
Amendments welcome!
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Small Victories
I've heard of computer games in which you "play against the computer," or a pre-programed player that is intelligent in that it "learns" from your play and changes its behavior accordingly, making it harder and harder to beat the game. Even the small victories turn into larger battles because, yes, you've managed to temporarily defeat the monster, but that monster was paying attention and will not be bested so easily on the next level.
Parenthood is my computer game, and Anna is my monster.
Don't get me wrong, she is a very sweet little girl. ("BIG GIRL!" as I'm reminded every time I affectionately refer to her as "baby.") But she doesn't miss a thing! If I tell her at bedtime one night that maybe tomorrow we can go to the park/have chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast/watch a certain annoyingly loud explorer girl and her pet monkey on TV - she ALWAYS remembers.
Small aside - How old is Dora supposed to be? Six? What parent in their right mind lets their six-year-old go traipsing through the woods and over rivers with a blue monkey and other various bilingual mammals, constantly pursued by the most easily deterred thief I've ever seen? Seriously. Anna's going to grow up thinking if she says "Carjacker, no carjacking!" three times fast, she'll be safe on any city street in America.
For a while I thought I was clever for figuring out I could bribe her to let me put pigtails in her hair by giving her a Popsicle. Then one day when I tried to brush her hair and she looked at me, offended that I would dare to even attempt this, and demanded "Pot-errs" (which is how she says Popsicle). When I tried to give her a half a Popsicle (because it was 6:30 in the morning and what mother in her right mind gives a two year old a Popsicle for breakfast), she looked at me like I was the dumbest person she'd ever encountered and demanded, "BIG Pot-errs."
To get this smart little gremlin into her car seat, not only do I have to let her climb into the car by herself (and heaven help us if she has mud on her shoes!), but I also have to tell her that her 13-year-old uncle (whom she adores more than anyone else in the world), is going to beat her into the car and steal her seat if she doesn't get buckled before he gets to the car. This, for now, works whether he is present or not. I dread the day when she realizes that he won't actually take her seat when he's clear on the other side of town!
One day she and I had gone to share a bagel and an apple juice for breakfast (because I was so organized that week that we had no milk or anything resembling breakfast food in the house). We were planning to head to the grocery store after we finished our breakfast, so I asked her what kind of cart she'd like to ride in - a shopping cart where she could sit near me and we could sing songs (regular old boring shopping cart that I tried to spice up a bit because it was likely that this would be the only one available upon our arrival at the grocery store on a Saturday morning) or one of those fun (i.e. horrible to steer, run into everyone and everything around you) shopping carts with the car on the front so she could "drive" through the store. She wanted to drive. I thought she meant the cart. I soon realized, as I wrestled a flailing, shrieking banshee into the back seat amidst horrified stares from the coffee drinkers on the patio at Stone Creek, that Anna had thought I'd meant she could DRIVE THE CAR TO THE GROCERY STORE. Um, sorry, kid. I like my car in one piece, thank you very much!
You'll often see me doing the happy dance after one of my "Jedi-Mom" tricks has worked on Anna. You may also see me suddenly stop and look around ashamed. That look of shame - that's me realizing that I'm celebrating outsmarting a TWO-YEAR-OLD, which, really, should be a lot easier than it usually is.
Parenthood is my computer game, and Anna is my monster.
Don't get me wrong, she is a very sweet little girl. ("BIG GIRL!" as I'm reminded every time I affectionately refer to her as "baby.") But she doesn't miss a thing! If I tell her at bedtime one night that maybe tomorrow we can go to the park/have chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast/watch a certain annoyingly loud explorer girl and her pet monkey on TV - she ALWAYS remembers.
Small aside - How old is Dora supposed to be? Six? What parent in their right mind lets their six-year-old go traipsing through the woods and over rivers with a blue monkey and other various bilingual mammals, constantly pursued by the most easily deterred thief I've ever seen? Seriously. Anna's going to grow up thinking if she says "Carjacker, no carjacking!" three times fast, she'll be safe on any city street in America.
For a while I thought I was clever for figuring out I could bribe her to let me put pigtails in her hair by giving her a Popsicle. Then one day when I tried to brush her hair and she looked at me, offended that I would dare to even attempt this, and demanded "Pot-errs" (which is how she says Popsicle). When I tried to give her a half a Popsicle (because it was 6:30 in the morning and what mother in her right mind gives a two year old a Popsicle for breakfast), she looked at me like I was the dumbest person she'd ever encountered and demanded, "BIG Pot-errs."
