Coco the Two Year Old

I realize it’s been a very long time since I’ve last written.  I think it’s mostly because it has been very hard to top the Costco/Penis incident of July.  But if something that eventful hasn’t happened in the past four months, it probably never will.  Knock on wood.  I may as well get back to blogging the more mundane details of life at the Claussen’s.

Nicole turned two on October 6th, and while her vocabulary has not significantly grown, she has.  The doctor claims that at 34.5” tall, she is taller than just 55% of her peers, but that can’t be right.  The kid towers over her fellow two year olds.  She can open door knobs.  She can reach the TV in our entertainment center, and she turns it off and on at will.  But her height is nothing compared to her weight.  Her pediatrician bluntly told us that she weighs as much as the average three year old (she’s 28 lbs 9 oz).  Add to that a shriek that can shatter windows, and you have a force to be reckoned with.  A very cute force.

Nicole, the not-so-terrible-two-year-old

Cole still sucks her thumb and has a purple ‘blankie’ that must go everywhere with us.  Anytime she is hurt, gets in trouble, or receives a stern look, her lower lip begins to tremble, and she pulls her hands up to her chest, the sign for blanket in ASL.  I know eventually we’ll want to break the thumb-sucking-blankie-carrying habit, but right now it has its definite advantages: A.  She sleeps like a champ (12 hours a night, 3 hours for naps)  B.  She is easily placated and C.  It’s just really darn cute.  Not everyone can pull off the ‘Linus’ look, but Nicole definitely can.

Cole, with her thumb, her blankie, and her Allie.

A few more of Cole’s favorite things: babies, Tow Mater, football and cheese-balls.  She loves carrying baby dolls around, and she has a few favorites.  Mostly, the naked babies.  Nicole loves to undress her dolls, and few things make her happier than carrying a naked baby around by its ankle.  

Tow Mater, the push toy Nicole got for Christmas last year, is her very favorite mode of transportation.  She can really fly on that guy too; she motored all the way to the elementary school and back, which is close to a mile.  No easy feat, and Mater is looking more and more like Mater everyday.  

Coco with her faithful steed.

Her love of football may really just be a love of staying up late watching TV with Mom and Dad, but she does raise her hands in the air and yell, ‘ball ball’ at the top of her lungs every time a game is on.  

Oddly, ‘ball-ball’ is also her way of saying cheese-ball.  Fortunately for me I can differentiate the two because when she is talking about cheese-balls she always points at the neighbors’ house, where she and the spherical cheetoh were first introduced.  Almost every time we walk by, she points at their front door and says, ‘ball ball’ in a hopeful sort of way.  

Not quite as revered as the cheese-ball, but still pretty good.

“Curious George” has become a source of constant background noise in our house, as Nicole adores him.  She throws her hands in the air and makes monkey noises until we turn it on for her.  I think she can really relate to him as their communication skills are almost identical.  She gets particularly excited whenever the man with the yellow hat comes on; she will come and get me yelling ‘ooh, ooh, aah, Dada!’  Allie always jumps in at this point and explains that George’s real daddy is not a man but a monkey.  She is almost five and is an expert in most things.

In fact, Allie is an expert in so many things that I simply don’t have time to get into them all now.  That, my friends, will have to wait for the next blog entry...which will hopefully not be four months from now.

Sunday Morning Mayhem

For us, Sunday morning is often Costco day.  It’s a ludicrous thing to do.  “Let’s go to Costco on the most crowded day of the week with a four year old and an almost two year old.  That will be so much fun!” said no one ever.

But to Costco we go.  I am a creature of habit, and I like to do my shopping for the week on Sundays, crowds be darned.  I had the girls completely ready to go by 9:30 AM in the hopes we could pull in by ten and beat most of the after-church mob.  To my knowledge, Chris was still sleeping, so I sent the girls in to say, “goodbye” before we left.

