Logic and Lego

She has an answer for everything. Are you ready for some Moppet style logic? 

Moppet is whining for some pink ice cream. Mama reminds her of the time at the restaurant where pink ice cream was ordered for her and she refused to eat it, resulting in Mama having to eat her brownie with strawberry ice cream. [Ick!]

Moppet (defensively) : I finish all the white ice cream.

Mama: That was just whipped cream - why didn't you eat the pink ice cream you asked for?

Moppet: Because YOU finish the pink ice cream!

Her father did always claim there was a bit of Vulcan in her. His only evidence at the time was the amount of Trek I watched while pregnant, and her pointy ears, but his case appears to be growing stronger! ;-)

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On another note, she has been creating things with her Lego blocks lately that have impressed the pants off me. Ok so I'm biased and you, dear reader, will probably wonder what all the fuss is about, but still, this blog was intended to document this sort of stuff and I do it with no embarrassment. (On my part at least; Moppet will probably cringe at  this a few years from now!)

Here I present The Big Blue Chicken, which, after being suitably admired by the whole family, was then deftly converted into The Blue Prince. All her own work, including the names.

And of course, the artist, protecting herself from the Mamarazzi.

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While on the subject of art etc, she has started bringing home stuff she draws at school. It's usually something like a shaky circle or some random squiggles, and I ooh and aah and say things like wow that's a nice circle, or what lovely rainbow noodles! She throws me an exasperated look and explains, "No, that's pink elephant with pink umbrella and Mama is giving banana."

Ah! Ok. So these days I just ask outright what it is. They always have some elaborate story. And they're always pink. Today's pink amoeba is a 'pink shark and pink boat and fishing rod'. I don't see it, but I'm keeping it safely. It may be worth millions some day! 

Mary, Mary, quite contrary

She's such a contrary Mary, these days. Whatever we say or do, she MUST say and do the opposite.

Sometimes, we use this to our advantage. Take for example, this scene from last week:

Moppet is doing her 'nangu run' after her evening bath, where she scoots around the house without a stitch on her. She ends up in the study and screams, 'Look, I'm nangu!' expecting her father to get up and do what he usually does - chase her back to her room where I wait with her pyjamas and then join in the epic struggle to get her into them.

But this time, her father decides to take a different approach. 'Wow!' he says, 'How nice! Don't wear any clothes tonight ok?'

Contrary Mary is instantly up in arms. 'No! I wear clothes!'

Her father senses he's onto a good thing and doesn't back down. 'No, no! No clothes for you!'

'NO, NO, NOOOOOOO! I WEAR CLOTHES!' a screaming Moppet rushes into her room and is in her pyjamas in under 30 seconds.

So now we use this trick off and on, but of late the results have been rather unreliable. Like today, at lunch:

Mama (spooning a big heap of beans and potato curry onto her plate): Mmm! Nice beans. No beans for Moppet ok?

Moppet: (grinning widely) 'kay! I eat onny ice cream.

Sunshine after the storm

Mother-daughter relations were at an all time low this past week.

The husband was off on a long (semi) work trip. Her Papa's absence left a big hole in Moppet's routine, particularly evenings and bed-time and she did not take it well. I'd countdown the days till his return every evening, but all she knew was that he was not there to brush her teeth and play aeroplane with her, and what does '6 more days till Papa comes back' really mean, anyway?

She responded by clinging even harder to me. Demanding to be carried everywhere, even within the house. Having meltdowns at the drop of a hat - the particular t-shirt she wanted to wear was in the wash, she must have popcorn RIGHT NOW, the cracker Mama gave her broke in two before she bit it, Mama must sit in the back seat of the car with her (and somehow drive the car, too!) - all these situations (and many, many more) provoked terrible kicking, screaming, raging tantrums.

