Marta Speaks

After Marta had been asleep for about four hours, on the evening of her 3rd birthday party, she said in a dream, "No Berit, don't blow out the candles!" And then, "Phewwwwwwwwwwww" - she blew them out herself.

From The Mouths of B and Mart

Berit was having a tough time falling asleep in her room with no window coverings. Trevor noticed on the monitor that she was sitting up, gazing out the window. He went in and said, "What'cha doing?" She said, "Oh, just wishin' upon that star."

When Andrea was here this weekend, she asked Marta what she wanted for her upcoming birthday. "Berit, Aunt Andrea, Mama, Daddy.." she began. "No," Andrea said. "What presents?" And Marta said, "Just the people. I want the people to be my presents."

All I Want For Christmas

Berit, what do you want for Christmas?

"Barbies. The new Rapunzel Barbie, the Barbie with the dogs and she's a veterinar....(mumble). A boy Barbie, too. Barbie movies. OH! Sesame Street movies, new dance shoes, art supplies, music. And lots of Barbies."

Marta, what do you want for Christmas?

"PONIES! MY LITTLE PONIES ALL MY LITTLE PONIES ALL OF THEM ONLY PONIES!"

In Brief

For many months, Marta has named everything "Turner," until recently, when she's started naming things "Sparklewishes" or "Sparkle." I wonder if this comes from her own persuasion or from big sister, who constantly refers to living creatures with names like "Dreamy Dancer" or "Firework Flower Blossom."

Our move-in date is now Nov. 20. Is someone giving up deer hunting to work on the house? YOU BET HE IS.

I've recently started letting the girls read in bed before going to sleep. I creep in later to turn out the lights and put the books away. They do a great job of reading, then responsibly sleeping, and there seems to be less fuss about bedtime. I think they're probably too little to do this, but then again, can I even remember when I started reading under the covers with a flashlight?

Lullabies

Goodnight, Chicken
by Berit

Good night, little chipmunk chicken
I hope your dreams are very beautiful
full of faries, princesses, and Sound of Music girls
and full of Sound of Music boys.
When you wake up in the morning
you'll yawn and stretch and sometimes you'll gasp and fall back on your tush
and say, "Good Morning!"
and when you eat breakfast in the morning
you'll eat the juice from grapes cut in half
and tomatoes, raspberries and macaroni and pretzels made out of unicorn horns.
Then after you wake up, you like to play firefighter
and drink orange juice.

Goodnight, Chirp
by Marta

Go to sleep, Chirp
I hope your dreams are full of My Little Pony Snowflake movie, Dora and Boots, and Swiper (and Diego)
And when you wake up, you'll yawn and stretch
and you will say, "Good Morning!"
For breakfast you'll have macaroni and pretzels and orange juice to drink.
Goodnight, Chirp!

On The Eve Of Her First Day Of School

Does this look like a school-aged kid to you? Me, neither. 

Berit started her third year of preschool last week (she has one of those birthdays that had her starting preschool in the winter, and she won't be eligible for kindergarten until next year - which is the right thing for her, anyway), and Marta of course comes along for each drop-off and pick-up. 

And like any little sibling, she wants to do what her big sister does, and in this case it's go to school. St. Francis Xavier School, where Berit attends preschool, has a child development center. You can drop your child off any time of the day, and he or she will stay for as many hours as you like. It's a whole lot of preschool, with lunch and naptime thrown in. We visited the CDC on our first day to SFX and we really thought it was cool - and so did Marta. 

Each time we drop B at her class, Marta begs, pleads to go to school. Yesterday I sat down in front of her and said, "Marta, do you really want Mama to take you to school and say 'Bye-bye Marta!' and then come back to pick you up later?" She looked me square in the eye and said, "YES. That is what I want."

I recently took on another writing job, and had considered hiring our sitter twice a week instead of once. But now that Marta's become so keen on school, we've decided to let her attend twice a week for three hours at a time, while Berit's in class. Marta is THRILLED. She has a new backpack that she doesn't take off, and she has a lunch box that she opens, closes, opens, closes, hoping to find lunch in there. 

I've had her with a sitter for over a year now, once a week, and she does wonderfully. She loves the change of pace, the fresh ideas. She's happy when I come home, but she's happy when I leave, too. I've left her for a night with my in-laws - once even for two nights - so it's not as if I've never been apart from "my baby."

