OmegaMom

If you ever get upset or embarrassed by something your toddler has done while in a store or in public, take heart.

At least your toddler didn’t dance all over some Tibetan monks’ sand mandala…

This evening the dotter was busy building a house/restaurant/castle in the living room.  She insisted I lie down on the futon and be served by “Melissa”.  Melissa (the dotter) is possibly the owner of the establishment; I was told she was “kind of a waitress, but also kind of a doctor.”  After which, the dotter gave a very French style of shrug.  I have no idea where this shrug has come from, but she’s using it fairly often these days, and it lends a certain je ne sais quoi to our interactions.

OmegaDad came over to peer at us in curiosity, and the dotter informed me that he was “The Officer of the Bakery”.  Then she told OmegaDad that I was “the staying customer”.  I had to stay there forever, she told me, and when I objected, she said, “Oh, you can take my car!”

But this morning, in the car, was even better.  There was some grand flight of imagination that made me laugh, that I thought I should share with people.  The problem is:  I don’t remember it.  Oh, I remember noting it in my head, and saying to myself, “I need to remember this one!”  But less than 12 hours later, it’s a blank.

Some people are veritable recording devices when it comes to their kids’ utterances.  I am in awe.  I tend to have episodes like the above all the time, and it frustrates me.  The dotter is a font of cuteness, strange collections of pseudo-stream-of-consciousness all stitched together by her imagination.  I would like to share it with people.

I read blogs where the parental units recite, word-for-word, utterly cute things their kids said that day, and I seethe with envy.

My memory is a patchwork, a thing of lace and tatters.  Half of the reason for this blog is so that I can lay out this piece of the lacery, and that piece–kind of like those photographs of what archeologists do with old papyrus documents when they’re piecing them together.

I find myself grasping at the memories, and putting them down on paper (or computer) whenever I can, because they flit out of my head so quickly.  I would like to say that this is a recent development, an outgrowth of my dalliance with menopause, but, alas, it is not so; the faulty memory is a constant in my life.

My Unka Bill has a phenomenal memory; at the age of 70-something, he can chit-chat with my mother and recite specific things that people did or said when they were two and four.  My husband has an interesting take on memory abilities:  he can remember complete lyrics to obscure ’60s rock-and-roll songs and entire scenes from movies (though he can’t remember, for instance, that the dotter was to visit Miss Louise, our OT, yesterday).

We went to China only four years ago to meet the dotter and bring her home.  An amazingly emotional journey.  Something that you would think would live on in one’s memory for years, indelible, movie-like in its clarity.  My memories?  A few snapshots, a vignette or two.  I cannot remember holding OmegaDotter for the first time–so I rely on the photos from the trip, and I feel dreadfully guilty about this.

Anyway, I thought the “Officer of the Bakery” was cute enough to put down on paper, so when the dotter is 25, I can open up this blog entry and remember it.

Technorati: Memory

At ten to noon, I get a phone call at the office from OmegaDad.  OmegaDotter’s teacher had called him, saying OD didn’t feel well and was running a low fever.

The dotter was sick yesterday, in that horrid, cranky, whiny way that kids who are somewhat sick are, as compared to the deep, quiet misery of kids who are really sick.  We stayed home yesterday.  This morning, though, no fever, no cranky whinies, pretty much normal kiddo, so I took her in.

So I pack it in and head off to preschool–no big surprise that her fever is back.

When I arrive there’s the dotter sitting at the table, bouncing and smiling.  My mommy radar goes off.  Miss M., her teacher, says in a dubious voice, “Well, she was sick yesterday, and she hasn’t been feeling good, and she does have a low fever…”

How low is low?  99-something.  Hmmm. 

On the way home, she’s smiling and singing and dancing and giggling and happy.

Let me tell you, this child is not sick.

Half of me is laughing, the other half is going, “Grrrr.”  I have made it quite clear that this is not to happen again (you can tell she knows I know she isn’t sick).  I lectured her about what Mean Mommies do in this situation, about how next time this happens, she will be put to bed pronto, since she’s so sick.  I made her take ibuprofen (ewww!).

OmegaDad, like me, was halfway laughing, halfway not, when I called him to tell him we had all been played.  “That little shit!” were his exact words.

That little shit, indeed.

Technorati: Parenting