Doodaddy

Oh, so many worries that go along with having a second baby! But one, at least — how will her older sister feel? — has dissolved entirely.

Sisters

Boo and I went to check out a new playgroup today. Boo immediately hit it off with two of the girls and they struck up a game of (not kidding) “running errands,” caroming around on tricycles they could barely control.

“We have to go to the market to pick up some pears and bananas,” said Boo.

“Okay. I’ve got my money right here in this pocket,” responded S–.

One boy from the group was watching this exchange and forced out the syllables ‘nah-nah’, which I took to mean “banana.” He then lost interest and raced off to kick sand or something.

“So,” I asked the organizer later, “Some of the kids are a little younger? Like, maybe not quite two?” I was quickly corrected: they ranged from 30 to 35 months, all of them. No frikkin’ way, I thought. (I curse a lot inside my head.) I took another look.

The boys were all engaged in feats of strength and derring-do: competently climbing upside down under the slide and dragging small tree trunks into construction projects. The girls were talking, turning any enclosed spaces into houses and shops, and comparing the dolls most had brought. And while the girls could hardly pedal the trikes the boys had all mastered it.

When did that happen? I’m pretty physical with Boo and she dangles upside down joyfully, but we also talk a lot. She gets praise for catching and climbing, but also (and maybe more) for using the word “edible” correctly. Have we forced her to be loquacious? Or does her conversational play flow from her personality? Or — alas, how I hate determinism! — is it just ’cause she’s a girl?

Never one to let nature take its course, whenever I’m able to subtly modify Boo’s play choices, I encourage coordination and strength. So when I briefly had her attention today I got her feet on the trike pedals and tried to show her how they work.

It didn’t last. Within a minute, Boo and S– had rescued a pretend sea star with a boo-boo and ran off playing “veterinarian” (and correctly pronouncing it, too) leaving me way behind — my accustomed spot.

I was disappointed, but not very. The learning can wait: there’s real joy in just doing what you’re good at.

I just stayed up until 3 a.m. watching old Love Boat and Firefly episodes and eating Boobaby’s leftover pasta.

This insomniac habit strikes about twice a week, although the specific mode of time-killing varies and there’s usually cookies involved if I can track ‘em down.

I seem to need to get nothing done every once in a while, but as a stay-at-home parent, indolence is not part of the job description. I don’t care. I just gotta get my sloth on.

It’s not that I’m finding the addition of one more body all that hectic — Blueberry’s an easy baby. But no matter how good they are, there are three dependent people in the house whose self-reliance ranges from “none” to “can’t pick things up” to “must drop most food on the ground.” Thus I spend most of my time that’s not already claimed by bathtime and art projects simply walking around the house transporting stuff to stuff boxes, cleaning paint smudges, and refolding the same frikkin’ leotard over and over and over.

And that was a good day, with visitors and a grandma helping out.

I used to take “mental health days” constantly way back when I did office work — I got my work done, so my boss didn’t care. In fact, she recommended them all the time.

“Hey, Doodaddy-to-be, maybe you should go home!”

Come to think of it, I wonder why that boss wanted me gone all the time. Maybe everyone was partying without me. Just because you’re paranoid… But I digress.

Now “days” off are cobbled together from an odd few minutes stolen during naps to check my Facebook or listen to an old Superman radio serial.

Or, in an orgy of self-indulgence, I stay up late. It’s my vacation.

Sadly, as with all splurges, I’ll pay the cost eventually — and hard. The clock is ticking over now to 4 a.m. and I can see that this particular debt will be paid sooner than I’d like, by bone-melting exhaustion about four hours from now.

At least I got the break while it lasted.

Boo is so far pretty happy about sister…

I’ve just had one of my life’s most profound weeks and all I can think about is how everyone mistakes my vegetable brush for a pot scrubber.