And yet. She is my baby, still. When Berit's at school she and I meander around town, looking at stuff and cuddling and telling each other neat things. I have a hard time thinking about her being gone for six hours plus five with the sitter each week. And I'm not the overly sentimental type, when it comes to school. It's just... she's so little. 

But she's getting bigger, she'd be quick to point out. In fact, when we first visited the CDC and she loved it so, I told her that she'd be able to attend once she could go pee-pee on the potty (apologies for the baby and potty talk to anyone who's not a parent and who is still hanging with me through this mess of emotions). 

We've not been pushing the potty thing at all because I wasn't too fond of knowing exactly where the nearest bathroom was everywhere we went, because Berit just decided one day to be potty-trained and that was that, because it's just so much easier to deal with diapers than emergencies or accidents. 

But when I said that, when I told her she had to be potty-trained to attend school, do you know what she did? She said, "OK." And that was it. Guess who's going pee-pee on the potty regularly now? Even in public? Our little 2-year-and-9-month-year-old. 

And so, tomorrow is her first day of school. I truly think she's going to love it, and I think they'll love her, too. 

And if you're trying to find me during those three hours, have a peek into the stairwell just outside the CDC's door. 

Regarding Marta, Who Wants To Be A Mountain Goat When She Grows Up

Oh, Marta.

It's what we've said since she was born, as parents do about their little ones. They do something spunky or naughty or silly or for the 85th time, and we heave a big sigh, letting the last of our breath form an oooohhhh...

It rolls off the tongue now, while we watch her run full-tilt down hills, when we buy another box of bandages just for her. When she eats big scoops of hot salsa or when she chooses almonds over candy. When she has a fever and a sore throat but laughs all day long. When she won't, ever-ever, sit still. When she opens her 2-year-old mouth and out comes a 10-year-old's vocabulary. When she climbs to the top of everything and we have constant jolts of adrenaline from our brains, computing her odds of falling and shifting automatically into survival mode.

Oh, Marta.

It's easy to say it with a stifled laugh or through tears of empathy. It's often mumbled in the dark, when we all should be sleeping.

Suddenly none of her size-2 clothing fits. Her legs are a little leaner and a lot longer. She and Berit can easily pass shirts and shorts, sweaters and PJs back and forth. She takes off and puts on her own clothes, and always chooses either her carousel shirt or something with an animal's face on it (shorts or skirts never match). As bold as she can find -- that's her style.

Last week she walked up to two sea captain-ish men and said, "Hi. I'm Marta. I'm two-and-a-half and I'm smart."

She wants to be potty trained but doesn't quite get it yet. We bought Pull-Ups and she insisted on the blue Diego design. She buckles the top buckle of her car seat.

She can spell MARTA, BERIT, MOM, DAD, POP and sometimes MOSEY. When Trevor walks in a room she says, "There's our handsome guy."

She cannot dance; she only wants to twirl. She will rarely sing a song loudly, but in every new place we go she asks, "Mom, is this a loud place or a quiet place?" And then tests my answer by sending a quick "AH!" up to see how it echos and what I'll do about it.

She rarely naps. She plays "I Spy" these days by being the spier instead of the finder. Her new favorite game is Candy Land.

She wants to tell you how the cow got so much mud on its bottom.

Since moving in with Trevor's parents, she's been an uncharacteristically restless sleeper. Over the weekend we went to my sister's house and took with us a friend's toddler-sized blow-up mattress. She did great with this first non-crib, and on the way home she told me, "Now I'm going to sleep in a big girl bed. Not my crib."

So last night she did, for the first time, sleep in a real twin-sized bed, in a room all by herself. She slept until 7:45 a.m., which is a full one-to-two hours longer than she's been sleeping in. She woke up, sang a little instead of whined, and just waited for me to come get her up. She was very proud of herself.

Oh, Marta. You are the baby. You rub your blankie's tag on your cheek. You still have chubby cheeks and thin, curly-on-the-bottom hair. I don't think you even have real eyebrows yet.

But somehow you've outgrown your crib, your clothes, your limits. You put your own Band-Aids on your knees; you even open them yourself. Sometimes I want to get out the front carrier and put you in it, just to hold you near me during an outing like I did when you were itty-bitty.

