Barely tenured

Toddler fashion

I. We will be going to a funeral this weekend, for a distant relative of Beaker's. After much consultation with the in-laws, we've decided to bring Miss T., of course expecting that she'll spend most of the service walking around a vestibule with a parent.

But what should she wear? I was thinking, solid colored dress or jumper, something dark but not too dark, maybe navy or burgundy corduroy? White tights, white shirt with collar if it's a jumper. You know, nice clothes, the kind of thing we might have worn to church on an ordinary fall Sunday back in the day, or like I remember all the 2-year-old girls wearing to Box-o-Tots back when Miss T. started there as an infant. (Really, they did. Even Beaker noticed the dresses, approvingly.)

We have lots of dresses for Miss T., but they all, and I mean every single one, are silly. Bright stripes, big flowers, ruffles, all three at once.

Serious dresses for a toddler? Almost cannot be found. I have tried. Baby Gap has one possibility, but all the other usual suspects, and lots of less-usual suspects, let me down. Everything out there is informal-silly, or bohemian-dippy, or baby-ho, or Christmas-velvet-and-taffeta, or flower-girl-princess, or pageant-ready (gack!).

I ordered from Olive Juice finally. We had a catalog from them deep in the recesses of our junk mail pile. Mostly the lifestyle implications of the catalog worry me a lot. But for right now: it's exactly what I was looking for. We'll see if they can pull off express shipping, and we'll see what the junk mail impact is---it is worrying that Google hit number 4 for "olive juice kids" was an offer to rent their mailing list.

II. Miss T. has crazy wavy hair like her dada. Despite my pre-birth resolutions to keep it cut short enough to not need combing until she was old enough to request otherwise, it's only been trimmed once. No bangs, either. Essentially all the hair on top of her head wants to fall in her face, so we'd have to cut an awful lot for it to be helpful.

Instead, she wears little ponytails. Sometimes one on top, mostly one on either side. Even when she's asleep. We let them loosen until hair is getting in her face again, then redo.

Often she comes home from Box-o-Tots with very sharp hair. Nice clean part lines all around each ponytail, hair pulled tight and flat over her scalp, bands wrapped more times than we can manage. On the one hand, this is great! Usually it lasts overnight, even! On the other hand, does this mean they think I'm a neglectful parent, who can't even manage her little daughter's hair? Also, I think they're using hairspray -- I can smell it -- which seems a little weird.

Recently Miss T. has started protesting violently when parents try to fix her hair. She'll let us put barrettes in -- they don't stay! -- but not ponytails. So her hair is even messier when we send her off, and the contrast when she comes home even stronger. I try to tell myself that women who have chosen with work with small children for a living probably like playing with little girls' hair. (But they probably also like noticing the little ways in which their charges' parents lose it...)

III. At dinner last night, Miss T. announced "I not a baby. I Beeta." Since then she's consistently answered "No!" to "Are you a baby?" and "Yes!" to "Is Beeta a little girl?" I'm so not ready.

Continued murkiness

I talked with Ray yesterday. He sounded better than Barb and Jon had made him out to be; perhaps our conversations have had so many omissions for so many years now that I just couldn't tell. He was vague and abashed. Everyone said he can tell when he's having short-term memory problems, and it's true, he can. He says he noticed his hand tingling as he was walking past St. Vincent's and went to the emergency room. They only kept him one night. No one can tell me how long ago that was.

I can't tell how solid the plan to move in with his younger brother Ken is. I haven't spoken with Ken. Barb pointed out in email today that, even if they have a plan, it won't do much good if Ken up and dies. There seems to be a functional deadline of the end of the month. Ray can't fly until he gets a state ID, and that's when it's expected.

I've done a little poking around for information on rentals here. Barb seems very interested. I was afraid to even mention the possibility to Ray. Jon thought it would overwhelm him, after all the effort that's gone into convincing him to go back to California.

Meanwhile, I tried calling Nana. She refused to come to the phone. Uncle Ricky sounded depressed and angry as he told me that her palpitations have been getting worse and they're taking her to her cardiologist on Monday.