I was mistaken.  Chris wasn’t actually sleeping, but using the bathroom.  With the door wide open.  I got there in time to witness this sequence of events: 

A.   Nicole ran up and threw her little arms around Daddy’s left leg.

B.  Allison accosted him from the other side, simultaneously waving and trying to figure out how it was possible for one to pee standing up. 

C.  Chris turned to block Allie’s view and at the same time tried to dislodge the small toddler attached to his calf.

When I was finished laughing, I herded the girls downstairs and in to the mud room to put on shoes.  That is when Allison looked me in the eye and asked evenly, “Can you tell me what boys have growing out of their bottoms?”  She placed her fist in the appropriate place to clarify.  (I should explain: everything between the belly button and the top of the legs, on the back or front, is known to Allie simply as, “the bottom”.  Thus far, I have not corrected her.)

I responded as casually as possible, “That’s called a penis.”  I hoped that I might get lucky and the conversation would be over, but I could see the wheels turning behind her big brown eyes.  That’s when she dropped the bomb: “Mommy, will you please tell me everything you know about the penis?”

I fumbled for one more way out.  “Um, sure honey.  In the car.”  I thought she might forget by the time we got everybody buckled in, but no such luck.

The moment I put the car in reverse, Allie’s little voice rang out clearly, “Ok.  Let’s talk about the penis now.”

I wanted to be as honest as possible, without telling her more than she needed to know.  All those commercials about how important it is to have open communication with your children scared the bejeezus out of me.  What if I did it wrong and she felt like she couldn’t speak to me about these things, and she ended up pregnant and STDd at 14?!?  I should have called that hotline when I had the chance.

I settled for telling her not everything I  know about the penis, but what I thought she should know at this age.  Basically, that boys have it and girls don’t, and that it is where their ‘pee-pee’ comes out.  I also tried to emphasize that while it was perfectly okay for her to talk about it with mommy or daddy, it wasn’t something she needed to discuss with other adults or her friends at this time.

There were a few more questions, but thankfully, Allie is a four year old and has the attention span of one, so she suddenly asked, “Mommy, can you tell me about how my heart works?”

Honestly, I couldn’t.  But I gratefully launched into a barrage of every detail I could remember from highschool anatomy class until the conversation took another turn.  “Mommy, is it true that at every birthday I get more toys?  And more cards?”  Thank goodness for the four year old attention span.

It was about this time that we pulled into the parking lot of Costco, and we waited with the other heathens to charge the doors at promptly ten o’clock.  The shopping trip went much as it usually does, with a lot of “Can we get that?”, “No.”, and a side of “Nicole, stop poking your finger into the chocolate chip cookies.”

We made it through the check out line (and the line for people who forgot to use their coupons) before getting in line for our celebratory hotdogs.  Allison asked for her half-dollars, which she had earlier stashed in the pocket of my elastic waisted shorts that I’ve been living in since I was 9 months pregnant with Nicole.  I distractedly told her to wait a minute as I attempted to juggle Nicole, two soda cups, and two hotdogs.

I was about to fill the first drink at the beverage station when I felt my shorts slide down to my ankles.  Allison, in her effort to retrieve her precious half-dollars from my pocket, had pantsed me.  It’s possible that if I weren’t holding so many things, I could have pulled my shorts back up with out any one noticing.  It’s possible that I could have set everything down and quietly pulled them back up with just a few people noticing.  But in my shock and horror of finding myself in the food court of Costco without any pants, I yelled, “ALLISON!!” 

I did not use my inside, six inch voice.  I did not use my six foot voice.  I idiotically bellowed, “Allison,” loudly enough that everyone in the crowded store turned to stare.  At least I assume they did.  I was too busy being mortified to get an accurate head count.  But I guarantee at least a few of the ‘after-church’ crowd now has an image burned into their brain that they wish they didn’t.

I guess I shouldn’t have laughed at Chris’ predicament this morning.  Karma’s a b#%^&.