I understood why she was acting out, but the understanding didn't translate into dealing with it as I should have. Physically, I'm not at my best. My back is in such bad shape that I have to wear a special lumbar support belt. Wrestling Moppet into her underpants when she's decided she'll wear orange ones or nothing, restraining her during one of her kicking rages, even just carrying her when she's actually being co-operative are tasks that are getting painfully harder every day.

Emotionally, I wasn't much better. The husband's long absence aggravated the loneliness that never quite leaves me. There was resentment that he was off having a good time in London and Paris, leaving me to deal with his monster child(ren) by myself. My reserves of patience were at an all-time low.

So I yelled back at Moppet when she screamed. I left her to her floor-smacking rages and curled up on my bed and cried. I turned up the music in the car to drown out her howling from the back seat. By bedtime every day, we didn't like each other very much. The hot, sticky, energy sapping weather did not help.

And then the storm came. Thunder, lightning, and driving rain. The wind whipped through the house, so strong it tore the netting off the balcony doors. A flash of light, a loud boom, and we lost power.

Our paths lit by the emergency light, mother and daughter met in the corridor as each came running to find the other. Moppet was a little frightened, and clung to me as I explained that the power had gone but there was nothing to be scared of and it would come back soon. She was only half reassured and sat close to me as we spent some quiet time reading a few books, drawing, colouring and doing puzzles by candlelight.

The storm died down, but the power was still out, so we moved out onto the balcony to enjoy the cool breeze and the refreshing smells of a city washed clean. Relief washed over me, like a fever had broken. It was the first time in many days that I felt truly at peace.

I began to sing softly and Moppet sat quietly on her little chair next to mine and listened. Occasionally, she piped up with a song request - Mama sing Jai Hind, Mama sing Ladki, Mama sing MashaAllah - and after a while, she said to me, "Now Moppet turn."

"Sure, baby, what are you going to sing?" I asked.

In reply she sang to me a song that I often sing for her:

"[...] Sunshine, ma onny sunshine
You make me happy, when skys gwey
You never know dear, how much I laab you
Peas don take ma sunshine away."*

It was such a perfect song for the moment. Tears poured down my cheeks as she sang in her clear baby voice. When she was done I gave her a great big hug, and she saw I was crying.

"No crying, Mama. Iss power gone. Come back soon. No scared, ok?'

*You are my sunshine, my only sunshine; You make me happy, when skies are grey; You'll never know dear, how much I love you; Please don't take my sunshine away"

Edit: Oh and the next day this happened. And then 2 days later the husband got home, so all's well in my world again :-)

Baby talk

We were at a loose end this morning since Moppet had no school, so we decided to go visiting. S and Moppet are in the same group at school and are friends (to the extent that 2-year olds can be friends). Also, S has a 4-month old baby brother, and I thought it would be nice for Moppet to see the baby and play with him a little.

It all started out very nicely. Having been repeatedly told to be on her best behaviour on the way over, Moppet's first words to S when we reached her house were, 'S, no fighting, ok?' It turned out that S's mom had been telling her much the same stuff, so S responded cordially with 'S share Moppet' and started to ply her with all her toys out of her toy trolley.

Things were going extremely well, meaning that we moms were actually able to have a conversation, interrupted only occasionally by an ear-splitting scream, a broken toy, a bumped head, and a disputed balloon.

Then Baby A woke up and joined the party. He is the happiest, cutest little fellow, and I couldn't resist picking him up and giving him a cuddle. Moppet, who had only given him a cursory glance when he was brought out, completely flipped out when I picked him up.

'MY MOPPET MAMA!' she wailed. 'MAMA NO CAWWY BABY! PUT BACK, PUT BACK, PUT BACK!'

I gave Baby A back to his mom in a hurry and Moppet climbed onto my lap and stayed there for about 5 minutes. But S and her toy trolley were hard to ignore for too long and she soon slid off to go back and play.

She did warm to the baby a little later on, when he was lying on the bed, looking around at all of us with bright-eyed curiosity and waving his little fists in the air. Seeing me gently pinch his cheek and call him a cutiepie, Moppet climbed onto the bed to do the same.

