Look! Mud!

Jasmine and I took a walk to the park. That's Big Dry Creek Park, here in Highlands Ranch; but after two days of rain and one day of snow (yes snow, a surprise this late in April but not a big shock) the creek is really a creek, full and running fast. I've taken just about every opportunity to walk, run or bike along the creek and watch the water.

To the boys, it isn't that big of a deal; yes, the water is interesting, but no, they don't want to be dragged out to it again. For Jasmine, the treat is much smaller in scale: full gutters to splash in and puddles everywhere.

We set off with her scooter, but it was clear at the start that even a pink Barbie scooter could not compete with running water right next to the sidewalk. Pretty soon I was given scooter-carrying duties so that Jasmine could apply her rubber boots to the big attraction.

We stopped at the big bridge, Jasmine enjoying the change in sounds, me watching the water flow. She wanted to detour and explore past the bridge and ran on ahead. And soon I heard the delighted shout, "look! Mud!" The splashing took on a much thicker texture as she and her big rubber boots went to work.

After exploring this detour for some time, I asked Jasmine if she was ready to go back home. "No, we're going to the park!" she told me, and I suggested that we actually go to the park instead of continuing on to the next puddle. She somewhat reluctantly agreed.

We did make it to the park, and there was much swinging. Jasmine hasn't gotten the art of swinging herself, one of the few physical skills she seems slow to master -- I'm sure that one hint of flying under her own power will make her unstoppable. She found a swinging partner, Alice aged four-and-a-half, and they compared their respective parent's pushing abilities. (Alice's mother was keeping an eye on Alice's younger brother too, which cramped her technique, but neither Alice nor Jasmine took this into account in critique.)

I convinced Jasmine that we really, really did have to go home and make dinner, so we went back to the path, the puddles, and the mud. Jasmine wanted to explore again but I insisted that we make progress toward the house; we compromised on holding hands but also running through the big puddles and the gutters.

The compromise lasted most of the way home. When Jasmine wanted to slow down and spend time in a particularly perfect puddle she told me, "my hand wants to be alone!" I said that was okay and walked down to the corner. She could hear me from there, and when I said loudly "oh, there's our house," she came splashing along.

Late afternoon play in puddles often means dinner in pajamas. No telling the fashion police on us, please.

Potty time

Jasmine is trying, really. She loves going to the potty, and especially getting everyone to applaud when she uses the toilet instead of her diaper. But it's a work in progress.

Today she was watching a show when I heard her pulling off her clothes. This is the signal for potty time (or maybe a costume change, especially if she goes running for her bedroom instead of the toilet). I encouraged her and helped her to the bathroom, got the special seat in place and sat her down.

Then, nothing. It's not performance anxiety. Sometimes she needs a minute, but generally she's quick to go when she really needs to.

"Are you going potty?" I asked in that tone of breathless anticipation parents use when dreaming of a diaper-free life.

No response. "Jasmine, are you going to pee in the toilet?"

Still quiet. We stayed there, her poised on the throne, me looking encouraging, I hope.

"Jasmine, is pee-pee going to come out?"

She looked up at me a little sadly. "No, pee-pee is at home."

Parental Disabilities

There are several disabilities that are unique to care-giving. I think we should lobby for equal coverage under the law. Some examples:

Shepherd's Crook Neck: caused by constantly swiveling your head when trying to keep track of multiple children in a busy playground or store.

Baby-Bounce Knee: from bouncing the fuss out of infants night after night.

Joiner Elbow: caused the first time a parent tries to lay down on the floor the way a kid does to watch TV. Sometimes fatal.

Tug-Along Shoulder: trauma of the joints due to constantly having one arm swept back while walking, due to holding hands with a child who wants to examine every pebble, twig and bug on the path.

Lullaby Back: walking and swaying, the classic cure for all ills, turns into a pain in the lumbar with even the tiniest infant, when it's done night after night.

Fisher Price Ankle: when all those active, engaging toys conspire to trap a parent's foot, often while trying to sneak out of a bedroom in the dark.

Shushed-out Throat: soreness or loss of voice due to trying to get a child to be quiet, following months of trying to get them to talk.

Angelic Moment Heart: the palpitations induced by that one bit of sweetness which causes a parent to forget the other ailments, temporarily.

I think we should move for federal coverage of the above and other maladies, in parallel with the ADA and other legislation. Afflicted parents should be given tax breaks for massages, subsidized baby sitting and a mandatory ten minutes of quiet after dinner.