To get this smart little gremlin into her car seat, not only do I have to let her climb into the car by herself (and heaven help us if she has mud on her shoes!), but I also have to tell her that her 13-year-old uncle (whom she adores more than anyone else in the world), is going to beat her into the car and steal her seat if she doesn't get buckled before he gets to the car. This, for now, works whether he is present or not. I dread the day when she realizes that he won't actually take her seat when he's clear on the other side of town!
One day she and I had gone to share a bagel and an apple juice for breakfast (because I was so organized that week that we had no milk or anything resembling breakfast food in the house). We were planning to head to the grocery store after we finished our breakfast, so I asked her what kind of cart she'd like to ride in - a shopping cart where she could sit near me and we could sing songs (regular old boring shopping cart that I tried to spice up a bit because it was likely that this would be the only one available upon our arrival at the grocery store on a Saturday morning) or one of those fun (i.e. horrible to steer, run into everyone and everything around you) shopping carts with the car on the front so she could "drive" through the store. She wanted to drive. I thought she meant the cart. I soon realized, as I wrestled a flailing, shrieking banshee into the back seat amidst horrified stares from the coffee drinkers on the patio at Stone Creek, that Anna had thought I'd meant she could DRIVE THE CAR TO THE GROCERY STORE. Um, sorry, kid. I like my car in one piece, thank you very much!
You'll often see me doing the happy dance after one of my "Jedi-Mom" tricks has worked on Anna. You may also see me suddenly stop and look around ashamed. That look of shame - that's me realizing that I'm celebrating outsmarting a TWO-YEAR-OLD, which, really, should be a lot easier than it usually is.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Tough Times in Toddler Town
Things have been a little tough around here lately. And none of it is related to parenting a toddler, surprisingly!
My Two Year Old Knows the Phrase "Cat Pee":
Our cat, fueled by a raging UTI, decided that our bed and couches so closely resembled his litter box that he no longer actually needed to use the litter box. After several frustrating weeks of sitting directly on the box springs of our sofas while the cushions, drenched in Nature's Miracle, dried in the yard, Mac has successfully completed his round of antibiotics. They have still been relegated to the basement overnight (which means I get to listen to a chorus of yowling for most of the night) and when we're not home, but have been invited back up to join us when we are home on the weekends and in the evenings.
Anna, who witnessed many of the urine-soaked cushions and their aftermath, has taken to asking me periodically, "Cat pee, mama?" or exclaiming at any spot of wetness in the house or out, "CAT PEEEEEEE! Mama, Mac peed!" I fear I've ruined her.
___
Wheezing and Swelling and Hives...OH MY!:
Our house was hit by a crippling bout of sinus/bronchial mutiny that left all three of us in coughing, sniffly, exhausted heaps for 2+ weeks. (I'm officially firing my immune system for insubordination!) Finally when I couldn't take the burning in my chest any longer (and most frankly because one of the girls I work with who had the same symptoms had been given antibiotics that seemed to help), I went to Urgent Care and got myself hooked up with the handy-dandy z-pack. Five days to freedom! I took every dose exactly when I was supposed to. And my cough began to clear.
Steadily on the road to recovery, that Friday, I spent the evening out in the yard with Anna, my mom and our neighbors. When I came in, I noticed I had some bug bites on my legs and rear end. We've got bugs galore in our yard, so I chocked it up to sitting in the grass. The bites itched a little bit on Saturday as well, but seemed to go away, so I didn't think any more of it.
Anna and I were getting ready to go meet hubby at church Sunday morning when I realized, "man, I'm ITCHY!" This thought was quickly followed up by, "man, I'm BUMPY!" Naturally, I called hubby in a panic. "Something is really wrong with me. You should come home."
Then I did the only smart thing I could think of - I stripped down to my underwear and SCRATCHED. Anna stood next to me asking,
"It itchy, mama?"
"You better believe it, sister."
"I not sister, I ANNA!"
"Yeah, yeah, make yourself useful. Scratch!"
Because I'm an incredibly patient, smart and mature grown up (Hahahahahaha), upon hubby's arrival home, I began running through the house, still in my underwear, yelling, "It's ITCHY!" Naturally, my party-time playmate, Anna, joined me. Amidst the cacophony of screeching and thudding of footsteps, hubby grabbed my phone and took a photo of the backs of my legs. Hip to toe - covered in hives.