'Be gentle, Moppet' I warned, and she was. 'Keetipie' she said, and was rewarded with a gurgle and a smile. I showed her how he would wrap his hand around her finger and she was thrilled. 'Baby hol hand!' she said, with a big grin.

S was watching the proceedings with disapproval and the holding hands bit was more than she could bear. She bounced onto the bed, grabbed Baby A's other hand, and generally indicated that Moppet should refrain from looking at or touching HER baby, or else.

Moppet responded by yanking my t-shirt up, patting my belly and saying, 'This one Moppet baby.' I was floored. I hadn't realised that she understood that much. 'Yes, this one is your baby, Moppet', I said, giving her a happy hug.

But in the taxi on our way home, Moppet sat facing me in my lap with a hand on my tummy and said, 'Baby bwother inside. No baby bwother ouside, ok?'

Oh dear.

Snippets - II

Moppet, future art critic:

Sees this photograph in an article on English eccentrics in Vanity Fair.

Pointing to the cow: "Cow!"

Then pointing to the anonymous artist: "This one donkey!"

I think she's got an eye for art, wouldn't you agree?




Moppet, future beauty pageant judge:

She's on the pot; I'm perched on the bathtub and we're chatting.

I ask, "Are you done? Shall I wash your bum-bum?"

She twists her head round to look at her posterior and says:

"Moppet si-mall bum-bum"

Then she looks contemplatively at my well-padded one, hanging over the thin edge of the bathtub. "Mama BIG bum-bum!"

For good measure, she adds insult to injury: "Moppet nice bum-bum"

Moppet, future Mama:

1. She and her father are rough housing. He's throwing her in the air, swinging her around in circles, and holding her upside down by her ankles. In between her giggles she cautions: "Be CAREful!"

2. She and I are playing with her blocks and I'm taking all green pieces because I'm trying to make a tree. She doesn't like that for some reason, and keeps grabbing the green pieces away from me. I don't appreciate that sort of behaviour and keep taking them back, telling her she has to share. Finally, in frustration, arms akimbo, she says to me sternly: "Mama, go ROOM!"

Moppet on Munch

Ok folks, so Munch it is. I'm still trying to think of something for me and hubs (he's retaining his damn veto power over his nickname, it seems. Gah!)

Anyway, a couple of weeks ago, Moppet and I were sitting in my mom's rocking chair, and Moppet's insistence on sitting so close as to squish my belly uncomfortably, brought on this conversation.

Me: Moppet, there's a little baby in Mama's tummy. If you press so hard, the baby will get hurt. So you have to be gentle, ok?

Moppet: Baby inside?

Me: Yes, a small baby.

Moppet: (disbelievingly) Open baby?

Me: Not now. Now the baby is too small. We'll open baby when it's a little bigger, ok?

After that, every once in a while when she climbs onto my lap, she demands to see the baby and then traces out the baby's eyes, mouth, nose, head, body, and hat (!) on my belly.

Sometimes, without warning, she'll come up and hit my belly - not hard, but hard enough for it not to be a joke. Then she asks concernedly, "Baby hurt? Baby cwying?" I think it's simply because I've told her not to, and she wants to see how much I'll take before she gets into trouble.
This is not looking good for Munch once he's out and unprotected. He'll have to toughen up really quickly, the poor kid.

But there are other times when Baby must be given a goodnight kiss. And not just by her, but by Papa and Mama also. Since I am quite unable to perform the contortionist act required to kiss my own belly, she will usually give the baby another kiss on my behalf. And then she will ask, "Baby sleeping? Baby happy?" And when I say yes, she says, "Moppet happy!"

So I think she does understand to some extent, although of course, she has no clue what she's in for when Munch actually arrives to share centre-stage with her.

