So, the big girl bed? Flawless transition. We dismantled the crib this weekend and won’t be looking back. In fact, after the last several months of rocking her well past sleep just to get her to a point where she wouldn’t wake during the chair-to-crib transfer (yes, it’s as graceful as you might have imagined), the past two nights she hasn’t even wanted books or even snuggling, sadly. She just hops into bed, demands the lights off, covers up, and door shut. And I lie there next to her because I think she still needs the company, until her breathing deepens and slip out of the room. We have turned a corner, folks. And the best news of all is that I didn’t ruin my child’s ability to self-soothe or sleep by refusing to let her “cry it out,” alone and terrified in a small cage with blankets. I couldn’t ever do it with our dogs as puppies, and I sure as shit was not about to do it with an infant. And it turned out fine, see? We’re only months away from her kicking us out entirely. About which I am a little sad. But I’ll stop there.
Speaking of the big girl bed, I’ve been using the quilt my great-grandmother made out of scraps of her old house-dresses on Birdy’s new bed. It’s a simple and lovely quilt, and I rather like the idea of Birdy snoozing under something made by the hands of her great-great grandmother, and I’m sure that my Great Grandmother (her name was Anna Cecelia, isn’t that beautiful?) would be tickled to know that she’s snuggling her great-great grandaughter to sleep, in a way.
This morning I happened to walk by Birdy’s doorway to catch a peek of Bear the Dog, full-on licking his mangy ass on Birdy’s perfect, emotionally-charged little blankie. This is why we don’t have nice things around here. Because of all the mangy asses.
My daughter is obsessed with three things. Okay, more than three, probably, but these are the ones I’m thinking about: My sunglasses, my big blue water bottle, and chapstick. Three things on which I depend on a multiple-times-daily basis.
And, being nearly two, even the mere suggestion that she can’t fondle and hold and eventually break/ spill/ slather one of these items sends her into an emotional train wreck of a meltdown. So I have been wearing a stupid old (but durable!) pair of sunglasses and hiding my water bottle behind a box of cereal in the kitchen, sneaking sips of water and swipes of chapstick while she’s not looking.
You heard me. I’m sneaking chapstick and water in my own home. Tyrant!
I went in for a haircut/ trim-up on Friday, and thought it might be a fabulous idea to get bangs. How fun! Bangs! Bangs which I have had before and passed through the lengthy agony of the grow-out. And oh, do I hate them now as much as I ever did. I even tried to do a little fix-n-trim on my own in the bathroom, but to no avail. Bangs. I look like a six year old. If I thought my falling-apart shoes and ill-fitting clothing marred my credibility in the workplace, lookout, because now I’ve got these Bangs! Hello, patient with a horrible disease, would you like to talk about your end-of-life wishes or would you rather hear who asked whom to the prom during second period?
This post is turning out to be a bit gripey, which was not my intent. The hundred-plus-degree heat has finally broken and the weather is beautiful, my little one is sleeping peacefully, and I’m enjoying my second cup of delicious coffee and some scarce alone time. The sun is shining and the birds are singing on this slow Tennessee Sunday, and we have lazy dinner plans with dear friends to finish off the weekend. But as long as we’re on the subject, my house is filthy and we’re broke. There. Now it’s all out.