"Shut up and go to the doctor. Now. Take a Benadryl first."
"Aye Aye, Captain."
So off I marched to Urgent Care for the second time in a week. After what seemed like eons of waiting (was only an hour, which really isn't bad at a walk-in clinic), I was joined by a very nice doctor who kindly asked me to drop my pants (nice to meet you too, sir) and took 30 seconds to diagnose the severe allergic reaction I was having to my miracle antibiotics. A reaction that will likely last for 7 to 10 days. Awesome. And I should take Benadryl. Done and done.
Back at home, heavily sedated, I napped the day away, periodically awoken by an enthusiastic toddler climbing on top of me to see if I was "Feelin' sick, mama?" Finally around 5, hubby offered to make some delicious dinner while I rested on the couch. But rest, I did not. For my lips, they were a-swellin'.
"Uh, hubby? Do I look a little like Angelina Jolie to you?"
"hahahaha....hahahaha....HAHAHAHAHAH...yes."
"Hmm...hubby? Do my lips even look like lips any more?"
"HAHAHAHAH...you look like Will Smith when he has that allergic reaction in Hitch."
"So is that a definitive 'no' on me ever getting collagen injections in my lips...??"
Thankfully I haven't experienced swelling to that degree again, but have had quite a bit of numbness/tingling in my face and hands. And some really fun bouts of wheezing. And hives every day since. So. Not. Cool.
My mother in law has often said, "If you're going to laugh about it later, then why not just laugh about it now." I'm done with sick. I'm done with allergic reactions. I'm done with cat pee on my furniture. But I'm still laughing.
My Two Year Old Knows the Phrase "Cat Pee":
Our cat, fueled by a raging UTI, decided that our bed and couches so closely resembled his litter box that he no longer actually needed to use the litter box. After several frustrating weeks of sitting directly on the box springs of our sofas while the cushions, drenched in Nature's Miracle, dried in the yard, Mac has successfully completed his round of antibiotics. They have still been relegated to the basement overnight (which means I get to listen to a chorus of yowling for most of the night) and when we're not home, but have been invited back up to join us when we are home on the weekends and in the evenings.
Anna, who witnessed many of the urine-soaked cushions and their aftermath, has taken to asking me periodically, "Cat pee, mama?" or exclaiming at any spot of wetness in the house or out, "CAT PEEEEEEE! Mama, Mac peed!" I fear I've ruined her.
___
Wheezing and Swelling and Hives...OH MY!:
Our house was hit by a crippling bout of sinus/bronchial mutiny that left all three of us in coughing, sniffly, exhausted heaps for 2+ weeks. (I'm officially firing my immune system for insubordination!) Finally when I couldn't take the burning in my chest any longer (and most frankly because one of the girls I work with who had the same symptoms had been given antibiotics that seemed to help), I went to Urgent Care and got myself hooked up with the handy-dandy z-pack. Five days to freedom! I took every dose exactly when I was supposed to. And my cough began to clear.
Steadily on the road to recovery, that Friday, I spent the evening out in the yard with Anna, my mom and our neighbors. When I came in, I noticed I had some bug bites on my legs and rear end. We've got bugs galore in our yard, so I chocked it up to sitting in the grass. The bites itched a little bit on Saturday as well, but seemed to go away, so I didn't think any more of it.
Anna and I were getting ready to go meet hubby at church Sunday morning when I realized, "man, I'm ITCHY!" This thought was quickly followed up by, "man, I'm BUMPY!" Naturally, I called hubby in a panic. "Something is really wrong with me. You should come home."
Then I did the only smart thing I could think of - I stripped down to my underwear and SCRATCHED. Anna stood next to me asking,
"It itchy, mama?"
"You better believe it, sister."
"I not sister, I ANNA!"
"Yeah, yeah, make yourself useful. Scratch!"
Because I'm an incredibly patient, smart and mature grown up (Hahahahahaha), upon hubby's arrival home, I began running through the house, still in my underwear, yelling, "It's ITCHY!" Naturally, my party-time playmate, Anna, joined me. Amidst the cacophony of screeching and thudding of footsteps, hubby grabbed my phone and took a photo of the backs of my legs. Hip to toe - covered in hives.
