the itsy bitsy pinches

Today, Annabelle grabbed my arm and pinched it, not maliciously, but it was a pinch nonetheless. I explained to her that it hurt and for her to be careful. She in turn said "Mama it was a little pinch, little pinches don't hurt."

Now here is where I beg to disagree. Once, when Audrey and I were little and were going to visit grandma and grandpa Audrey introduced me to the itsy bitsty pinches. We were bored and were in the back seat of the old red Buick and mom and dad were up front, doing the mom and dad thing, which means talking and ignoring all back seat activity unless there is high pitched screaming involved. Audrey said to me "and now it is time for the itsy bitsy pinches." She said it in a high pitched voice and drew out the itsy bitsy part and proceeded to give me the tiny pinches on my arm, and they hurt like fire ant bites. I was in horrible pain, but as usual, when my horrible pain was inflicted by Audrey, instead of screaming, I was laughing. It was pretty funny when you think about it, first you are sitting playing and then you are getting attacked by your cherubic-looking 4 year old kid sister.

I was telling this whole story to my mom and she said, incredulously, I might add, "I never knew about that."

Well, of course she didn't. Moms don't know everything that goes on between siblings--and thank God for that. But she sounded sad, and I felt sad, because I know in a few months time, I am going to have to share Annabelle with someone else. And they will have their own itsty bitsy pinches, and I will never be a part of it. And that is how it should be.

Meanwhile, I trained Annabelle, landlord Pearl-style, to say Audrey's famous tag line. I was curious, I wanted to see if Auntie remembered. We gave her a call and Annabelle said "Auntie it is time for the itsy bitsy pinches," and screamed with laughter. Auntie's response?

"Uh-oh, someone better start running!"

pregnancy the second time around

First off, there was morning sickness. And that was just no fun. I can remember every time in my life that I have vomited, and now I have a few more notches in my belt, my personal favorite, being on the road, while driving, in a H-E-B sack, on the way to a 2 year old's birthday party in Austin.

Secondly, there has been much, shall we say as delicately as possible, wind. I burp and fart like nothing anyone has ever seen, sometimes over 50 burps in an hour, each eructation scandalous in its volume and ferocity.

That being said, there is no preoccupation with pregnancy. I can scarcely remember what week I am in and I have not even once looked at the Internet to find out what appendage or organ my baby is growing this week. I eat turkey and blue cheese, suck down ice tea, and routinely pick up a little squirt that weighs more than 20 pounds.

There is no baby's room in the works, just a small corner in the guest room,that I eventually get around to sometime in October.

But this baby is far more loved than the first one, because this baby has a "big 'tister" The big sister kisses the baby and tells anyone else who might get near my tummy, "be careful of my baby." The big sister is going to share her "cribby" with her baby and says that she and the baby are going to have lots of cuddles when the baby drinks "my mama's chi-chis."

This baby is more real to its father too. The first time around he showed zero interest in what was happening, and frequently told me that "pregnancy is no excuse." His only sign of husbandly concern was to seem mildly tense the whole time, snapping to if I ever stubbed my toe or bumped into something and said "ow." In fact the only true interest he showed the first time was to pronounce one Sunday morning "What is wrong with the name Annabelle, I like the name Annabelle, and if it is a boy, then Cowboy." Thankfully, the Good Lord was watching out for me on the issue of gender and names.

Pregnancy the second time around and Hyphen are very different. I awoke one morning to his hand on my belly. He drives out of his way to get me a pepperoni pan pizza from Pizza Hut after his dinner of Chilean Sea Bass and broccoli made me gag. He does as much heavy lifting as Annabelle will allow and cautions me not to "over do it."

And he told Annabelle one day, "what do you think about the name Tallulah? That way there can be a mama named Stella and two sisters named Annabelle and Tallulah." I wasn't too sold on the name until I heard that explanation.

This time, though, I am picking the boy's name.

Henry. Let's hope I get my way.

trials and tribulations

Yesterday, after a horrible night of sleep on Annabelle's part and consequently on my part, Annabelle was in rare form. Clingy and naughty all in one. She woke up geared to go to her friends birthday party, which was still a day away. This was explained to her and disappointment ensued. We went to get said friend a present. When kids are under 5, I generally get them clothes for birthdays, because clothes are like a present for the mom and kids have way too many toys anyway. So we went to Gymboree to get clothes. First we had to get dressed. Small battle over what to wear, huge battle over hairstyle. Annabelle's hair is long enough where we need to start putting it in barrettes or pig tails, but she resists completely, pulling them out shortly after they are installed. She likes to feel the wind in her hair, I guess. Then we made a pitstop at Alma Latina, with Hyphen, who took the day off, for a dose of chorizo. She had to sit in my lap the whole breakfast. Then a trip to Target, which got this response "No, No Target. I don't want to go to target, I want to get Andrew a present at Gymboree." Once we were inside, she insisted on walking, not riding in the cart. (in case you are wondering why I haven't smacked her yet, it is because she is two and is asserting her independence and I am trying to help her make "good choices" now, so she won't drink and do drugs in high school--or some other such nonsense I am currently reading in a parenting book entitled Love and Logic.) While at Target, looking at maternity clothes, she told me she was going to hide from me and hid in numerous clothes racks, squealing with laughter when I found her. Finally, I decided she was making bad choices and deposited her in the cart. Smallish tantrum.

