Eck. An open letter.

Dear You-know-who-you-are,

Did I ever tell you that when Amalia burps she thinks it's hilarious? And then she "makes" herself burp, which consists of her saying "ECK!" and then laughing hysterically at her own incredible wit? This is really nothing new, it started a few months ago, but every time she does it, all I can think of is when me and you used to make ourselves belch and how awesome we thought we were for being able to belch like drunken sailors. Didn't we also try to belch the alphabet?

Were we disgusting, or just ahead of our time?

Lots of love,
Animalia's Mami (she's recently started to call me that, Mami, or sometimes she calls me Parent.)

Let the Halloween planning begin.

Yesterday afternoon, Daht calls me at work. The very disturbing conversation follows.

Daht: So. I was thinking about Halloween.
Me: What about Halloween?
Daht: Well, we could be the Warriors again. Or we could all be serial killers.
Me: I could be Lizzie Borden although I guess she wasn't a serial killer. She's recognizable though.
Daht: I could be the Nightstalker. And your brother could be someone else.
Me: He could be Charles Manson.
Daht: And we could dress Animalia up in a clown costume and paint glasses on her face. She could be John Wayne Gacy!
Me, laughing: We'll have to talk about this when we get home.

So. What say you? Is that the absolutely most scarring thing that would ruin her forever? Or are we hilarious?

Disclaimer/plea: We are mostly excellent parents. Please don't take our baby away. We DO love her very much and would never do anything to truly harm her.

Big baby!

We arrive at Nana's in the morning, as per usual. Animalia, still a little sleepy, walks in and says Hi to Nanitas (her words, not mine) and Tatati (again, her word). Nana asks me if we saw the big baby in Animalia's high chair. We have yet to notice it. I turn and see a large baby doll. I tell Animalia to look and see the baby in her high chair. She looks and immediately assumes "shy baby position," taking my hand and puts her hand to her mouth. I think she thinks that it's a real baby, and though she has a good sight line to the doll, we're really in another room, and I understand her hesitation. This doll, from this distance, looks real and chubby and big.

We walk toward the doll. As we get closer, Animalia says, "It's a big baby!" And it IS a big baby. It has moveable arms and legs and eyes that open and close. It looks old, though, good condition but definitely not made recently. Nana bought it at a rummage sale, took off it's clothes and washed them, cleaned off the molded soft plastic body with warm water and bleach. The baby is marked "American Char."

She's a heavy baby and has a little hole in her mouth made for feeding with a tiny bottle. I immediately ask Nana if the doll can potty but she hasn't opened up the diaper to check. I think that this was one of those dolls made for institutional use, either daycare or to teach teenagers how hard it is to have a baby by dragging one along for a few days. We google. It is neither. It's an American Character Doll Co. doll called Toodles made way back in 1953. Nana finds one on ebay, similar condition to Animalia's big baby, starting bid $125. Holy. Crap.

It seems pretty indestructable. We're not taking it away from Animalia. She's attached. She spent most of the morning taking care of her and calling the Big Baby her "baby sister." BABY SISTER? Where did she learn that one?

Carreta World.

The scene: Target. Sunday afternoon. Many people purchasing, browsing, and milling about. In attendance: Mama, Daht, Animalia.

We're leaving the store, heading to the car. We cruise pass the stable full of shopping carts. Animalia notices.

Animalia: Welcome to carreta world everybody!
Mama: What? What did you say?
Daht: What did she say?
Animalia: The carretas are red. Red means rojo.

Discussion ensues regarding Animalia's brilliance and apparent sense of humor.

Scene close.

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.