Things Olivia can do for herself:

Wake up and remember to turn off her nightlight.

Change her clothes.

Throw away her sleeping diaper.

Use the bathroom.

Go straight to the living room.

Turn on the TV and actually find PBS Kids. Thank goodness it's on a number she knows (10.)

Find snacks on the counter.

Get herself water from the refrigerator door dispenser. (We set up cups where she can reach, and a stool.)

Find her coloring book and pencils.

Look at the pictures in books and make up stories to tell the cat.

Feed the cat.

Feed the dog.

Let me sleep the entire time.

Open the car door.

Get herself in the car seat and put the seat belt around her arms.

Gratitude! For three years I have wondered when this time would come.

Next year's goals: To work on her golf game so I can retire in five years.

***

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Cousin Carson turned five, and there was a party to celebrate. It was held at a gymnastics warehouse, so there was ziplining, trampolines, ropes to swing on, parallel bars, uneven bars, and rock climbing. It was fantastic for kids and parents. In between all this climbing heaven, we had lunch and cake outside.

Most of the 12 kids were five or older, which means Olivia, at three, was the youngest one there. Three year olds are less in control of their emotions than older children. She had not one but two tantrums, and she was the only child there that whole day who cried at all.

Both times, Claus was with her, which meant I got to overhear the other moms good-naturedly laughing about her. It was still kind of embarassing. I know they've been there and they weren't mean, but really? Only my kid making the fuss?

Good times.

After the party, our family went back to Cousins' house for more playtime. That meant double-heaven for Olivia, because she loves when we are with them.

If I ever worry about her not having a sibling (that's the plan right now), a little interchange I witnessed put my mind more at ease. She is certainly fighting with Carson as if they were siblings.

Someone stepped on someone's coloring book, or took someone's Crayon or what have you, and then there was some disowning going on. "You're not my cousin anymore." "Oh yeah? You're never going to be my cousin again."

Break for tattling to respective parents. Cooling off period with a nice cold cup of juice. Friends again.

Yeah, she'll be OK.

***

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In the morning, I have Olivia feed the three pets before she can turn on PBS Kids. Now and then, a station promo comes on that starts with PBS Hawaii president Leslie Wilcox. Media powerhouse Wilcox is a former colleague of mine; most locals will remember that she anchored at KHON2 for many years before moving on to PBS.

Leslie Wilcox and me

I like Leslie a lot. Everyone likes Leslie. One day when the promo started, I told Olivia, "Look, there's Mommy's friend."

The promo quickly cut to other video to show the different programming the station offers. By the time Olivia looked at the screen, the next section of video was a cartoon. "You know Cat in the Hat?" she asked. "Wow!"

That was a fun TV moment. Here is a less fun TV moment:

In Safeway the other night, Olivia was helping me put the groceries on the belt. As she placed the fruits down, she said, "These kiwis, sponsored by... kiwis!"

It was so randomly funny, both the lady behind us and I turned to look at Olivia. Sponsored by?

"What did you say, Hon?" I asked, because I just wanted to be sure I had heard correctly. She realized she had said something funny, and tried to one-up herself. "PBS Kids, sponsored by!"

Nothing makes me feel like a worse parent than to know the capitalist machinery is already at work with my child. The deeper implication, of course, is that I'm such a bad mom, I'm letting the TV babysit my kid. Working mom guilt! I suck!

I know PBS is non-profit and I have paid attention since, so I think the wording is actually, "Support for this program comes from..." That means she got the "sponsored by" wording from another TV show. See above, re: sucking.

Am I horrible for turning on the TV so she can stay out of my hair for 15 minutes while I make her lunch and get myself ready for work? Will she still grow up to be a well-balanced adult who doesn't hate her parents? Am I overthinking this?

*sigh* If nothing else, at least it's PBS.

***
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I'm a size 4. I'm not ashamed of that. Even though I was at a party recently with my friend Julie, who commented that she doesn't have any bright colored clothes. "You can borrow this dress," I offered helpfully, not realizing that I was actually insulting her. "You're a 4, right? We look about the same?"

Julie and me, a.k.a. Size 0 and Size 4

She apologetically looked at me and said, "Oh, actually... I'm a zero-petite." I know she's in fabulous shape as she is a marathoner, but I didn't realize quite how fabulous. In trying to make me feel better, she mentioned the fact that she just tried on a double zero-petite at Banana Republic and <gasp> could not fit it! I responded with FCC-censored surprise.

Which brings me to this funny occurrence that's been happening in my house since my daughter was several months old. Claus continually, consistently confuses her clothing for mine, and vice versa. At first I thought it was a joke, then I thought it was some strategically crafted plan of his to strangely compliment me by implying my butt is small enough to rock a pair of undies meant for a three year old.

Size 4 or 4T?

I find my tee shirts in her drawer, or her panties in my drawer. He confuses our socks, and if her skirt is really long, he gets that confused too. I don't know why, because I stopped wearing mini-skirts years ago.

What is it this man thinks when he looks at female garments? "It all looks the same. Pink, girly, small," he said. That might fly, except I can now actually fit his athletic shorts and have accepted a hand-me-down from a pair that my own husband deems too small for himself. My 170 pound husband. I'm 50 pounds lighter than he is. Does that qualify me as a Pear? I have had prouder moments in body image.

I put up with these wardrobe malfunctions for years, just laughing at the mistakes. Until this week, when I found my bra tucked in her drawer. To be fair, it's a tube top, but you know, it functions like a bra.

I walked over to him with this in my hand and said, "Do you even look at the things you're putting away? What do you think this could be for Olivia?" He just laughed. A man's world is so simple for clothing choices. I think after he exhausts the basic choices of top/bottom/ undergarment, he hits saturation and just plays the odds that he's got a 50-50 chance of being right.

"From now on, how about you leave our clothing in piles for me to sift through before I put them away?" I asked.

Or maybe this object of his game was to do it so wrong that he gets absolved from folding obligations!

***
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When I was younger, I noticed that I had some aunts and uncles who referred to each other as "Mom" and "Dad." It was as if parenthood was their only identity. You know- they turn and talk to each other and instead of calling each other by their first names or affectionate nicknames like Sweetie, they call each other Mom and Dad.

My own parents never did this. I thought I would never do this. Not that I think it's a bad thing, but since my parents didn't do it, it seemed foreign to my ears. I thought Claus would forever be Claus or Honey to me.

After I had a kid, Sweetie and Honey became applicable to both husband and child. The funny nickname I gave to my husband that is Claus-specific is Clausket. Casket, Claus- get it? The Olivia-exclusive nickname is Pumpkin. However, Sweetie and Honey are the staples. They both look when I use those names.

Sometimes, when I feel like being very clear, I'll refer to him as Daddy. I don't know how it started, but that's what Olivia calls him, and maybe one day I was apeing her. Anyhow, he somehow legitimately became Daddy in my familial lexicon, and I find myself using it at least once a day.

Am I goofy? Do you do this?

***
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