"Shut up and go to the doctor. Now. Take a Benadryl first."
"Aye Aye, Captain."
So off I marched to Urgent Care for the second time in a week. After what seemed like eons of waiting (was only an hour, which really isn't bad at a walk-in clinic), I was joined by a very nice doctor who kindly asked me to drop my pants (nice to meet you too, sir) and took 30 seconds to diagnose the severe allergic reaction I was having to my miracle antibiotics. A reaction that will likely last for 7 to 10 days. Awesome. And I should take Benadryl. Done and done.
Back at home, heavily sedated, I napped the day away, periodically awoken by an enthusiastic toddler climbing on top of me to see if I was "Feelin' sick, mama?" Finally around 5, hubby offered to make some delicious dinner while I rested on the couch. But rest, I did not. For my lips, they were a-swellin'.
"Uh, hubby? Do I look a little like Angelina Jolie to you?"
"hahahaha....hahahaha....HAHAHAHAHAH...yes."
"Hmm...hubby? Do my lips even look like lips any more?"
"HAHAHAHAH...you look like Will Smith when he has that allergic reaction in Hitch."
"So is that a definitive 'no' on me ever getting collagen injections in my lips...??"
Thankfully I haven't experienced swelling to that degree again, but have had quite a bit of numbness/tingling in my face and hands. And some really fun bouts of wheezing. And hives every day since. So. Not. Cool.
My mother in law has often said, "If you're going to laugh about it later, then why not just laugh about it now." I'm done with sick. I'm done with allergic reactions. I'm done with cat pee on my furniture. But I'm still laughing.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Testing Boundaries
Do you remember that scene in Jurassic Park where the raptors are jumping up against the fence, testing it, to look for holes or weaknesses? That's Anna lately. Man, I sure do compare her to raptors an awful lot. Maybe the dinosaurs aren't actually extinct. They just morphed into toddlers.
She asks every morning for popsicles. Heck, she doesn't ask, she DEMANDS. And sometimes, it's just easier to give her a half of a popsicle so we can actually get out the door on time for once instead of waging the battle of the wills at 6:30 in the morning.
Our biggest boundary test lately though has been with teeth brushing at bedtime. Anna is a CHAMPION dawdler. And it's amazing how she is able to S L O W down when the words "tooth" an "brush" are mentioned. I'm surprised she doesn't move in reverse. She threw raging, screaming tantrums for almost a week before she figured out that every time she did, she got story time taken away at bedtime (this was always explained to her - she was given a choice: she could let me have a turn brushing her teeth and we could read stories, or she could put the toothbrush away and go straight to bed, and she had one minute to decide). There were a few nights with her screaming bloody murder in her bed, I sat crying on the other side of the door until she finally gave in and fell asleep. But as I said, after about a week, she now willingly offers me her toothbrush after I give her a turn to brush.
I'm posting a video below of the strangest boundary test I've witnessed yet. This was the day after Anna's birthday, she'd been running around barefoot for most of the day playing outside and swimming. We were driving home from my in-law's house and heard strange noises coming from the back seat. And the more we asked her to stop, the more ferociously she...well, take a look.
She asks every morning for popsicles. Heck, she doesn't ask, she DEMANDS. And sometimes, it's just easier to give her a half of a popsicle so we can actually get out the door on time for once instead of waging the battle of the wills at 6:30 in the morning.
Our biggest boundary test lately though has been with teeth brushing at bedtime. Anna is a CHAMPION dawdler. And it's amazing how she is able to S L O W down when the words "tooth" an "brush" are mentioned. I'm surprised she doesn't move in reverse. She threw raging, screaming tantrums for almost a week before she figured out that every time she did, she got story time taken away at bedtime (this was always explained to her - she was given a choice: she could let me have a turn brushing her teeth and we could read stories, or she could put the toothbrush away and go straight to bed, and she had one minute to decide). There were a few nights with her screaming bloody murder in her bed, I sat crying on the other side of the door until she finally gave in and fell asleep. But as I said, after about a week, she now willingly offers me her toothbrush after I give her a turn to brush.
I'm posting a video below of the strangest boundary test I've witnessed yet. This was the day after Anna's birthday, she'd been running around barefoot for most of the day playing outside and swimming. We were driving home from my in-law's house and heard strange noises coming from the back seat. And the more we asked her to stop, the more ferociously she...well, take a look.
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