Bang, bang

We've been careful since our daughter was born to limit her exposure to violence. We don't watch television (other than pre-approved children's shows) at any time when either child is awake, and don't listen to news radio when children are in the car. We edit their books as needed so that, for example, Curious George (written in 1941) gets a "time out" rather than going to prison for accidentally calling the fire department, and the Cat in the Hat's "Little Cats" use "shooters" to "get" the pink snow spots instead of, as written, "guns" that "kill" the harmless little pink blobs. Now, I don't think for a moment I am going to shield her from the realities of the world forever. However, I do think that the longer we can postpone her eventual bombardment with sensationalized violence, the better equipped she will be to deal with it; the more she has been steeped in a peaceful home environment the more she will be able to identify peace as her way and recognize that violence exists, but is not her way.

She turned 3 in September. This morning she came running to her father with two attached pieces of Lego and said "I have a shooter". She waved it around - "Shoot, shoot!". I was still hoping she was thinking of a rocket ship, "shooting" into space. The next words out of her mouth, however, as she grasped her little toy - "Bang, bang!". Sigh.

Sleeping Like a ...

Last night:
7:30 p.m.: 1 year old to bed
8:30 p.m.: 3 year old to bed
8:35, 8:45, 8:48, 8:50 p.m.: 3 year old needs water, is cold, needs a hug, has an owie on her finger
10:00 p.m.: Mom and Dad to bed after watching our tape of last night's 24, followed by South Park
11:15 p.m. Insomnia-stricken mother finally falls asleep
11:58 p.m.: 1 year old awakens for bottle and rocking
12:08 a.m.: Sleeping 1 year old deposited in crib
12:35 a.m.: 1 year old awakens for more bottle and more rocking, tries to convince grown-ups to join him in rousing round of E-I-E-I-O
1 - 2 a.m.: Blur of sleep deprived parents rotating into and out of crying baby's room, bringing milk, infant Tylenol for teething, turning on the heat, turning off the heat
5:56 a.m.: 1 year old, having had wonderful night of social activity and warm milk, awakens refreshed and with a soaking wet diaper, pajama, and bed.

Whash for dinna

More South Beach for dinner. Pina coladas, cheeseburgers, and fries. Nope, just kidding. Leftover SBD meatloaf (it really is better the second day) and Oven Roasted Vegetables. Amazing that this stick-to-your-ribs food peels off the weight.

May I kvell for a moment? My 13-month old has started Baby Signing in earnest, and I am so proud. My husband and I (and, in fact, our three-year-old, who also was a signing baby) have been demonstrating signs for him for several months, and it looked for a while like it just wasn't going to click for him. Suddenly, the diminutive little lightbulb went on, and he now has signs for telephone, more, all done, diaper, elephant, monkey, fish, dog, sheep, and hat. Added to his few spoken words, Mama, Dada, A-Ma (derivation of his sister's name), kitty cat, bye-bye, night-night and bottle (ba-ba), he has more than doubled his vocabulary due to Baby Signs. I recommend this for any parents of infants/early toddlers and parents-to-be. My daughter commanded dozens and dozens of signs by 18 months, and used some of them (for harder-to-pronounce words like "elephant" and "giraffe") until nearly 2 1/2 years.

Are these just Stupid Baby Tricks? Though it at first may not seem very useful for your baby to be able to sign to you about zoo animals, the point is, Baby Signs allow your baby to communicate, and they get a big kick out of that. When you see the glee on your baby's face when he signs "giraffe" for the print on his footie sleepers, and he hears you say "oh, you see a giraffe?" it makes all the hours of thumping your head, stroking your throat, and flapping your arms worthwhile.

South Beach Diet meatloaf and mashed "potatoes" for dinner. Shh ... they're really cauliflower. Yeah, the diet's great. Lost 12 pounds of ugly fat without cutting off my head.

Time to do the Babysitter Rag. In order to take my daughter to the aforementioned co-operative preschool, I have to hire a sitter to take care of my son, as unenrolled siblings aren't allowed at school. Yes, we may be a bunch of tree-hugging granola eaters but we do have some standards. So I pay a college student to come watch my son between 8:30 and noon. I know he naps for a good hour and a half to two hours of this time. I know there may not be much for a college student to do while trapped in my home - like, I don't know - study? Or even watch the TV. But when I got home, it was clear to me she had been napping, because left the blanket she unfolded and the pillow she had been using on the sofa. The baby needed a new diaper, and had not had a new one since I changed him in the morning. Breakfast dishes - granted, they were the kids', and not the sitter's - languished in the sink. There were 2 messages on the answering machine because she had not answered the phone. Gee, I hope it didn't wake her.

Off to school with my daughter this morning. She's in a co-operative preschool, which means that each class session of 24 children is staffed by 2 paid, credentialed teachers, plus 7 parents. So I "work" every 2 weeks at the school, staffing a designated area. It works beautifully. The adult-to-child ratio is such that many children get one-on-one play with a grownup. Squabbles are few. The children thrive. Plus, having been "home" with my daughter since she was a year old, I can't imagine having her disappear three hours a day and having no idea what she is doing.
Time flies when you are getting yourself plus a one-year-old and three-year-old washed, dressed and breakfasted all before 8:30 a.m. I have to go. More later.