Oh, Marta. Don't get too big, too fast.

Things They Say

M: Daddy, you can't go to work! You're Mommy's friend!

B: I don't want to be a mommy. I don't want the doctor to cut me open to take the baby out.
Me: Um, you don't have to be cut open.
B: So, how can the baby get out, then?
Me: The doctor takes the baby out.
B: How?
Me: The mommy pushes, and the doctor gets the baby out.
B: Where does the baby come out, then?
Me: Hm?
B: Where? Like, on the mommy's body? Where. Does. The. Baby. Come. Out??
Me: So sorry, gotta get these zoo tickets. Let's talk about this later.

In bed, in the same room, at my sister's house:
M: BERIT! I love you.
B: I love you too, Marta.
M: And I love YOU!
B: And I love YOU!
M: You're my best friend.
B: I know, you're my best friend, too.

Take Note

This is the baby

Who went pee-pee on the potty for the first time today.

She is very proud.

Marta Speaks

Upon waking this morning:

"I'm going to get a tattoo of a cow on my belly. No, a horse."

And when Trevor put a blue shirt on:

"Daddy! That's a cool sweatshirt.... Cool, dude."

Briefs

Wildlife
We have a bird. Berit's named him Bladdy. He lives in a tiny little nest at the top of the column out the front door. He's starting to get used to us, but he doesn't stick around when we go in and out of the door. Hoping to hear the sound of baby birds! Hm. Better revise my pronouns...

Attitude
Berit, always dramatic, has had this attitude reminiscent of me at age 13. She comes down the stairs in the morning with a look of boredom and slight disdain, accepts the parental hugs and spends the rest of the day telling people what to do, talking back, and getting in trouble for both. Of course she is wonderful, but I do feel like every time she walks into the room lately, things get tense for all. Terrible 4s? Early adolescence?

Preschool
We finally made a decision about Berit's preschool for next year. We hate to leave PCN, but with the new baby coming and Marta already desperate to go to school herself, we just can't swing the volunteering twice a month per child. We're really excited about St. Francis preschool, which holds afternoon class (no more rushing in the mornings), is within walking distance from the new house and is at our church, so it's super familiar. Berit wants to start today. Because they have My Little Ponies.

Marta
What's she doing lately, at nearly 2 1/2? Climbing stairs (up and down), not napping, coming up with I Spy subjects all on her own (so the rest of us have to figure out what she spied), counting backward from 15, counting forward to 20 and sometimes 30, picking out her own clothes, going down the biggest slides, being: fearless, reckless, purposely funny. Every morning she asks, "Can I go to school today?" and when we pick Berit up she asks, "How was school today, Berit?"

Swimming
Last night was our last swim lesson. It's been going really well -- Berit is losing a lot of fear in the water and is taking chances. She's jumping off the bottom step and is trying to move between grown-ups without help (not quite swimming, but sort of leaping and splashing). Marta swims on a noodle completely on her own and jumps off the top step, provided we don't let her go under too much when we catch her. She stands on the bottom step and puts her head under water up to her eyes for a quick second. She's desperate to just take off in the water. Last night I was standing with another mom, her daughter, Marta and the instructor in the middle of the pool. Marta was on a noodle, and the other little girl asked for the one that was floating next to me. I turned to get it, and when I turned back Marta was sinking to the bottom. I know this happens to kids all the time, and Marta was fine after a second of sputtering when I pulled her out. But this has shaken me to the core. I can't get the image of her, helpless, flailing under the water, out of my head. I also know that this is probably only the first time Marta will scare me crazy with her daredevil stunts, but still. I think I'm a good mom, and if I wasn't paying enough attention, what should I expect from other caregivers, like her sitter and our family? OK, this is definitely extreme, but I can't help freaking out a little about this. If you're someone who cares for Marta, I apologize now for the list of warnings I'm going to give before I leave. Also, for the phone calls making sure all is well.

By the way, Marta was back on the noodle -- standing on it, this time, trying to balance in the water -- within minutes. Oh these children; they have no idea what they do to our hearts.

First Haircut

About a month or two ago I trimmed some of those flyaways from Marta's hair, but this morning was her first official haircut. When it was Berit's first trim there was all this attention about "Oh, you'll be so beautiful" and "Isn't this special?" And this morning we were like, "Oh hey, Marta, want to get your hair cut?" And she said, "Yup." She proceeded to be alternately "whatever" and over it while we were there:

Not accurately portraying the mullet, but still the last picture of her untouched-by-professional-hands hair.