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Oh, and Beaker got called away on a business trip again -- two hours between the call and when he got on a plane to California, maybe back Saturday, more likely Tuesday -- and Miss T. has a cold and is covered in horribly swollen mosquito bites, most noticeably around her eyes (think bar fight aftermath).

Tomorrow is her second birthday. For which she'll get early dropoff, late pickup, and cupcakes made from a Betty Crocker mix, all at Box-o-Tots.

Reframing

Miss T. was having a hard day today. The crayons had to stay in the center room, her stick fell through the porch stairs, and Miss A. at day care wouldn't let her color with markers on the table, only on PAPER, and it all was just cramping her nearly-two-year-old style.

I didn't want to cook, but taking her to a restaurant was clearly a poor idea. So I sent Beaker to pick up takeout. Miss T. was upset. She was upset about everything today, so she was upset about Dada leaving too. She stood at the door screaming "MY DADDY! MY DADDY!", only occasionally consenting to a brief hug, until he came back.

It was very, very hard to hear and watch. The father of two tiny little children at Miss T.'s daycare died suddenly a few days ago. I'd only met him once, at the playground with his kids. He dressed all rawk-n-roll but seemed young and sweet, and we talked about our toddlers' development (Miss T. barely walking, his boy barely talking) while he sat cross-legged on top of a giant concrete mushroom and gave the baby a bottle. They'd just moved to Granolaton. He was taking care of both kids while his wife worked, since they were still on the waitlist for Box-o-Tots, and it sounded like they were maybe having a sort of rough and transient time. After the conversation I felt old and bourgeois, but also very secure, and very grateful for that security.

His boy is just past two now, only a little older than Miss T. I'm all in a lather because Beaker will be away for four nights next week, and how will Miss T. (who wants Dada to read her bedtime stories now) react? And she was all in a lather over Dada leaving for ten minutes tonight. But that little boy (oh, and that baby, and that hardworking mama)... he's old enough to hurt.

Signing up

First thing this morning: sending e-mail to volunteer for some sort of community oversight board for the local public schools. "P.S. I'm not a Granolaton schools parent, but I anticipate becoming one in September 2010."

As a rule I don't blog about the things I don't blog about, and Granolaton town issues are one of those things. But the local schools are such a mess, and I worry a lot because I want to send Miss T. to them and I want that to be a good thing for her. There are a lot of faculty brats a year or two or three older than Miss T., and I want them to all go to the the local schools too...

Second thing this morning: reading the "Education" category over at Elizabeth's.

Ah, and I should let you know that we're in countdown mode over here. Perhaps a long slow count, but still. Miss T. is completely weaned as of my second solo conference trip this summer. (We both wanted to cry, but neither of us did. She still snuggles close to fall alseep.) Cornell says two normal cycles, post-weaning, then let's look at the ol' FSH and talk. Given that we'd presumably do co-culture again, given that my teaching schedule this fall is heavy and my depleted department will not be enthusiastic about covering for me, we're probably talking December/January for actually cycling... has it been three years? Why, yes, nearly.

You go, girls!

Has it really been 33 days? I'd say I'm sorry, but, um, I was awfully busy. Semester screeching to a halt (with extra disciplinary hearings—I got to be accuser and arbiter, at different times of course, but never, thank goodness, the accused). Miss T. adjusting to the Toddler Room—anyone want to guess the first new word she learned from hanging out with a bunch of nearly-three-year-olds? Negotiating summer travel plans with collaborators, spouses, bosses, relatives, friends, and of course the child. Et cetera.

I've been reading more than I should, though. Check out the lovely takedowns of The Dangerous Book for Boys and its mommyblog proponents (oh Moxie! You too?) by Jody and Phantom Scribbler and by Jody again. Wheeeeee!

I feel guilty that I am linking favorably to posts by people who I think haven't read the book, and negatively to someone who has. But: I don't think anyone is saying that they think certain types of "old-fashioned" games are bad, or that the "technical" content of the book is inappropriate. It's all about the box it came packaged in. Can boys only become boys by excluding girls? Is excluding girls all that boys really want to do? Do adults playing in to such assumptions end up making them true?

On her own

Miss T. is walking! On her own two feet! Without holding anyone's hand!

