Things That Go Bump...

I'm a light sleeper. I wake up with the wind, cat fights, Danny's snores, my bladder and the occasional rumble of my tummy. I've been this way since college and motherhood hasn't lessened my nocturnal awareness. If it happens in or near our house at night, I know about it.

A few weeks ago, around midnight I was awakened to a cheerful voice in the darkness. I sat up and closed my eyes, all of my concentration focused on hearing the source of the talkative, upbeat sound. Finally, I got up and followed the conversation into Reagan's bedroom. Our little princess was in her usual slumbering pose--all four limbs spread out, no socks on, head back, snoring louder than her father across the hall.

I tiptoed around Reagan's domain in search of the now annoying and increasingly loud voice. I checked the bookshelves, the closet, the bed itself. (Todd was purring softly but he wasn't talking about photography. I'd finally been able to determine that the chipper voice was babbling on about picture taking). In the corner of Reagan's room loomed her toy box. I began to dig as quietly as one can through race cars, Thomas the train figures, a collection of old cellphones and a spinning top. I piled items on the floor until I realized it was the voice of Barbie that had disturbed my slumber. Reagan's grandparents gave her the pink Barbie camera I mentioned in an earlier post. Miss Legs herself was saying phrases like, "Smile for the camera! This one is for the yearbook! Can you make a funny face?"

No one had turned on the camera. She just decided to communicate with the other toys or something. Maybe the camera is really a portal into Barbie's world. I don't know. I do know that I could not shut it off (thanks Papa and Nai Nai) and I couldn't get it to stop talking! I set it up on the shelf, all alone, not touching anything and waited for it to turn off automatically. No such luck. I frantically tried to remove its batteries but that required a screwdriver and apparently I'd left mine in my other set of pajamas.

Finally, in an act of sleep-deprived desperation I put the camera on a shelf in the garage where I couldn't hear it from inside. The cats woke up and stared first at the camera and then at me as if to say, "What the..." but I left before they could finish the sentence.

Kissing Like a Princess

You know how Reagan likes to kiss. She bestows smooches like some people smile. She's pretty free and easy with her lips, I readily admit that. It's never really concerned me before because after all, she's 2.5 years old, positively adorable and has ceased that animal cracker drool she used to slop around when she gave out kisses. She's really not disgusting about it at all anymore. She's a pro.

Yesterday Reagan and I watched "Aladdin" which is one of my favorite Disney movies (I have maybe 10 favorite Disney movies; I'm a huge fan of the "old" ones). When Jasmine and Aladdin kissed, Reagan leaned forward for deep analysis. Then she announced that she wanted to kiss like a princess. She talked about that kiss for a good 10 minutes off and on as the rest of the story unfolded.

When Aladdin and Jasmine kissed again at the end of the movie, Reagan leaned toward me and whispered very solemnly, "Mommy, Reagan kiss my Judah like that." I said, "What?" So she repeated her declaration. I said, "Well, sweetie, Judah has to want to kiss you back and I don't see that happening any time soon. That kind of kissing is for grown ups." Reagan listened to me (or at least pretended to) and then she said, "Reagan kiss my Jackson like that." I couldn't help it. I laughed. "Reagan! Are you going to kiss both Jackson and Judah?! That's not going to fly with those boys. You'll have to pick one boy to kiss." Reagan sighed. Then she said, "I don't think so, Mommy. My Judah and my Jackson love Reagan."

We do not worry about Reagan's self confidence, in case you're wondering. I think I'll put "Aladdin" on the shelf for awhile.

Say Cheese...

Reagan's daddy is really into photography and his daughter is a very willing model for him on a near daily basis. We knew she knew what went on for the subject of a photograph. She cheeses it up quite willingly. We didn't realize, however, that she's also been paying attention to the other side of the camera.

Tonight I was grant writing (so what else is new?) and Danny was folding clothes and doing chores around the house. Reagan flit between her parents, singing songs, riding in the laundry basket, eating an orange and generally being adorable.

At one point I saw Reagan pull Danny's tripod from the office closet but I thought nothing of it. She's played with it before.

Minutes later I heard my daughter chirp, "Say cheese, Mommy!" I turned around and she'd set up the tripod on her own. Perched on its top was her pink Barbie camera. Reagan was hunched down behind the tripod, eye squinted, finger posed over the "click" button.

Look out Ansel Adams.

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.