Goodness

Jasmine and I were at the grocery store, some while back. She was riding in the kiddie seat, her back to the aisle we roamed.

Perhaps I was talking to her, or otherwise distracted from my driving. I ran the cart into a pole quite suddenly with a good, metallic crash, startling us both. "My goodness!" I said to her, and smiled over our mutual start.

Jasmine was (and is) a parrot for short expressions and emphatic words. "My goodness!" she repeated. I turned the cart and maneuvered us around the pole, pointing it out as I went by. "That's what I crashed into," I explained to her, and she reached over to touch it curiously, then sat back again.

"Bye bye, goodness," she said as pole receded from view.

Stores

Ever since a recent trip to the shoe store, Jasmine has been fixated. I think she realized that there must be a store out there for every desire.

"Can we go to the dress store?" You have plenty of dresses, Jasmine.

"Can we go to the cookie store?" This actually means the grocery store, but you can tell what her favorite part is. (She only gets one.)

"Can we go to the movie store?" How about we just pick one off the shelf, from among the dozens.

"Can we go to the house store?" I haven't quite figured that one out yet. It's not like we've used up our house.

"Can we go to the coffee store?" Okay, I'm pretty agreeable there. (I only get one.)

"Can we go to the noodle store?" She's not a picky eater in general, but pasta is her favorite.

And so on, through the day. "Hey Jasmine, how about we go to the nap store?"

"No thanks!"

Generations of pretending

When I was a kid, summer was full of Play Like. Teachers and other ancients referred to the game as Let's Pretend, and maybe they really called it that. The phrase always sounded fake to me, like children imitating Winnie the Pooh dialog.

"Let's play like we're explorers and this is a jungle full of monsters." It's the same game, I'm sure, though subjects vary with generations just as terminology does.

The gas tank in the back yard served as a number of different vehicles, in spite of the fact that there was no way to get inside. "Let's play like this is our time machine." Sitting on top was fine. There was an important-looking valve that was steering wheel and everything else.

Once I became mobile, the swamp took over stage duties. It was a short bike-ride away down a big street, that had a golf course on one side and the swamp on the other, filled with tall slim trees and squishy mud and green-coated water. I'm not sure how big it was really, but we couldn't see across it, and didn't have to go in very far to lose sight of the road, so that was big enough. "Let's play like there are dinosaurs."

Now my kids are playing their version of Let's Pretend. Their terminology is borrowed from video games and cartoons. "Kai, do you want to play my game?" Rowan asks. That means he wants to set the stage for Kai and tell the first part of the story, but he'll join in as a character soon enough. They get out the swords and ray guns (never hurts to be versatile) and hunker down behind the couch.

"Rowan, after this let's play one of my games." Kai is already working out the next act. His game is usually Golden Saga, which has an ever-evolving plot that centers around a magic sword that he's found. He doesn't want to direct as much as Rowan does, and usually the fighting has much more to do with all his powers, or those of the sword.

Jasmine's game is simpler. It's called "Arrr!" She picks up a cutlass and starts chasing people, and they generally get the idea. Not much dialog but she's emphatic about it.

She's not old enough to join in the more complex forms of Let's Pretend, but she makes a great monster thrown in as a surprise. "Jasmine, go play with your brothers." I hand her the flashing blade and she holds it up high. "Arrr!"

Jasmine's kaleidoscope

While searching through the toy box, trying to find her favorite action figure (Captain Jack Sparrow. You call him a doll, go ahead.) Jasmine turned up an old kaleidoscope. I think it was from a gift bag from some birthday party or other that the boys have been to; a cheap thing, cardboard tube and plastic lenses, a few bits of something colorful and the angled mirrors at one end.

Jasmine held it up to her mouth and sang into it experimentally. It's a good guess, since we play with a few different microphones, and anything you can sing with is fun.

I told her no, look through it, and she chanced to get the right end up to her eye without covering the other end. She figured out how to change the colors around, and soon was trying it with different light sources in the room, the sunny window, her green blanket, the white cat.

I went back to what I was doing while she discovered the kaleidoscope. She came over to me a little later and held it up, since she loves to share her discoveries. I pointed it at the window and looked through, and said, "oh, I see something beautiful," meaning to hand it back to her.

"Hi," she replied promptly. "It's me, Jasmine!"