Leaning back for a quick rinse. Doesn't she look like a baby?

"Whatever."

"Whatever."

"Get this cape off me!"

"Over. It."

Running away.

"I'LL DO IT!"

Snack at Julienne Tomatoes afterwards.

"Ah, food makes me happy."

Again With The Boobs

Note: We NEVER discuss this part of the body unless someone brings it up. Which is, like, never. Except when I've told you about it. So, maybe, twice. Therefore: Marta has a mind like a steel trap that fondly remembers nursing.

After swim lessons tonight, in the family changing room. I change out of my suit and try quickly to put on my bra and shirt.

Marta: Look. Look at those. Those are breasts.
Trevor: Cracks up.
Me: Yup.
Marta: Can I drink from those?
Trevor: Has morphed into high school sophomore.
Me: Nope.
Marta: I used to drink from those. When I was a baby. I was in your belly and then I drank from those.

Marta Speaks

Instead of yes: "Shhhhoooooore!"
And: "Yup-yup."

She has also begun increasing her compliments:
"I LOVE your ears."
"I LOVE your hair."
"I LOVE your whiskers, Daddy."

She started doing this a long time ago to obvious things, like people's scarves and earrings. Now she's simplifying, I guess.

In the car yesterday, on the way to pick Berit up from school:
Marta: "I want my Daddy."
Me: "Daddy's at work, but he'll be home soon."
Marta: "Daddy's SO CUTE! Daddy is my cutie-pie."
Me: "And what's Mama?"
Marta: "Mama is my BEST FRIEND."

Nostalgia

Tonight while we were playing before bedtime, Marta picked up a naked Barbie and pointed to her chest. "She has nurse," she said.

Marta weaned from nursing at about 19 months old -- that's eight months ago. We haven't brought it up since, except to mention "nurse" twice soon after she gave it up.

So I said, "WHAT?"

"She has nurse. Here." She pointed.

"She has breasts," I said.

"I eat Mama's breasts."

"Um. You drank milk out of Mama's breasts. The milk is gone now."

She was unfazed. She went on playing like nothing happened. I, on the other hand, got a little bit teary, to tell the truth.

Progression of a Funk

"Come on, Marta, let's take the movie back to the store."

"Ehhhhhhhhhh, noooooooooooooo." Slump.

"But I love it. I want to watch it."

"I'm gonna take it away. I'm gonna watch my Diego movie by my-SELF."

"You can't get it if I put it up here."

"It totally stayed. Wow."

"I don't know what to say. It's a miracle. I'm a genius. Did you see that? It's a movie, sitting on the ledge. You can't take that kind of achievement away from me."

Bits and Pieces

Berit and Marta have been playing this game lately, where Marta is "Marfa" and Berit is "Carfa." They just run around calling out, "Hey Marfa, what are you doing?" "Nothing Carfa, let's play." "OK Marfa."

At Berit's fourth birthday party she closed her eyes and wished, "I wish I could be a fairy forever" before blowing out the candles.

Moments before blowing out the candles she caught sight of Brennan, age 2, walking up to watch the candle ceremony and she instinctively reacted: "NO, MOSEY!"

Status Update

We've been ... busy! But of course, who isn't? Here's what we've been up to, in brief:

Physicals: We've all been thoroughly examined, tested, weighed, measured and declared healthy enough to bring a new baby into the family.

Home study: We're going in for our second meeting, individually this time, which is two of four in our home study, after which we will officially be linked with the orphanage in South Korea and our waiting game will begin. Not to worry! We won't get bored. We've got lots of required reading and classes to take online.

Well-child exam: Berit is 41 inches (75th percentile) and 35 pounds (50th percentile), and loves to twirl (that's totally medical, right?). She had a big-girl eye exam and hearing test and passed both just fine, with only the smallest beep on her right side being questionable. She continues to have a strong, healthy heart, and any SVT occurrence henceforth will not be fatal. I repeat: We are out of the scary, scary woods for good. Not that she's even had one since before she was born, but a mother can't help but be on guard when her child's heart is in question.

