The negotiation.

Me: Do you want some cold water with ice?
Animalia: Or some juice?

Me: ¿Quieres poner los zapatos blancos?
Animalia: Or the new red shoes?

Let's try phrasing these things as statements.

Me: Put on your jeans.

Animalia: Or the dancing dress?

Me (firmly): Es tiempo de hacer mimis.

Animalia: Or go potty?

Sometime in the last couple of weeks, the Animalia discovered the art of negotiation, and right around the same time, discovered her very excellent screaming voice. I think some invisible power is whispering softly, "Welcome to the twos" and then laughing hysterically. That's what I get for being loving and supportive. I should've just broken her tiny spirit when I had the chance.

And then it was me.

Remember the tiny red dots, referenced in my previous post? Well, by the next day they turned into a full on rash. Poor baby Animalia had rash on her face, rash on her chest and pansa, rash on her back and shoulders. Rash. But at least she didn't have any more fever.

My throat culture turned out to be negative for strep, even though I had white pus pockets in the back of my throat. Then I got more tired, on top of the "normal" tired of rearing a toddler and the "normal" tired of taking care of said toddler during many feverish sleepless nights. I was tired and achy and throat-hurty and sick. Just sick. For three days.

All that for "just a virus."

Three feverish nights, one hilarious conversation

Sunday night. Fever.


Monday night. Fever.


Tuesday night. Fever and a few tiny red dots on the face.


Wednesday early morning. Fever until the administration of Motrin and a shower. Tiny red dots aren't so apparent but Animalia is rubbing her face.


Later Wednesday morning. Doctor's visit. Animalia has lost a whole pound since Monday. Ears? Fine. Chest? Fine. Attitude? Cheerful but wondering why everyone keeps touching her. Throat? Ahhhhh.... there's the problem. Typical early childhood virus. Should run its course all by itself.


Crisis? Averted through dumb luck and by nothing I did. I'm relieved. Nana, who took Animalia to the doctor to meet me since I was coming from work, is relieved. Animalia just wants to go home. I run back to work and call Daht.



Me: She's fine. It's a regular childhood virus called coxsackie virus.

Daht: WHAT?

Me: Coxsackie.

Daht: Cosackie?

Me: Cock. Sackie. Like cock. And sack. And eeeee.

We both start laughing.

Daht: Is there another name for it? Because I can't go to work and tell them that if anyone asks. I can't go to work saying my daughter has cock-sackie.

Me: I'll look it up and call you back.


I know we're going to be calling each other coxsackie for ages, until the first time Animalia says it at least.

And now I have a sore throat. Yay! Throat culture for me tomorrow morning. Did you know that little tiny kids don't get strep very often? That's what I was told when I asked how contageous coxsackie is and should I even be at work. It is unusual in children before the third birthday.

Turn off the color, daddy

It was stormy out and Animalia was sitting in her high chair at Nana and Tata's house, a plate with cucumbers and crackers in front of her. Her eyes were glassy and small, she was barely picking at her food. She didn't look very happy. We waited out the worst of the storm and got home. She looked even less happy and felt hot. Once home, I changed her into her pajamas and took her temperature. It said one-oh-three-point-something. Oh my god. Tylenol. We hadn't used the thermometer in awhile so I tried it on myself. It didn't work. Great. Was her temp really 103 or was the thermometer just bad? A phone call to Nana and Tata and Tata brought another thermometer to us so that Daht wouldn't have to run out to the store. Animalia was asleep. Her new temp said 101.something. Not as bad but still not great. And so an entire night of fever would begin, with no other signs of illness other than lethargy and disinterest in food and a very occasional tiny cough. "Turn off the color, daddy," she would say at bedtime, her eyes too tired to see the light.

Her fever persisted into the next morning. We saw the doctor. Animalia was well-behaved, easily stepping onto the scale (she weighed in at a whopping 32 pounds), allowing the stethoscope, only a slight grimace when her ears were checked. No ear infection, nothing obvious, just fever. The doctor gave her advice: switch to Children's Motrin and get a chest x-ray tomorrow if the fever persists. At that point, we should be concerned about pneumonia.

That was earlier today. Now, she's into her second night of misery. More fever. Right before bed her temp was 102.8 and her eyes were glazed and tiny, even as she sang a song about hands clapping and another song about shorts. Her songs were abbreviated and she curled up in a ball immediately afterward. She fell asleep quickly' her still feverish body curled up against me, my hand resting on her warm stomach, though she started a few times when I tried to move my hand. She'll sleep in our bed tonight while I sit up and google "toddler fever" and listen to her breathing for any other hints of illness.