Culinary Concoctions: Cinnamon Ice Cream Swirl

The Original Recipe.  Why does it look like an 8 year old wrote it?

A few days ago, Allison told me she wanted to make a recipe card for my recipe box.  “Great,” I thought, “This will probably be cute and a nice keepsake.”

She got out some paper, handed me a pen and without further ado, began to dictate her culinary masterpiece.  “This is called Cinnamon Ice Cream Swirl,” she stated seriously.  “Did you write that down, Mommy?”

The recipe went like this:

Ingredients:
    4 scoops sugar
    1 little teaspoon milk
    1 cake
    Cinnamon; 4 or 1 or 2 scoops so there is enough room for the sprinkles
    1 Candle on top; optional
    2 cups flour
    1 cup oil
    2 eggs

Directions:
    Put it in the stove so you can bake it really well.  You can make it tall or little, but it takes a long time to bake the big one, so be careful.

When I was finished writing it down, Allie drew a picture of the finished product at the bottom.  The circles are cinnamon and the ‘x’s are where she put too much cinnamon and crossed some out.

I was surprised that the recipe for Cinnamon Ice Cream swirl did not include any ice cream, but who was I to judge?

Allie carefully folded her recipe and tucked it neatly into my recipe box.  Then she tiptoed into the family room where Chris was watching TV.  “Daddy, guess what!” she whispered excitedly.  Well, she tried to whisper.  Allie has many wonderful qualities but stealth is not among them.

“Tomorrow, I am going to wake you up early and we are going to make my recipe for Mommy!!!!”  She made her eyes super big and turned her mouth into an ‘o’ of surprise for effect.  She stared at Chris expectantly until he noticed her and said, “What?  Yeah, okay, that sounds good.”

Which is hilarious because Chris never agrees so easily to anything that requires him to get up earlier than he absolutely has to.  I enjoyed a good chuckle before putting the kids to bed, figuring Allie would forget her recipe by morning.

Only she didn’t.  She asked if we could make it the following day.  And the next day.  And the day after that.  Finally, Saturday rolled around.  We usually do something out of the ordinary for breakfast on Saturday: chocolate chip pancakes or blueberry buckle.  This Saturday, Allie convinced me to try making “Cinnamon Ice Cream Swirl,” which would definitely be out of the ordinary.

Allison was ecstatic.  She gathered ingredients and bowls and measuring spoons and pulled a chair up to the island to begin baking.  Nicole, of course, had to pull up a chair as well.  She requested her milk and her cheerios (with signs--she still isn’t talking), and settled in with what can only be described as an, “oh, this is going to be good,” sort of expression.

Fortunately, since Allison had used some rather vague measurements in her recipe, I was able to doctor it as we went.  Unfortunately, I am far from gifted in culinary pursuits, and I had no idea how to doctor it in a way that would make the final product edible.

In the end, we made these changes:
    1 cup sugar (4 scoops with a 1/4 c measuring cup)
    1 heaping 1/4 teaspoon of cinnamon (so as to leave plenty of room for sprinkles)
    omit the ‘cake’
    omit the candle
    1/2 cup oil instead of 1 cup
    We also added 1/4 teaspoon salt and one and a half teaspoons baking soda    

Allison dumped all the ingredients in our kitchen-aid mixer bowl while Nicole pointed and grunted in a helpful sort of way.  We turned on the mixer and watched.  I was curious what kind of consistency we were going to be dealing with--Allie hadn’t really specified if this was a cake, a cookie, a biscuit, or something entirely new.

After a couple of minutes, she switched off the mixer.  “There, that’s just right,” she announced.  Nicole and I peered into the bowl.  It looked.......sticky.  Thicker than cake batter, but maybe a bit runny for cookies or biscuits.  I raised my eyebrows and looked at Allison for guidance.

“CAKE PAN, PLEASE!” she asserted.  I greased a 9x9 glass pyrex pan and spread the gooey mixture as best I could.  Allison oversaw my progress with words of encouragement: “Make sure you swirl, Mommy.  It’s Cinnamon Ice Cream SWIRL, remember?!”