Fourth birthday and subsequent party: I do have photos and a story to go with it. I will post them this weekend. I hope.

Preschools: We have failed to do anything about a preschool for next year. Really, really I plan to go check out the afternoon preschool at our church. Next week, or maybe the week after.

House: First comes love, then comes the purchase agreement, then comes the closing in the baby carriage. We are still waiting for the purchase agreement. Still. Waiting.

Marta: I cut her hair. Just a little, and I saved a ringlet. It was getting pretty fuzzy, and after several consecutive nights of calling her "Larry from Dumb and Dumber," I decided to do something about it.

So, toss in a little family time and fish suppers on Friday nights and that's us in a nutshell. Help, help, we're trapped in a nutshell! Just kidding. We're fine in here.

And God Said, "Take That Kid Home."

We've been tossing around the idea of having another baby lately, as much as you can toss around an idea like that. We've been saying things like, "We should really talk about when we want to do that," and "Wow, Marta is already two; should we think about another?"

So when we thought we could be pregnant last month, we sort of shrugged our shoulders. "OK," we said. When I told my sister my suspicions, she told me to march to the nearest drug store and buy a test, right now, do not bother with the coat. Which is exactly what I would tell her, if she would just get on with it already.

But we weren't in a hurry. When we were trying to get pregnant for Berit, competition made us crazy. I'd start testing long before I really should, and each negative made me more determined that next month I would win! (Next month I'd experience the miracle of conception, I mean.)

When we became pregnant for Marta we were so shocked and unprepared that we spent the first few months (throwing up) staring at each other over the dinner table, speechless besides the occasional "Holy shit." (Note to Marta: We love you! We wouldn't have it any other way!) (Note to Berit: We stopped swearing when you began repeating what we said.)

But last month we were just, "Oh remember? I might be pregnant. Pass the salt."

I wasn't pregnant, by the way. But the universe began talking to me, flashing pregnant bellies everywhere I went, showing me moms walking around with those brand new, teensy tiny babies, putting families with new babies in my aisle at the grocery store (nevermind that it was Sunday and Dad was there too, and therefore life looked easy in that family). I became very, very aware of Marta's fleeting twoness, which I love so much.

I also watched a 12 a.m. episode of Kenda, that girl from the Playboy mansion who has her own show now and apparently just had a baby (you can tell how pop-culture savvy I am), where she is 9 months pregnant and actually has her baby in said episode. Of course I cried. Trevor and I marveled at just how pregnant she was; we couldn't remember my being that pregnant and just that fact alone made me want to be that pregnant again (though Trevor did keep saying, "LOOK at her. I just can't get past how big she is. LOOK at her. This is so weird." And we don't even know who she is, except that she's a Playboy girl so she is automatically hot and skinny to begin with, so what do we think he was thinking about me when I was 9 months pregnant???). Technically I don't care about being pregnant again, ever, but just watching the show and trying to remember it made me wish for it really quickly, just the feeling of the baby kicking, or the ridiculousness of it all.

So this morning, like every Sunday morning, we loaded up the kids and went to church. And like every Sunday morning, I sat in the gathering space with Marta, whose conversation voice is louder than Father Denny using a microphone. Oftentimes, louder than the entire choir.

She ran, twirled, screamed, kicked. She was happy to be at church, she was mad when Berit came back and I had to take her to the potty. She didn't like that those people right there were sitting kind of near to our coats. She loved loved LOVED LOVED that little baby over there, MAMA WHAT'S HER NAME WHAT'S HER MAMA'S NAME CAN I ASK HER I WANT TO ASK HER? She told me about every saint in the gathering space, and while she could explain that she wanted to sit "In front of that Jude," she couldn't quite remember "WHO'S THAT MAN, MAMA, WHOSE DADDY IS HE?" when she got to Jesus.

After 45 minutes of this, she twirled a record 50 times in a row then sat down and started crying because she wanted to sit with Daddy and Berit, who were comfortably and quietly sitting in the church proper, and yes she could be quiet YES SHE COULD and then she started doing those ACK! ACK! sounds that are babies' ways of saying mean things to you.

So we left. Kicking and screaming the whole way, we left the church, and I sat in the car saying to myself, "Oh sure, have another baby and you'll manage just fine, see? you can go to one place for one hour and manage to keep two children quiet, sure you can."

