So, turning 33 aint so bad. I had a pretty sweet party (aside from that STUPID sore throat thing) wherein I was able to show off my bitchin new remodel and was showered with luxurious gifts from all of my adoring fans. Thank you, thank you my dahlings. I am now the owner of a S-W-E-E-T new iPod, my daughter’s penchant for emotional meltdowns has reached an all time low (listen here for sound of knocking on wood), and my husband is now home for the entire duration of the summer for the first time in 6 years. Hello honey-do list!

Now that I am a mature 33 year old, I feel like it is prime time for me to do something, well, mature. So, I am making a concerted effort to better my parenting skills by reading a book that compares toddlers to neanderthals. According to the author, Stella is in a phase where she is no longer a chimp, but rather, a “knee-high neanderthal,” well on her way to being a “clever cave-kid.” Apparently, her ability to fashion anything into a tool of destruction is akin to her adult ancestors of 2 million years ago. Likewise, her newfound ability to problem-solve cultivates a cockiness that negates the ability to consider any point of view other than their own. I will be clubbed over the head with a wooden block any day now. Oh wait, I already have.

The recommendation for dealing with Betty Rubble involves me grunting single syllable words at her in order to make her feel like her feelings are being acknowledged: “You. Mad. GRRRR. Mad. Mad. Mad. Want to stay at park. Stay. Stay Stay.” Um, yeah, I don’t think so. I appreciate the suggestion, but I think I’ll go out on my own on this one. Come on. I think the whole host of other ridiculous, embarrasing, goofy things I have to do on a regular basis have used up all my humility points for – oh, say – THE REST OF MY LIFE!!! To his credit, I have, at least, tried acknowledging her feelings, letting her know that I understand exactly why she is mad. But note – I do this with regular words and in a regular tone of voice. And what do you know? It really does help diffuse the situation enough to get her into a reasonable space — at least long enough to actually try to distract her with gifts and sugary treats.

So, as you can see, I am bettering my 33-year-old self already. And at this rate, who knows — maybe I’ll even be grown up enough to stop mocking NASCAR fans. Or not.

Gotta Hemi?

So how’s this for an encouraging statement from the pediatrician:

“Yeah, its looking like you are going to have to get that verbal discipline thing down pretty quicklike. At this rate, she is going to be able to take you down by the time she’s 5.”

Nice.

It has really taken me a long time to realize that physically, Stella really is larger than your average 18-month-old. As of yesterday’s weigh-in she is tipping the scales at roughly 30 lbs and towering at close to 3 feet. I just don’t pay attention to it that much. I see her around other kids, but never really compare her to them, I am too busy enjoying that fact that I am not the one having to entertain her. The part that is so deceiving is that, overall, she is pretty well proportioned. Aside from her cute little buddha-belly, she is a lean ball of muscle. [You can thank your daddy and his genes for this, Stella. Just be thankful Mommy didn’t pass on her Flinstone gene to you.]

Aside from the usual recording of stats, and administering of a lovely tetanus shot, we spent the majority of the visit discussing a certain someone’s ‘volatile nature’. I sheepishly admitted that I brought Stella in to see one of the other doctors a month or so back when it all started, thinking that there was actually something physically wrong. There had to be. How could she have gone from precious to goblin in one day? So, she diligently checked Stella’s ears, poked the usual spots, asked the obvious questions: “Is she teething? Sleeping okay? Any major changes in the household?” Aside from the fact that our entire house was currently turned inside out (literally), there was nothing else out of the ordinary I could think of that would cause my otherwise easy-going kid to turn into a demon overnight. By the end, all she could write down as diagnosis was ‘Tantrums, Teething’. I told her how much I appreciated that she at least added that ‘teething’ part so I didn’t look like a complete idiot. Great. So it is just who she is now.

In my conversations with Stella’s regular pediatrician she (a new mother herself) was supportive and empathetic (one of the reasons I adore her), and confirmed that our approach was good: distract her, walk away from her, have that 3rd glass of wine . It’s all okay. Really. Then she said something that totally made me laugh.

“Don’t worry about long explanations and reasoning right now. You can just use caveman speak to get the point across in a basic way.”

“Oh, you mean my husband’s approach of pointing out an item, explaining it’s scientific name, origin, its use in both ancient and current society and whether or not she can eat it isn’t necessary at 18-months?”

I think it took her a second to realize I wasn’t kidding. That this is Stella’s reality. She won’t just learn the word fan. She will also learn about angular velocity. She won’t just learn how to point out about a ladybug, she’ll learn that they are important because they eat aphids. She won’t just be able to point out the microwave, she’ll be told how the microwave actually heats the water in the food and, subsequently, about the process of heat transfer. She will not only be able to point out an animal, but identify whether or not we eat it (like when she points to a cow and says YUMMY!)

“So unless, caveman-speak is anything like nerd-speak, I don’t know if that will work in our house.”

Sorry Stella, you have no chance for normalcy. Embrace it. You have no other choice.

Okay, so here’s the thing — I am all about personal responsibility. It irks me to no end when people play the victim-blame-game and can’t fess up to the reality that they are, in essence, the master of their own destiny. Own it.

Me, owning it.

Let’s take for example yesterday afternoon when I made a really poor choice. Stella and I were playing a game of peek-a-boo in her room — she in her crib, me on the floor, and Steve diligently Swiffering the loveliness that his our new wood flooring (hence the need to keep her contained). It was at this moment that I had two choices: 1) ask Stella if she can climb out of her crib, 2) don’t ask Stella if she can climb out of her crib. I’ll give you one guess which choice I made.

Yup, with no help or guidance from yours truly, she simply hiked her leg up and swung it over as if she were going to do one of those big spins on the monkey bars. She then hoisted the entirety of her body up so that she was then straddling the railing. Then, using her ninja-like precision, she gracefully maneuvered her body until she was parallel to the mattress — balancing lengthwise on the rail. With a concentrated look, and muscle control that rivals an olympic gymnast, she then proceeded to scootch herself down towards the floor.

And what was I doing this entire time? I stood there, agog at the simplicity of it all. It was like she had been working with a trainer on the side, waiting for this exact moment when I would challenge her to such a task. How’s that for a mother-daughter connection? She knows that it is only a matter of time before I do something as stupid as asking her child if she can climb out of her crib!

So guess what everybody? Stella now knows how to climb out of her crib. Who do we have to thank? Right again!

This morning when we went in to get her we had the usual chit-chat with her about water, poop, blue, goggy (doggy), and then I said to her, “Are you ready to get up Stella?” She replied, “Yeah,” and proceeded to hike her leg up over the side of the crib…