When it was sufficiently swirled, we stuck it in the oven at 350, and I set a timer for 20 minutes.  About 10 minutes passed before Allison suddenly bellowed, “The topping!  We forgot the topping!!”

The 'cake' after the topping was added.

This was news to me, as I recalled nothing about a topping from the original recipe.  However, I mixed a teaspoon of cinnamon with a tablespoon of sugar (Allison remembered this particular ‘topping’ from making snickerdoodles), and Allie added about a half a jar of red sprinkles for good measure.  We took the cake out of the oven and spread our sugary mixture somewhat evenly over the top.  Allison added more and more sprinkles until I finally took the container out of her hands.  Then we popped it back in the oven.

After a total of about 30 minutes, the cake passed the toothpick test, and we took it out to cool.  It actually smelled pretty good, and the edges had puffed up nicely.  However, there was a big chunk in the center that sunk down, and it continued to sink as the cake cooled.

The highly accurate toothpick test.

I tentatively cut a couple of slices.  Allison took a bite and exclaimed, “Mmmmm, delicious!”  She had maybe two more small bites before wandering off to watch “My Little Ponies”.  Nicole, on the other hand, was a HUGE fan of the cake.  She ate most of my slice and part of Allie’s.

Surprisingly, I think the cake has some potential.  The edges tasted kind of like a cinnamon scone.  It’s biggest downfall was that it didn’t bake properly in the center...maybe it was really destined to be more of a biscuit?  If we ever make ‘Cinnamon Ice Cream Swirl’ biscuits, we’ll be sure to let you know how they turn out.

Taste-testers.  Nicole REALLY wanted that cake.

The Things That Matter

Everything that I’m about to write has been said before.  But it hasn’t been said by me, at least not outside my closest friends and family.  Some of you will read this and agree with every word.  Others will vehemently oppose it.  And let’s be honest, my blog doesn’t get that many hits, so the vast majority of the population will never read it at all.  But that doesn’t mean it’s not worth writing...



When it comes to people, there are things that matter.  It matters that they are kind and polite.  Respectful and tolerant.  It is a happy bonus if they are witty or clever, talented or hilarious.

And there are things that don’t matter:  the color of a person’s eyes, the color of their skin.  Whether they make six figures or minimum wage.  The sports teams they support.  The church they choose to attend, or not attend.  The music they sing in their car.  Whether they are attracted to men or women.

Yup, I said it.  And I mean it.  Which is why whenever I see yet another protest against same-sex marriage, or another piece of legislation that sets out to ban it, I think to myself, “What a colossal waste of time.”  There are people starving all over the world.  There are people right here in the United States that can’t afford to take their kids to the doctor.  There are people who are unemployed, homeless, and terminally ill.

There are certainly issues that are worth addressing and correcting.  Two consenting adults promising to love and protect each other is simply not one of them.  Marriage needs to be an institution available to everyone, everywhere.  Period.

And I have yet to hear a shred of evidence to the contrary.  Yes, I’ve heard the commonly touted lines: “Protect the sanctity of marriage!” Divorce rates are at an all time high.  We have reality shows that end with marriage proposals.  Marriage today may have problems, but the sex of its members is not one of them. 

    “What will I tell my children?”  I know what I will tell mine.  Two people get married when they are in love and in a committed relationship which they wish to have acknowledged and recognized legally.
 
“God meant for marriage to be between one man and one woman!”  If there is a god that is worth following, we will be judged not for allowing acts of love, but for allowing acts of hatred.

And the kicker?  Few of the people who are so vehemently opposed to same-sex marriage will actually be affected by it.  Did you notice when Jill and Joe Schmoe from two cities over got married?  Unless you knew the happy couple, probably not.  So why would you notice if Jill and Jane Doe got married?  This world needs as many examples of everlasting love as it can get.