I think that, if God was purposely putting baby stuff in front of my face to send me a message, He would have given us one easy Mass, where we could sit and worship in peace with our little family, so we could say hey, we can do this. We are good at this. Maybe even the people behind us would tap us after Mass and say, "What good children you have!" like they used to when Berit was two and Marta was new and sleeping through church.

Just now, just after I typed 'church,' Marta woke up and started yelling, like maybe there was something seriously wrong, so I went in and picked her up and rocked her, and she fell asleep in my arms like she did when she was small. When I went to put her back in her bed she said, dreamily, "No, no sleep on the kitten."

Oh Marta. You are such a monster.

Two

Marta's running around next to me, a little runny in the nose and doing her dinosaur puzzle. She's obsessed with dinosaurs right now, like Berit was at this age.

After we dropped Berit off at school this morning, Marta and I headed downtown to look for a party dress for B, for her big fourth birthday in two weeks. We didn't find one but did find ourselves in a bookstore that we never go in, typically favoring McLean & Eakin because it's local and because it has donuts. This one today, though, was attached to the local children's store so we went in to amuse ourselves and I once again realized how loud Marta is.

I don't know why I'm constantly surprised by this. She's loud at home, but I think I'm used to it, much as parents on an airplane don't really notice their children kicking the seat in front of them, or parents in a restaurant don't mind when their kid turns around and waves and chats with the people in the booth behind them. I'm the parent who overlooks her kids' yelling.

It's not that Marta's crying or screaming. She's just talking, and she's got a lot to say. She also says it with tons of emphasis. "MOM! THAT'S A DINOSAUR!" "MOM! LOOK AT THE CARL BOOK!"

Now, at our favorite bookstore it's not that big of a deal, because in the kids' section we're sort of covered by shelves and displays. But here the kids' section was right by the cafe area, and we were getting lots of dirty looks from childless laptoppers, sipping coffee with the whole bookstore-chic atmosphere.

I remember that time. That's when Trevor and I used to say things like, "We'll never let toys take over our house," or, "Our kids will just enjoy doing what we do, because it's all they'll know."

Now I just don't care what those people think so much. No, I never let my kids get carried away. I don't let them go table to table, chatting with folks at the coffee shop. I don't let them yell across the room and if they start having a meltdown in the store, we just leave (provided we're not in the checkout or close to it). I think we're polite parents.

But the thing is -- this age is the coolest. Berit, at age just-about-4, is easy. We just tell her what is expected and 98 percent of the time she does it. Marta is wild (I wish this blog template would allow me to put 'wild' in squiggly green letters, which would better demonstrate the emphasis on the word). But she's curious and funny, smart and crazy. She says the coolest things, even when she says them loudly.

I remember when my sister-in-law, way back before we had kids, told me she didn't love the newborn stage (while of course loving a newborn itself). I thought that I was different, that I loved newborns the best because they were so tiny and sweet. Then I had one, and yes, they are very kitten-like and sweet and perfect, but they're not fun. This age, age 2, is the coolest. Everything is a miracle to 2-year-olds. They love the little noises you make with your tongue. They love finding shapes where you never thought to look. They think everything you do is cool. They still have their chubby baby bodies and don't mind cuddling, and they sometimes need baby-style rocking and loving in the middle of the night, while telling you neat stories about their dreams and making magical moments. They're independent enough to play by themselves for a half-hour. They love to dance in goofy ways. They are passionate, to the point of being very, very loud.

I think that, when the girls are grown, I'll think back to my babies and miss the littleness and newborn stage for the pure need to care for them, for the innate pull they had when they were brand new. But I will long for my 2-year-olds, before they were restrained for school or etiquette, before they worried about the lines of their socks and whether or not their ears would fall off in the cold (ahem).

I keep trying to commit every second of Marta's twoness to memory. The way she scoots across the floor with her round knees and chubby feet that remind me of Girl Scouts peanut butter cookies, with the layer of squishy peanut butter on the top. I hope the people at the grocery store we visit twice a week will remember the way she insists that they call her "Sugar Plum."

I know every age is special. But there's something about the freedom of two, of screaming "NO MAMA!" and "YES MAMA!" in the same breath, of honestly, truly believing you're a goldfish all while realizing that you are COOL when you wear your sister's sunglasses that is perfect.