A full day by 9 a.m.

And so it is that tomorrow is the first day of classes. And, for now, we think we're ready. It's absolutely amazing how much preparation goes into the first day of school that has NOTHING to do with school when you have a two year old. See, Chris teaches at 8 o'clock in the morning and I teach at 9:00 a.m. This means that by the time our students have barely rolled out of bed to cruise into either of our classes we will have done the following.

5:50 a.m.: Wake up to the sound of "Mommy!!! Mooooooommmmmmmmmyyy!! "
5:52 a.m.: Happily welcome soft baby into our bed.
5:53 a.m.: Rethink decision to invite soft baby into bed when soft baby uses us as climbing apparatus.
5:58 a.m.: Turn on Disney channel to catch The Wiggles (translation: permission to lay in bed for at least 20 minutes.)
6:20 a.m.: Honor the request, "I have oap-meal?"
6:21 a.m.: Make oatmeal while carrying Felicity in my arms. Carefully pour apple juice while balancing Felicity and oatmeal. Contemplate whether this is considered today's workout.
6:23 a.m.: Put in and take out at least four dvds until Felicity settles on one.
6:28 a.m.: Zone out to various kiddie dvd. Decide the Wiggles actually are good. Make note that we will go to their concert. Laugh at self for putting Wiggles on par with U2.
6:45 a.m.: Read (or at least take out) every book on the bookshelf.
7:00 a.m.: Read "Goodnight Gorilla" for the nine hundredth time and pretend to be surprised that the Gorilla follows the zookeeper home. Consider prospects for Academy Award.
7:15 a.m.: Trade off with Chris so I can straighten hair, get dressed, and give illusion that I am a young, hip, and well-rested professor.
7:25 a.m.: (YES. That's TEN minutes to get ready. TEN. T-E-N.) Get Felicity dressed. Persuade her that ruby slippers are not good for running. Sneak barrette in her hair. Bribe her to finish her breakfast. Explain that everything she wants to do (play play-doh, draw with markers, eat ice cream, watch Baby Einstein, etc.) can be done later. Cross fingers that she will forget some of those promises.
7:40 a.m.: Begin pilgrimage to the car.
7:50 a.m.: Arrive at car after investigating cracks on sidewalk, various dead bugs, discussing the "big kids" at the bus stop, and playing chase.
7:56 a.m.: Get stopped by train. Make choo-choo noises. Talk about the caboose.
8:15 a.m.: Arrive at daycare. Gather gear. Put on fake excited voice about how this is going to be a great day. Consider Academy Award prospects again.
8:25 a.m.: Sadly leave Felicity playing with friends and learning to share. Make promise to self to get back to daycare by 4. Realize that it will probably be more like 5. Decide to not think about it.
8:40 a.m.: Hold espresso in hands. Decide it is crack for parents of young children. Think about how Starbuck's is gift from God.
8:55 a.m.: Arrive at office. Gather materials for teaching.
9:00 a.m.: Show up at class. Hand out syllabus. Consider that hardest thing students had to do this morning was turn off alarm.

Sigh.

Eating Dinner

I have to admit that I do think it's pretty cool that my 2 year old likes Thai Food (tai-foo) and salmon (sa-meeen) and, well, don't go calling DCFS, but she also likes beer. As it turns out, though, her palate isn't as adventurous as I once thought. Her new favorite? Grilled cheese and tomato soup. We've already had it twice this week. And while I'm a bit starved for variety, I can't help but eat it just so as to see this:

Further Evidence That Her Genes Are Pink

Mommy: "Felicity, where are you going?"

Felicity: "Ahm go-weeng ta da stowe"

Mommy: "What are you going to buy?"

Felicity: "Ummmm...purpuh shooz."

Jokes

There comes a point in one's life as a parent, I think, where you finally stop having to sell yourself on the activities that you have committed yourself to and actually begin to consider them to be fun. What do I mean?

Well, for one thing, I used to look in the window at Gymboree and see these tired mommies and daddies running after their children on colored mats and climbers and think, "Thank God that's not me" as I made my way to Banana Republic to purchase a dry-clean-only silk shirt or something else that, today, would not be practical.