In February, Washington State lawmakers voted to make same-sex marriage legal.  However, opponents of the law gathered enough signatures to require that the matter be added to the November ballot.  If you believe in marriage equality, please vote to approve Referendum 74!  If you do not believe in marriage equality, please do not vote at all.  Kidding, kidding.  Mostly. ;)

The Fairy-Unicorn-Rainbow Princess

Growing up, I was not exactly what you’d call a girly-girl.  I despised dresses almost as much as I loathed the lace tights that accompanied them.  My idea of style was pairing teal socks with teal shorts and a teal tee-shirt.  I would complete my monochromatic look with a teal windbreaker and four teal barrettes.  I wore my hair in two pigtails every day until the 6th grade, and I wore my pants pulled up so high that they were dual functioning; I was able to delay the purchase of a bra by a full year.  Lovely visual, yes?  [Picture of me in my Bra-nts to come if my parents can round one up...]

Things got slightly better for me with the re-invention of low-rise jeans (a godsend for the short-waisted) and a few months of access to TLC’s, “What not to Wear.”  My hair was eventually introduced to those mane taming essentials: the hair dryer, the curling iron and my personal favorite, the flat iron.  I learned a few make-up tricks, and my sister got me mostly up to speed on the importance of accessories.  With enough time and motivation, I can fake a sense of style for an evening or two, but mostly, I still rock the pony-tail-no-make-up-tee-shirt-and-jeans look that has been my signature style for the past twenty or so years.

Allie looking fierce in her chosen outfit.

You can imagine my surprise when my first daughter turned out to be Allison.  At 18 months old, she owned more purses than I did.  She was expressing strong opinions on her clothing before she turned two.  By the age of three, Allie had sworn off jeans in lieu of dresses (preferably pink or purple).  I recently discovered her in her room wearing a green tutu, a butterfly patterned tunic top and bright pink leggings.  “I bet you never thought of putting this outfit together!” she exclaimed proudly.

Allie’s favorite color is rainbow, and she wants to be a princess when she grows up.  Specifically, she hopes to be Princess Tiana.  I have caught her staring wistfully out her window on several occasions, whispering, “I wish I had a pet unicorn.”  She details the proper way her hair should be done, and is constantly seeking out new nail polish colors for her self performed manicures and pedicures.

Princess training.  Note the mani.

And she is more than happy to share her fashion knowledge with me, her poor style-stunted mother.  She brushes my hair and paints my nails, and is forever hoping to pick out my clothes.  Awkwardly, she gravitates towards the silky negligés that have been stashed in the back of my closet since Chris’ and my honeymoon six years ago, but she is usually placated with a casual dress and some jewelry.

My eldest daughter may be one of the girliest-girls I know, but she still has some not-so-girly interests.  She loves to dig in the garden with Chris and run barefoot in the back yard.  Her newly found love of He-man (thank you, Netflix) has made her more adept at playing super heroes: instead of whacking hulk with a sword while screaming, “piñata,” she now makes The Abomination skulk up to an opponent, and in her lowest register she growls, “You can’t handle me!”

I don’t know where life will lead Allison, but I am sure that wherever she goes, she will go in style.

Allie and her lady in waiting, going in style.

Bananas and Leprechauns

What I’m about to reveal may shock you.  In fact, you may want to sit down first.  Here goes:  my family goes through 28 bananas a week.  Yup.  Twenty-eight.  As in two shy of thirty. 

A lot of Bananas, but not all 28

I know what you are thinking, because it is probably one of the same things the surprised cashiers can’t help themselves from blurting out when I appear at their registers each week with enough bananas for an entire sex-ed class:

“Wow, you must really like bananas.”
“Heh, that’s a lot of bananas.”
“Whooah.  How many bananas do you have here?!?”
And my personal favorite: “Heheh.  Do you have a monkey? Heheheh.”

