I believe it's time for me to fly

Ugh. Remember all of those duds I left behind in the infant room? They're all starting to age out and move into the toddler room.

After a year, I still can't tell the difference between Gavan, Ryan, and Blake. A blond boy is a blond boy, as far as I'm concerned. Wow, really? All three of you like trucks, balls, and playing in dirt? You're such creative individuals. Thanks, but I'll pass.

I was hoping Amelia would transition and save me from the lameness but, at 14 months, she still isn't a steady walker. So, it's another month with Miss Erica for her.

Meanwhile, I have to walk through the Twos room everyday on my way to see Miss Susan. I pass Ben playing with dinosaurs, Nia doing art, and Mackenzie bullying people for a longer turn at the water fountain. I miss my grown-up friends.

Phony

Because no one else does, I will admit that there are things I say to make my parents feel better about themselves. I don't want them to feel like total failures.

Even though I scream for 45 minutes straight during swim class and beg to go home, I spend the rest of the week really talking it up so my mom doesn't get discouraged. Saturday from 10:00 to 10:45 is my nightmare but I give glowing review of splashing, bathing suits and my three swim teachers the other 10,035 minutes of the week. My parents worked hard for the $30 they pay the park district and I want them to feel like they're really getting their money's worth.

The latest truth I'm bending is how much I love my big girl bed.

Cool look. Could we try to add a few more pieces of furniture to my room?
Maybe there's a college kid who doesn't need his wooden spool table anymore.

First of all, the headboard and footboard haven't even arrived. Only a box spring and mattress separate my delicate frame from the floor. So, when I say that I think it is "beautiful", please understand what I mean is "white trash".

Secondly, I am what you would call a high energy sleeper. I like to move, put my feet up on the wall and roll around. You get the idea. There seems to be a design flaw in my new bed that allows me to fall out. My mom can surround my bed with all the pillows and extra mattresses (see what I'm saying about white trash?) that she wants, but they don't alleviate the shock of being woken at 3:00 in the morning by a jolting fall.

Last night, my mom tucked my quilt in between my mattress and box spring so that I couldn't move. What kind of Clockwork Orange bologna is that? I mean, sure, I made it in the bed for 10 and a half hours but at what cost? I woke her up at 5:59 - one minute before her alarm was set to go off just to reminder my mom who's really running this show.

When she came in to get me, my mom asked, "Did you sleep well last night, Bear?" I told her, "Yes," grabbed my monkeys and ran from my room to the comfort of the kitchen as fast as I possibly could.

Is this the face of a child who slept well last night?

 

Look at that boy's head!

If I ever get over the trauma of my first swim class, I will create a follow up post. For now, just know that despite the fact I begged my mother to take me home throughout the one hour session, my requests were cruelly denied.

More interestingly and less PTSD-inducing, you should probably know that on the way out of swim class, I saw Stupid Connor. At two years old, he's looking well. And by "looking well" I mean he finally seems to have grown into his oversized cranium.

Connor Before

Connor After

Accepting that I won't be good at everything I try

I took tumbling this summer. It wasn't my greatest success story. I blame my parents for making me miss the first week to travel for the 4th of July. Because of them, I never learned how to do a somersault and never really took to any other skills. Don't even get me started on the complicated routines we were supposed to follow. No thanks! No time!

For the last class, Miss Edie, who I'm certain had just woken up at a home that wasn't her own, allowed us to do whatever we wanted. What I most wanted to do was run away from away from JJ, a three-year-old boy far whinier than any three-day-old I've ever met. I'm pretty sure JJ and his mom are going to be roommates well into his 50s. I assume when his mother passes away, JJ will pretend to keep her clothing and home for posterity but will totally pull a Norman Bates.

 

Since running away from JJ wasn't really an option,
I decided to cling to a large piece of foam for 45 minutes
and enjoy the fact that I'd never have to return to the gymnastics center.

 

Is that Alexis Neiers I see over there?

It wasn't my birthday, it wasn't Christmas, and, unless there's a "Parents Finally Wise Up Day," it wasn't even a special occasion. Yet, when I woke up last weekend and wandered into my mom and dad's room, I found a shiny new tricycle hiding in the corner.

Assuming it was mine (I'm not interested in hearing what it was doing there if it wasn't for me) I took it for a spin around the apartment. While I was forced off of my trike to eat breakfast, my interest in pancakes was short lived and I was back on my killer wheels in time to read a few books before getting dressed.

I should have listened to my gut. I should have never gotten off of this tricycle. Ever.

I'll admit it. I really felt like something special when my family finally made it outside. The sun was shining, the crisp sound of my bike bell permeated the soundscape and I was finally at eye level with the neighborhood dogs. Heads were turning. People were stopping my parents to ask where they got my amazing trike. I was on top of the world.

But, as Marie Antoinette would tell you, if her larynx was still connected to her mouth, being on top is pretty much the same as having a target on your back. Three different people tried to boost my precious tricycle on its first day out.

The first event was innocent enough. Some amateur tried to climb on while I was distracted by a shiny slide. No big deal. The wood chips at the play lot in question made pedaling impossible and the potential larcenist was removed by his mother before he could even ring the bell. Top notch parenting!

I have less than stellar reviews for the parents in the other two cases of attempted petty theft. I can't decide which was more insulting.

One mom watched as her dip kid, Ronnie, climbed aboard. She cheered Ronnie's excellent steering skills. She clapped for Ronnie as he sped up. My mom, dad and I watched with our mouths agape. My parents have manners and knew we weren't leaving without my tricycle, so they didn't say anything. When Ronnie's dud mom finally relented that it was "The Bear's turn" and Ronnie should step off, Ronnie lost it. Meanwhile, I was about to lose it right back. My turn? MY TURN!?!



This is my tricycle. You were not invited to take it for a spin.
Consider this your warning that there are no turns.
It permanently belongs to me. We are not on a trike timeshare.

Not to be outdone by Ronnie's mom, the third thief apparently didn't have parents at all. While I was on the swings at a different park, my mom saw a kid run up to my tricycle and throw my navigator, Ben the Bear (not to be confused with my boyfriend, Ben, or myself, The Bear), right out of his seat. He put his muddy sneakers on my pristine peddles and started driving away. My mom caught up to him and tried to use logic and reason. She asked him if his mommy was there. He gave a general wave in another direction. She thought that some stranger danger might scare him away, but he was fearless. Finally, my mom told him it wasn't his tricycle and he was just going to have to find something else to play with.

Don't mess with The Bear, her bear or Mama Bear

We brushed Ben the Bear off and said goodbye to the park and our innocence. Blessings and curses can look an awful lot alike when you're a toddler.

 

Welcome, Edward

Like I really believe your parents didn't name you after that nerd from Twilight. Also, could you please stop crying for your mom at drop off every morning? It's starting to ruin my appetite for second breakfast.

Barf.

Big whoop, Annabelle

I went away for a long holiday weekend and, while I was gone, you grew some hair. All of my congratulations go to you for finally getting around to doing something I managed to do before I was even born.

Please let me know the date on which I should schedule your parade.