Moppet always was possessive about me, but recently it's become rather extreme. Mama has to carry her a lot, even from one room of the house to another. Only Mama can wash her bum, only Mama can put her to bed, only Mama must sit with her while she drinks her milk. This from a child who was quite happy to have Nanny or Papa do the honours a couple of months ago. Whether it is the result of our short break at home where she and I spent all our time together, or because she hasn't been too well since she got back, or because she understands that there's a new baby on way, I don't know.

In any case it's going to be an interesting ride for all of us.

What does Moppet say

- when she sees Papa sitting too close to Mama?
"MYYYYYY!" (in loud warning tone, complete with a proprietary hand on Mama's shoulder)

- when she almost falls off the sofa but manages not to at the last minute?
"Oh my gott!"

- before she leaves for her first day of school after Christmas break?
"Bye-bye Papa, be good!"

I am beginning to understand now why all parents think their children are geniuses. For me, all Moppet's milestones before this pale in comparison. Sure it was exciting to see her roll, sit, stand, walk, run, and climb, but this - the talking - it just takes my breath away.

When she marches up to me and gives my hand a little shake and says 'How ARE ya?', flashing a toothy grin and looking for all the world like a pint-sized politician canvassing for my vote.

When she runs up with her little doodle board and asks me to draw her a motoboat, sailboat, fishboat, tugboat, and fewwyboat, all from the memory of the pictures in one of her books.

When, desperate to get away from my tickling fingers, she yells "Mama foal hans!" copying a trick we use (fold your arms) when she gets too fidgety.

When she climbs into a taxi with me and instructs the driver in a firm little voice to 'Lee kwa' (liaw khwaa, meaning 'turn right' in Thai).

When she points out the sights as we drive along, "Mama look! Pink umbella. Billoo kaa. Chishmish tee. Ellow bus. Again bus. Big bus. Wheels wound and wound. Mama sing!"

Somewhere in the back of my head I am aware that it's really just a normal part of growing up. All kids do it. But watching it unfold right before my eyes, at a speed that I cannot believe is real - it's like watching one of those Nat Geo videos where you see a flower bloom right in front of you.

There's nothing quite like it. Despite 25 plus years of using the english language, I still can't find the words to describe it.

Snippets

"Moppet, do you need to go do susu?"

"No!"

"Are you sure? Come on, let's go sit and see"

"No! No, no, no!" (vigorous head shaking)

"Ok, then"

60 seconds later, she's standing in a pool of piddle, her plastic blocks and stacking cups generously splashed too.

She meets my angry glare with equanimity. Straight-faced, she says: "Uh-oh"

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Moppet is doing her little pick-me-up jig at my feet. I bend down and tell her that big girls go walking; so should she.

She considers this for a moment then points at herself and says "Baby." And looking up at me as if to emphasize my bigness, she pats my knee and says, "Mama, walking."

Confident that there can be no further argument, she raises her arms to be picked up. She is.

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Whenever she does something good, I usually give her an enthusiastic 'Good girl' and a high five. Moppet has picked this up and uses it to her own end. After she's done some mischief (usually of the expressly forbidden kind), she knows no one's going to say good girl to her, so she says it for herself. "Goo-gal!"

Goo-gal, indeed!

It takes one to know one

This evening, Moppet and I were playing with her little doodle pad. I was drawing things on it and she would yell out what they were. I'm no artist, as is obvious from the recreation below (although I'm a bit better with a pencil than with the mouse) but Moppet was able to identify almost everything I drew.

It was great fun. Some of the things she liked so much that I'd have to draw them several times before she'd let me draw something new. We played in this fashion until I ran out of stuff that I could draw that she also knew the name of.

And then I had a brilliant idea. I drew me. Like this.
It's a decent likeness, really. I mean, just the curly hair is enough!

So I proudly show her my artwork, expecting her to say Mama. She takes one look at the picture and gets super excited. She does a little jig around the room and then comes back to jab her finger on my carefully done self-portrait and declare:

"Kaata!"

Cartoon.

Sigh. She's right, isn't she?