Finally we arrived at Gymborre, which she enjoys because there is a tv. There was no one in the store save me and the salesladies. I felt free to shop without watching Annabelle too closely and I peeked over where the tv was to check on her only to discover Annabelle, naked as a jay bird, just finishing the removal of her panties, watching tv. Annabelle likes to be naked for reasons I have not completely discerned. (Note: when I told my mom this instead of laughing, she got quiet and she called me the next day and scolded me saying she could have gotten molested--I was impressed by the restraint on her part, she waited an entire day)

We got home and got ready for her first private swim lesson, which I had been talking up all week. I went to the kitchen, to talk to H and when I went back to her room, she had managed to get a bottle of baby powder and shake its contents all over her floor. She wanted to continue to shake it and I said she could do so outside. (Note: this is not the parenting book, this is me, remembering what it was like to be a kid, and how some messes were just irresistible.)

Swimming lesson? Disaster. Cried to entire time. Mind you, the teacher wasn't super great at getting acquanted with a toddler, she just got her in the pool and said, "let's see you kick."

We got home and I went to talk to H again, who was making lunch and when I went to her room, she found the sunblock and had squirted it all over the floor. This was at the point where I officially lost it and yelled (I am not a yeller mom) "What are you doin????????!!!!!!" And then I did the only thing that was humanly and lovingly and logically possible.

I called in the big guns. I got her father.

In our house, Papa rarely disciplines. If mama rarely yells, papa certainly does not. This is kind of an "apple of his eye house," where the Apple is loved and adored tremendously by her papa/pops/poppi.

I got the paper towels to clean up the mess and was about to walk in the room. H saw me and shooed me away. I could hear him gving her a quiet talk about being naughty and how "some things are toys and others are not and it is okay to play with your toys, but you have to ask mama and papa to play with the things that are not toys." Then I heard "do you understand me? Look at me Annabelle, look me in the eyes. Do you understand me." Then a quivering "yes. I sorry papa. I sorry I squirted this sunscreen." I walked in and scooped her in my arms and cuddled her and said "it's okay." To which papa replied and rightly so, "Actually, it's not okay, but we forgive you."

He went back to the kitchen and we cleaned up the mess.

After I was fnished, I followed him to the kitchen, and slapped him on the butt, pro-athelete style. "You are awesome. That was awesome back there. You are the best dad. Way to go." And he is the best dad, I challenge you, gentle reader, to find a better one....

Today? She is a cherub. A delight, a model citizen, that when in high school will carry packages for old ladies crossing the street and rescue little birds that have fallen from their nests, etc.

Tomorrow? Quien sabe?

eating vietnamese food

The other night we made some vermicelli, with ground beef and cucumber and lettuce and fish sauce. It was delicious of course, and when I say we made it I mean Hyphen made it and I was his trusty and, according to him, messy sous chef. That dish is called bom, or at least that is what it sounds like to me. Annabelle calls it bom pasta. as we were eating Hyphen slurped it up. Now, Hyphen has the best table manners of anyone I have ever known , excepting my friend Carolyn. But he is kind of like Calpurnia in To Kill a Mockingbird, except that instead of having two ways of talking, he has two sets of table manners, American and Asian. Asians slurp and smack when they eat and it is okay to do so (it did take me a while to get used to this).

Now, Annabelle hasn't lived long enough to learn the finer points of cultural anthropology. She just knows one thing:

A: "Papa, you slurwped."

She laughed for a bit and then admonished him in a very serious tone. "We don't slurwp." Then she laughed some more and then she ate some bom and then she slurped. "I slurwp too. We don't slurwp." Then they were both laughing and slurping. I sighed and said "No, we don't slurp."

But, when in Texas, married to a Vietnamese man, eating bom on a hot summer night, do as the husband and daughter do.

puppet show

We were on vacation for a week, and now it is good to be home--back to the routine. Routine means that Monday is library day, and today at the library they had a marionette show. The show was Aladdin and I am pretty sure it was the same script from when I saw the production at Windcrest Elementary School, with maybe even the same puppets. Aladdin and Jasmine still had blond hair, which I suspect is historically inaccurate. Jafar, is of course, dastardly. They dimmed the lights for the show and as the show started, I was watching Annabelle. She sat, entranced, and after Jafar made his third appearance, she whispered "Mama, I want to go home." She said that every time Jafar had a scene.

Later that evening H asked her about the show. This is what she said.

"That bad guy was bad. He took the lamp. Aladdin is poor (she made her sad face with her pouched out lips when she said that). Princess Jasmine and Aladdin, they kiss. The Genie is a Genie. The bad guy is bad. He is bad. He is very bad. I don't like that bad guy."

Pretty much sums it up.