Reagan's animal sound repertoire...

My inbox is full of concerned readers' emails. They think maybe Reagan deserves parents who will share with her a love for animals and the sounds they make. I hear your worries, people. They have not fallen on deaf ears.

Reagan does not know even ONE barnyard sound. Not one. She doesn't seem to care about them no matter how many times we go over them and frankly, I've lost interest myself. I figure if some day she oinks at me, it'll be fine and if she never does, life goes on.

She does, however, know several jungle and household pet sounds but on principle, I'm not telling you which ones.

Now, go moo at your own kids.

With a moo, moo here and a moo, moo...

American parents are obsessed with animal sounds. Have you noticed this? If your toddler doesn't know 15 animal sounds (preferably used in conjunction with adorable facial expressions and hand jive) then you're A) a bad parent or B) raising an inferior child. There's no middle ground with some people.

Is there no other way for us to measure child development?
"Yes, little Johnny knows the presidents from Washington to Lincoln. We're working feverishly on the next ten."

OR

"Mia recognizes and names every make and model of car made during the 1960s. Isn't that wonderful?"

Perhaps something they'll actually use later in life? I think that's my biggest issue with animal sounds. Who. Cares. Is she really going to find herself facing social ridicule in her mid-20s because her oink isn't quite up to snuff? Do these children spend a lot of time in barnyards communing with nature? I feel about animal sounds the way I do about trigonometry. It's unnecessary for normal people to know either one.

In the case of trig (and analytical geometry, chemistry and calculus for that matter), high school upper classmen had fewer classes than their younger counterparts. So a bunch of nerdy, math-obsessed teachers invented trigonometry, which is nearly impossible to spell, let alone understand. It was created to fill a timeslot, to torture young minds and keep people from flirting and those are it's only purposes. I have never used trig in real life and I don't intend to.

Whew.

Ok, back to horse sounds. I believe we put outrageous pressure on our toddlers to perform like circus acts but for what purpose? After you left pre-school, did you ever, even once, ask a friend, "What does a duck say?" Did you? I think not. We never make these sounds again until we're parents ourselves and then we suddenly become completely absorbed in our child's knowledge of animal language.

Reagan understands (a lot) and speaks (a little) English and that's good enough for me. Later, maybe she'll learn Mandarin or Spanish-- languages she might actually use in the future. If she never speaks sheep, we'll muddle through somehow.

It Isn't Nice to Show Off

I do ballet. Or I did. And to stay on my toes, so to speak, I do ballet videos in our basement. Reagan joins me now. At first she hardly paid attention to me or to the too-skinny-to-be-real chick on the TV. Reagan was off feeding her baby, pushing her stroller, building a block tower or plotting to pull the unfortunate kitty cat's tail.

I did my thing. She did hers.

Recently, Reagan has become more aware of the TV and she even pauses long enough to acknowledge it or point at something and shout out "baby" or "kitty" when the appropriate images pop on the screen.

My whole exercise routine has changed. I sit down and lean forward to touch my toes and Reagan pounces on my back, thus pushing me further down and making me wince in pain. She sits beside me while I stretch and splits her legs out perfectly straight and then slides her hands forward in between them 'till her tummy touches the ground. In other words, she looks like the crazy ballerina on TV, not her huffing and puffing mother there beside her on the floor.

Reagan looks at me. Then she looks at the instructor and then she does whatever stretch it is...correctly. I'm not even kidding. Reagan's body bends in ways that God never intended it to bend. I can practically hear my muscles tearing to bits and Reagan is lounging comfortably in perfect splits while brushing baby's hair or nibbling Cheerios.

Maybe someday Reagan will support us with her salary from the New York City Ballet. In the meantime, I just think she's showing off.

Our Loving Shirts...

These are the shirts Danny bought us for Valentine's Day. We wore them to work and all around town. This isn't the best picture because we tried to take it in the dark so the lit-up hearts would be obvious. Oh, well. You get the idea. Or you don't, I guess, but there's not much I can do about that.

My iPod's betrayal...

On the way to and from Blakely's house each day, Reagan and I listen to "toddler tunes" as I call them. We jam out to "Baa, Baa, Black Sheep" and "Father Abraham." As soon as I drop off my little impressionable cherub, I switch my iPod to something a little more grown up.

Then I sing with Reba or head bang with a hair band all the way to the library.

Today I arrived in the library parking lot and turned off the music and I realized something. This cold, suffocating feeling swooshed over my whole body.