My response?  “Yes. Yep. Twenty-Eight. And no, unless you count these two brown eyed beauties swinging from my cart.”

But it’s really not as bad as it sounds.  Four people eating one banana a day just adds up quickly.  Chris takes one to work every morning, and Allison has been eating an entire banana with breakfast since she was 11 months old.  Nicole reliably eats all but the last two inches of hers.  (I’m convinced she believes the end of the banana is merely the ‘handle’ which is meant to be unceremoniously discarded over the side of her booster seat each morning.)  And me?  I see bananas as a vessel for my daily dose of Nutella.

I wonder if we could get a banana tree to grow in our basement.  It would probably save us a bundle.

On an entirely different note, I received an interesting email from WeightWatchers yesterday.  I haven’t actually participated in WeightWatchers in ages, but occasionally they send me a “We miss you” postcard or email to try to entice me to put down the cake and get back on track.  I usually just put my fork down long enough to hit ‘delete’ before moving on, but the subject line of this one caught my eye: “Slim down for St. Patrick’s Day!”

Really?  For St. Patrick’s Day?  I can see wanting to slim down for summer, what with all the sleeveless tops and swimsuits and all.  I can even see wanting to slim down for Christmas (all those family photos).  But St. Patrick’s Day?  Do they think I want to look good in my leprechaun costume?  Because if I recall, leprechauns are pretty short and stocky, and my costume has never fit so well.

Or perhaps they mean I should slim down to look good when I go hit the pubs.  Two problems with this theory:  A.  I am no longer childless and twenty-something, so the only thing I hit on a Saturday evening is the couch.  And B.  Even if I did go to the pub, nothing melts away your body’s imperfections like other people’s high blood alcohol levels.

Sorry, WeightWatchers.  You’re not getting me back this time.  But let me know when bikini season is nigh; it may be just the motivation I need.

Speaking of not dieting, I found the most wonderful thing at Costco while perusing the samples.  I can’t remember what they are called, but they are like chocolate-covered-pringles from heaven, and I highly recommend them to anyone trying to gain ten pounds before St. Pat’s Day (I know not everyone is blessed with a naturally perfect leprechaun build, but with a little work, you can get there).

The Clapper

Friday night Chris and I watched the movie, “Money Ball” with Brad Pitt.  Well, starring Brad Pitt.  He was, much to Chris’ delight, not lying in bed with us.  It was a pretty good movie, and I especially liked that the people in charge didn’t add the usual Hollywood romance/drama to what was already a perfectly interesting plot.  Don’t get me wrong, I love romantic movies as much, if not much more, than anyone else.  But I don’t like when the sexy half-naked girl is added to a ‘based on a true story’ movie that didn’t originally have a sexy half-naked girl part of the story.  Because let’s face it, the sexy half-naked girl just isn’t in nearly as many true stories as Hollywood makes her out to be.  Anyway, Money Ball is a good, interesting movie based on a true story whose only downfall is that it’s based on a true story and thus does not end the way I wanted it to [Spoiler Alert:  Despite Brad’s and my favorite character, Stan’s, best efforts, the Oakland A’s still don’t win a world series on a miniscule budget].  But I digress.  This blog, as the title suggests, is not a review of ‘Money Ball’. 

After our Friday night movie was over, Chris and I had our usual discussion about who should turn off the lamp.  I’m really not sure why this discussion comes up.  Our lamp consists of a squat blue base, an equally squat blue shade, and a fluorescent lightbulb that precariously holds the two parts together.  Because the lamp has been with Chris longer than I have, I can only guess at its origins.  My hypothesis is that it was bought at the “Getting Ready for College” section of a Wal-mart or Target about ten years ago when Chris was actually getting ready for college.  But I mean no disrespect to the lamp.  I am simply making the point that the lamp is Chris’ and thus resides on his night stand on his side of the bed.  It just doesn’t make sense for me to turn off the lamp.  Ever.