In laps around the first floor. Holding a stuffed puppy, or pulling a pull toy (a pull toy!) With a gleeful smile.

Monday evening was the phase transition -- four days short of nineteen months. Tuesday, they told us, she spent all day at Box-o-Tots walking. (Well, except for the three-and-a-half hour nap she took.)

Extra bonuses: she's also cut back on her night waking, is playing independently again, can make it through dinner without tears, and has been heard putting a word together with another word, every now and then.

P.S. I bet most of you would be pretty fascinated by these two posts of the Keyboard Biologist's.

Noted

You've seen this study discussed, I'm sure. Children who spend more than 10 hours per week in daycare for a year before kindergarten are more likely to be "disruptive" in elementary school. Miss T.? Forty, forty-five hours. A-yup. I could go look the real thing up, see how many variables they looked at to find one with significance to trumpet, but no.

And it turns out that the median income of white families raising a toddler in Manhattan right now is $284,208. Of course it's a self-selected group—those who have chosen to stay, who can afford the space in particular—but still, it's an astonishing figure. A sharp reminder that for academics, there are some benefits to living out in the boonies after ll.

EDITED TO ADD: In a comment, Meg suggested Emily Bazelon's Slate piece, which both references the original study (I could just click for the full pdf, but I might have Granolan to thank for that) and gives further information on the study and the instruments it used.

Still, the study's results, properly explained, do not suggest that kids who spent a year or two in day care when they are 3 and 4—or, in my opinion at least, kids who go to excellent day care for longer periods—will talk back to their teachers and throw more than their share of spitballs when they get older. These kids will behave themselves just fine. As long as their parents don't screw them up.

I would say that this comes as a relief, since each of my own two sons spent (or in 4-year-old Simon's case is spending) four years in day care before kindergarten. Except that I stopped taking the bad rap on day care personally a long time ago.

I've noticed that I only feel, hmmm, safe reading a lot of this mommy-wars crap when the author displays her or his ''street cred" somewhere along the way, as Bazelon does above. Not good.

New

There's an outside world out there! She hangs onto the stroller and pouts, or pulls up by the back door and excitedly points at her coat hanging on a hook. So we take her outside.

She hates falling. But we took her to the playground at the school on the next block and she loves the slides. At full speed, too.

She read a book to me the other day. Held it up for me to see, and pointed out everything she names in it. Ball! Bow-wow!

She grabs two things at once in one hand. Two shoes, or two necklaces. Two-ness is important. One toe gets kissed? So must the other.

The plot thickens

First of all, Miss T. went on several lurching laps around the house this weekend, all on her own.

Second of all, Miss T.'s pediatrician is entirely unconcerned with how she's doing. And he was a bit baffled at what, exactly, Box-o-Tots was asking for. "You want a note saying what?" He wrote something brief and utterly neutral: "It is fine for Tabitha Maple to stay in the infant room."

We brought it to the director's office. She said it wasn't good enough.

Then, she said that we could write our own letter, asking for whatever we wanted to be done. "The teachers told me that you were very concerned, and were talking about keeping her in the infant room for maybe another 2 or 3 months?"

Um, that was strange to hear. Since keeping her in the infant room was, as far as I can tell, the teachers' idea... so they told us it was coming from the director, and apparently told the director it was coming from us!

So I'll write a note asking that she start transitioning in about two weeks, after Beaker gets back from his next business trip. Which is what we want to happen.

My cortisol levels...

... were most likely raised by reading through to the end of a Observer story on England's current hard-nosed baby expert. Suddenly the story switched gears to, you know, the other thing about baby experts they had to write about:

Next week research will be presented at a conference for the charity What About the Children? claiming that babies and toddlers who spend their days in group childcare get stressed.

Michael Lamb, professor of psychology at Cambridge University, will argue that the answer is not to preach that mothers should stay at home, but for parents to spend the evening de-stressing the babies through hugs, a quiet atmosphere with no toys and an early night.

Without the one-on-one attention, aimed at reducing the levels of the hormone cortisol, babies can grow up to be badly behaved and less able to cope with stress, he will say.

Question: "no toys"? How could one possibly have "no toys" around someone who can be entranced for 10 minutes by her own reflection in a spoon?