I haven't a clue the last time I heard something besides toddler tunes. I honest to goodness can't remember when I last changed the iPod to my music.

I've been rocking to "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" and did not notice. If that isn't a sign of lunacy, I don't know what is.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Poor Reagan. She didn't have much of a chance when she joined our silly family. To make matters worse, Danny bought us matching t-shirts, which we wore all day. They have a line of hearts on them that light up when the other t-shirt is near. It's the first time I've worn a battery-pack to work. Anyway, we'll try to post some pics of that little bit of fun later.

Hope all of you have a wonderful, loving Valentine's Day!

Winning the Gold in Diaper Changes...

Reagan is a paradox to me in so many ways.

She can sit perfectly still for entire minutes on end while we read a book or put together her beloved blocks or feed baby a bottle. She concentrates. She breathes deeply and focuses her entire being on the task at hand.

Ask her to be still for one, single diaper change and it's as though I asked her to recite the Gettysburg Address. She. Cannot. Do. It.

She wiggles and giggles and reaches for the icky diaper. She pulls off her socks despite my desperate pleas for the opposite. She squirms till her noggin hangs off the dresser. She kicks and waves her arms around and strains her neck and twists this way and that. It's like she can hear disco music in her head and when ya gotta dance, ya gotta dance.

I've tried everything. I sing to her. I let her hold various toys and/or items from the diaper changing cubbies (which completely destroys their organized placement, I might add). I make funny noises and cross my eyes. My attempts to distract and occupy her attention are in vain.

By this time I'm sweating and my heart rate is certainly higher than normal. I hear voices in my head. One of them says, "diapering should be a recognized Olympic event" and the other one asks, "how long can she go in one diaper anyway?"

Reagan hears voices, too. "Make Mommy insane. Try to push her over the edge so she completely cracks and puts the diaper on herself instead of me."

Remember how in the beginning, Danny and I fought over who got to change her diaper? Well, that's not the case now. Now I advertise with a great big sign in the front lawn--"will pay top dollar for diaper changing services."

So far no one has taken me up on this and I think it's because they've all heard about Reagan's wiggling antics and they know they don't have what it takes to pin her down, rip off the offensive diaper, wipe whatever they can and smack on the new diaper before she wiggles her way off the dresser and on to the floor.

Speaking of the floor, people have told me to change her diaper there but this is an even more frightening venture. On the floor, Reagan is fearless. She flips over on to her stomach like a break-dancer from the '80s. She scoots away very quickly and is up on her feet, now running diaperless across the room before I have time to realize what's even happened. She's laughing her "prison break" laugh and if the door isn't shut, she's down the hall in a flash.

Do you think it's too early to potty train her?

Maybe She's Born With It...

Maybe it's yogurt.

After discussing Reagan's yogurt art with a co-worker, I've come up with another theory. Perhaps our darling imitator felt the need to smear dairy product on her body because of her innate desire for healthy skin.

I smear all sorts of goo into my skin and she's seen me do it. Yogurt smells and feels like lotion. This yogurt even has a bit of granola in it, not unlike the oatmeal masks I make for my face. Hmmmm....

Perhaps she's on to something. Maybe I'll wash up with some Yoplait tonight and see how my skin feels.

The Next Jackson Pollack...

Reagan is big into art. Her skills flourished early on and after putting a crayon in her wee, little hand, we recognized her talent and encouraged it. Our refrigerator remains the only gallery currently displaying her work but we're considering a Midwest tour possibly beginning with the Nelson later this spring. I'll keep you posted, naturally.

An interesting demonstration of Reagan's continuing artistic development is her ability to work in several mediums. For instance, this evening, Reagan created quite an amazing piece entirely of yogurt. Her canvas? Human skin. She delicately brushed the yogurt (raspberry and pear, if you're curious) onto her hand and arm using sweeping strokes of her purple spoon. Her concentration was evident in the lines on her little furrowed brow and in her piercing black eyes. In fact it took several gasps and sputters and then a burst of "Reagan, no!" for me to fully engage the little Picasso in conversation.

Reagan also delights in embellishing such items as tax statements, calendars, polished desks, alma mater sweatshirts and stacks of post-it notes. Her designs fill our home and we're always delighted when we find a new Reagan original. Stop by anytime to see her masterpieces. Feel free to bring your last will and testament or perhaps the deed to your home. Our sweet Monet will make it extra special for you at no charge.