Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Our Big Girl

Reagan is potty trained. Have I mentioned this? If not, consider yourself lucky. I tell everyone I meet including the woman who cleaned my teeth today at the dentist's office. A potty trained child is right up there with TCBY yogurt and a best friend to share it with (one who encourages you to buy the larger size and does not judge you when you consume it in record time).

Reagan began her training on a Sunday and by Thursday was accident free. She now goes in and out of the bathroom without accompaniment and just reports her business casually as she returns to play. Sometimes I don't even know she's gone.

Even as I celebrate this freedom, this fabulous ick-free state...I stop to wonder where the time has gone. Where is that baby who couldn't crawl, who wore size 2 diapers and clung so tightly to me as we left the Hunan Province Civil Affairs office? She's 14 pounds ago. She's four sizes in clothes ago. She's a hop, skip and a somersault ago. She's gone.

But then just when my eyes fill with tears and I can't stand how much I miss my baby, my big girl comes running over with her arms in the air. "Hold me, Mommy! Hold me." And I do.

Maybe our big girl is still our baby after all.

Our Gourmet Chef and the Kitchen of her Dreams

As many of you know, Reagan enjoys a nice, tasty meal of brightly-colored plastic fruit now and then. She also chows down a good hamburger with everything on it. She has intently played with her faux food and multiple tea sets for over a year.

However, the real prize, the ultimate in fake dinner preparation was the pastel plastic kitchen her parents were never going to buy her. She plays with one at Kidz Day Out (they spell it with a "Z"; my apologies to the English language) every Monday. When we attended a church with a nursery kitchen, she could always be found there when I went to claim her after services. Her mom and daddy are against giant plastic playthings on principle and we vowed not to purchase one. Because Reagan doesn't fully understand stores and toy accumulation, she's never asked us for one. It's easy to say no to a non-request.

A friend recently shared with me that her son had outgrown his ginormous kitchen and wouldn't Reagan enjoy it? I knew she would, of course. I knew she'd be thrilled but inside me a voice cried out, "Don't do it, Lisa! Don't give in to the landfill madness!" I told the voice to shut up and we gratefully accepted the kitchen (which is taller than Reagan) for our little culinary guru.

Reagan's happiness knows no bounds. She plays with it non-stop, often wearing the little chef's apron and hat which accompanied it into our home. Our friend's son also bestowed all of his plastic edibles on our daughter so Reagan is beside her self, festooned in multiple layers of veggies and rock hard waffles.

We eat her creations whether she cooks the meal in the dishwasher or the microwave. We make smacking sounds and she insists our tongues touch the ice cream cone for a more lifelike action. (I'm constantly wiping food items down with Lysol wipes when Reagan isn't looking). She warns us when food is hot and instructs us to blow on it...often demonstrating and thus sharing her hot, moist breath with her diners.

She is in bliss and we, as her parents, grudgingly admit that the kitchen has a place in our home as long as our daughter delights in it so. Also, I'm fairly certain Danny plays with it even when Reagan's not around.