But I have to wonder if there's some sort of a brainwashing that comes with parenthood. For instance, I remember thinking that labor pains were the worst possible pains that anyone could have had and that, if I were a horse in that much pain, I would have been shot. But I also remember the nurse saying that I'd soon forget about these pains. And, lo and behold, I actually have heard myself say to a soon-to-be Mom, "Oh labor, yeah, it was bad, but not that bad."

But I am beginning to think that the brainwashing goes well beyond just the birthing pain. There's a brainwashing about what used to be considered "fun" and what now has replaced that old "fun."

Previous fun: drinking, late-night movies, gourmet dinners, sleeping in til 10, long phone conversations, a good book, vacations.

New fun: ice cream stores, DVDs of television shows, dinners that Felicity will eat, sleeping in til 7:30, quick calls on the way to the store, a good magazine article, trips to the mall.

Along with this new "fun" is also a new sense of humor that has been informed a ton by what Felicity finds funny. Right now she thinks that changing the words of songs is hil-ar-ious. So, instead of "Mary Had a Little Lamb" we have "Ti-ti had a little lamb." And instead of "Big Red Car" we sing "Big White Car." And she laughs as though it's the funniest thing she ever heard. And we laugh at her laughing. And, for a split second, I actually, honestly, totally and completely think that Ti-ti had a little lamb is right up there with Chris Rock.

Dance Machine

Not only do Chris and I know ALL THE WORDS to "The Wiggles: Big Red Car" and ALL THE WORDS to the Music Together CD. But Felicity has learned them too. And when she hears either one, she is overwhelmed by the urge to dance.

A Message For Auntie Mandy

Just watch.

Bossing Daddy Around

I'm not sure where she gets it. O.K., so I generally have an idea of where she gets it. But as of late, Felicity's favorite way to address Chris is to say this.

Victoria's Secret

The problem with blogging about a two-year old is that, well, I have a two-year-old. And having a two-year-old means that there is no time for very much. No time for much except playing with that previously-mentioned two-year-old. So, I apologize to my loyal four readers. We have been busy.

Felicity turned two on July 20. While it is quite cliche to mention it, time really does fly and suddenly I am struck with the fact that we have on our hands a little girl. And a little girl she is. While I confess I am not always successful in encouraging a gender-balanced play environment, I (and Felicity's grandparents I might add) do their best. This birthday Nanny and Papa outfitted Felicity's kitchen, and Grandma, Grandpa, Aunt Eula and Aunt Teep got her a train set. Auntie Mandy got her some dressup stuff, and Mommy and Daddy facilitated a bug-themed party. She is a girly-girl though at heart and while I cringe at the notion that she will one day want to be a Princess, I am conforted by a colleague of mine's suggestion that I think of "Princess" as "Supreme Court Justice." So, when she insisted on wearing a tu-tu to her rough-and-tumble gymnastics class I just let it slide and thought of Sandra Day. And it was Daddy who said "No" to purchasing the Ruby Slippers she insisted on wearing around Target on Sunday. Seriously, she saw them and said "Ahhh!!!" her eyes wide as if catching the first day of an Anthropologie sale. If we actually looked at her DNA I am confident that her x-chromosomes would be pink.

Speaking of pink, we were in Victoria's Secret on Sunday for a little shopping trip. I will refrain from going into too much detail, but, suffice it to say that breastfeeding has dire consequences on one's potential to audition for Baywatch and that I watched Doctor 90210 with a bit more sympathy last week rather than contempt. So, we were in Victoria's Secret and Felicity was in the dressing room with me. Two things are notable about this. 1)She was interested in helping me try on bras, and she too tried some on. 2) There was no anxiety or panic. In our nursing days the sight of them would have sent her into a panic. I imagine it might be like being on a diet and going into Godiva. You want it. You need it. You can't have it. But she was fine. And was interested in shopping for bras more than getting to what was underneath. This is a milestone. Alas, we have reached a new level.

While Victoria's Secret had some positive outcomes, it also has contributed to some nightmares. Literal nightmares. While I was shopping Felicity and Daddy talked about the mannequins, which, Daddy referred to as "Big Dollies." Felicity woke up the next day upset and crying, saying, "No! No, Big Dolly. No Big Dolly Come See You." We inferred that she had had a nightmare about a mannequin. And I imagine that from a newly-weaned two-year-old point of view that a faceless big-breasted woman-figure wearing lingerie would be her personal hell. Poor baby.