I hope this is over soon.

She's a baby.

I was reading an article recently that theorizes that right around two years old a child has been alive long enough to have long-term memory. So that's why two-year-olds revert in some ways, asking for a baby bottle in some cases, or maybe quit potty training, etc. Animalia has dealt with this by doing things that she used to do. Like rolling around on the floor and "crying" or playing "kaboom," a game she played when she was just a tiny baby where she'd lay on her back and throw her feet in the air, only to allow to fall back down. At Nana's house, with the wood floors, it would make a huge sound, and she'd laugh and laugh. She was so little then, I don't think she was even rolling over yet, or at least not regularly. So she's a baby again, wanting to be carried, telling me she's Mama's baby and just generally being a baby.

I'm mostly OK with this only I really wish she'd hurry up with the potty training.

¡Grandes Exitos de Animalia!

Animalia's greatest hits including:

Mr. Noodle

Elmo

Clapping Hands

Lights

and much, much more!

And she's an artist...

She sits at her tiny red desk and opens it up to find a variety of crayon-like things and some paper. She sets herself up. Drawing implements in the well. A few pieces of paper at the ready. She selects a blue crayon. "Bue," she says. And then she carefully scribbles a circle-like object on the paper. "It's a bue Nana," she explains. She throws her crayon on the floor and selects a new one. "Gween," she tells us. She draws a similar scribble. "It's a gween Nana," she explains again, and it is a green Nana. We can tell. Next, by request, she draws a red Tata. We request some Mamas and Dahts. "No," she replies confidently. She's very busy drawing Nanas and Tatas.

And she can sing!

Animalia has spent the last few nights singing before bed. I believe it's a natural extension of her love of musica and dancing. She'll sing about anything and everything. She even takes requests. Her songs entail one subject, announced before the song begins, one descriptive lyric of said subject, and a finale which is usually just clapping for herself and saying YAY! Example: "Aya sing about hands. Haaaands, hands, haaaaands, hands, shaking hands, hands, hands, haaaaaaannnnddsss!" Clapping. "YAY!"

She also takes requests. Sing a song about Daht. "Aya sing a song about Daht. Daaahhhtt, daht, daaaa---eeeeee, daht, Dadeeee Poooooo! Yay!"

Her singing sounds hysterical and hilarious and commences, methinks, as a diversionary tactic to avoid going to sleep. This, however, seems to backfire, as she expends so much energy singing a good five or six songs in a pitch previously unkown to man that she seems perfectly happy to fall asleep a short time later with a stern "Es tiempo de hacer mimis."

Too much to drink in imaginary land.

Animalia is playing with a stack of plastic cups. She unstacks them. Then she stacks them. This is, apparently, the most hilarious thing she's done all day. The cups go with her into the living room. She takes one off the stack and puts it under the end table, as if it's a dispenser of some kind of liquid (note: we can't recall a time when she's actually been into a restaurant where drinks are dispensed this way, but it obviously made a big impression). She hands it to her Daht. "Juice," she tells him, and then, "jugo," you know, just in case he needs her translation services. He takes a big imaginary slurp. She goes through the same motions for Mama, then for Cooper. The dog doesn't even feign interest in the empty plastic cup, but she loves him at this moment so this doesn't matter. She gives us a minute to finish our delicious imaginary juice. She takes this time to drink her own imaginary juice. Then she looks around, satisfied, and makes another round. She's gathering our cups, restacking them perfectly. "That's enough," she tells everyone individually. We've been cut off.

The Boy

For a couple of nights, Animalia has been talking to "The Boy."

"Do you like apples, Boy?..Those aren't apples, Boy, those are apple toes...Silly goose, Boy."

We ask her where The Boy is and she points to him. Last night, she even said, "Right there, do you see him Mama?" I did a dramatic shriek for Daht's benefit and we both laughed, but honestly, thie imaginary friend is a little creepy.

She has other imaginary friends. She likes to fight with her cousin Colie (Animalia says Coh-wee) and she hasn't seen Colie since Easter. "No, no, Cowie! It's Aya's!" She's also started bossing someone named Dancio around. Not sure where she got that name or who Dancio is exactly, but she's the boss of him or her or it. Neither of these is quite as creepy as The Boy.

A friend of my mom's said that her daughter, a teacher, is getting additional certification to teach gifted children. One of the indicators of gifted-ness is imaginary friends. I had imaginary friends. So did my brother. But I don't remember being all creepy about it. I'll have to ask my mom if we creeped her out.