And now, I finally arrive at my point:  I’m pretty sure this is exactly why the American public warmed so quickly to that little device known simply as, The Clapper.  But where is The Clapper now?  The last time I saw one was when Dad hooked it up to my sister’s and my little personal Christmas tree in our room.  Of course, now that I think about it, The Clapper didn’t really respond very well to clapping.  It worked much better if you made this loud ‘PSSSsssst’ noise instead.  [As in, “Psst, hey kid?  Do you want some candy?” only much louder].  I have fond memories of pretending to fall asleep at night while secretly psst-ing the Christmas tree on and off with Laura.

So maybe The Clapper didn’t make it to the 21st Century because it wasn’t properly named.  Perhaps The Psst-er would still be alive and well.  Or maybe The Clapper did make it to the 21st Century, and I just haven’t noticed.  But one thing is for sure, if I happen across The Clapper, and it is reasonably priced, I will be purchasing two of them.

My Psst-ing Partner in Crime and Me (And Santa, though I don't think he had anything to do with The Clapper)

 

 

 

Her Majesty, Hurricane Cole

It’s been a while since I’ve written.  So long, in fact, that I’ve forgotten most of the details of what’s happened over the last couple of months.  The short version?  We moved to Missouri.  We painted.  We painted.  Christmas.  And here we are, suddenly at the end of January.  I will try to do better now that things have calmed down, but I’m not making any promises.  After all, there is still season five of Friday Night Lights, the new John Green book, and my fifth re-reading of the Harry Potter series to contend with.

I believe last I wrote, Nicole wasn’t even walking yet.  She is now walking, running, and destroying everything in her path.  Hence her nickname, Hurricane Cole.  She goes from room to room, dumping items from the toy bins, my diaper bag, anything with dumping capabilities.  She sits in her lion-themed booster seat surreptitiously flinging cheerios with reckless abandon when she thinks I’m not looking.  She tips bowls full of macaroni off her tray when I am looking.  She steps on the cereal that litters our floor after mealtimes, smiling gleefully at the satisfying crunch.  She carries her bottles up-side-down around the living room, grinning mischievously as the milk drips out onto the floor.  And when she is not smiling gleefully or grinning mischievously, Nicole is laughing her low, distinctive laugh.  It’s not really a giggle, perhaps more of a loud, throaty, chortle.  Her laugh is so out of place on a tiny one year old that it throws us all into fits of hilarity.  It almost makes up for all the messes I have to clean up.  Almost.

Hurricane Cole and the Chili Graffiti

At her 15 month well baby visit, the doctor was surprised, but not concerned, by Cole’s lack of verbal skills.  Dr. Buffa suspects that because she is so proficient in non-verbal communication, she has little need to speak.  I couldn’t agree more.

It amazes me how much that little girl can say without saying a word.  The other day she came up to me and raised her chubby little arms in the air.  It was obvious that she wanted to be picked up, and I obliged.  She grinned, clearly pleased.  I grinned back.  That was easy.

Then she looked at me, grunted, and pointed in the direction of the kitchen.  Her majesty needed a ride.  I took her into the kitchen and put her down.  She walked over to her booster, pushed it out from under the table, and tapped the seat with her index finger.  After I secured her in her seat, with her bib and tray in place, I got a box of Kix Cereal out of the pantry.  I held the box out for Nicole to see.  She shook her head slightly.  I touched the crackers, the cheerios, and a container of pureed green beans.  With each item she shook her head more vigorously and began to yell.  I finally held out a container of applesauce.  Nicole stopped crying immediately, and a smile reappeared on her face.  The queen, it seemed, was pleased, if only momentarily.

The Queen in her Throne

Though Nicole is the master of non-verbal communication, our house is far from quiet.  Allison continues to talk enough for the both of them.  One of her more memorable quotes as of late:  “When I grow up I’m going to be a princess.  Or a mail carrier.”
You can’t say she’s not ambitious.  Until next time...

Allie practicing to be a princess (or a mail carrier)