Saturday with Sadie

7:30-9:00 P.M. August 8. For some crazy reason, perhaps being tired, I decided that it would be fine if s fell asleep next to me in the big bed. On the bright side, I slept for at least forty five non-consecutive minutes. On the down side, I spent the majority of the time being pelted with pillows, asked to change sides of the bed and other general abuses.

9-9:30 P.M.-I finally move s into her room for sleep. Whereby, she asks for: a book to be read, a ladybug light to be given to her, a drink of water, to be tucked in, to sleep in the drawer, to have her door left open, before finally giving up the ghost.

My brief nap screwed up my sleep cycle, so I went to bed at 1.

6:25 A.M. I woke up daddy! I cannot communicate to you how ugly these words are after 5.5 hours of sleep. Like any good parent, I whipped out the iPad, put on a Winnie the Pooh cartoon and tried to go back to sleep. Failure.

Of course, it was fine that we were up early because we were meeting a couple of friends at the zoo at nine sharp. And, after factoring time in for breakfast, preparing snacks, changes of clothes, bartering over which shoes to wear, (she won), I figured it would take roughly 2 hours for both of us to get ready. She picked out a panda shirt and we were off.

Zoo time.

I've often said that we always do the zoo wrong. We park at the top and walk down, when we're full of energy and excited to see animals. By the time we've reached the bottom we're exhausted, mostly tired of animals, a lion, oh, I think we have one of those at our house, and the slog back up is more a test of will than an enjoying walk.

Of course, s spent the first part of the day sprinting downhill, pushing the stroller with aplomb. She, like everyone else in the world, spends the most time admiring the river otters. Though, to be honest, she's mostly just concerned with pushing the stroller and running. We finally get to the big moment when she'll get a chance to see giant pandas. She's wearing the panda shirt. It's like she's going to a big concert. Of course, the giant panda is sitting at the back of the enclosure, pretty much half a mile away. However, I lift her up, triumphantly on my shoulder and point off into the distance.

M: Can you see the panda honey?
S: Is that the panda? (Points to a tree).
M: No, look there.
S: Is that the panda? (Points to the same tree).
M: No, look way in the back.
S: I see him. (looks at tree).

By the time we all reach the petting zoo she's laughing to herself manically, and you can just tell that the next transition is going to be a melt down, which I mention to one of my friends, so she won't be surprised when I swoop s up and carry her like a sack of potatoes from whatever ill is about to befall us. I coax her into the stroller and we stop to get a soda. She sees the candy machine, and honestly, it could have been anything, but that's what sets her off. She loves candy. Who doesn't? But candy is made by the devil, so we don't eat it. She spends the next few moments screaming.

We can just keep walking, but we're so close to the big cats. You can't pass up lions and tigers when you get the chance. On the way we pass a carousel. Carousels are probably the greatest thing in the world for a child, but I'm hungry, and it's time to move. She screams for a while and eventually talks me into letting her out of the stroller. She looks around for a moment, like a deer preparing to cross a road and then sprints away saying, "I'm going to ride the carousel!" I grab her like a sack of potatoes and carry her away from the big cats on a path that leads us right by the carousel. She tries to make a break for it again, does the limp child thing, before I pick her up like a sack of potatoes and carry her away.

After a few more minutes of crying and cajoling she asks to be carried to brunch. Brunch is roughly 1.5 miles away, all uphill, so I consent. On the way she says things like, "Daddy, I love you with all my heart." And I'm reminded again how caring for a tired toddler is like shepherding a very drunk friend out of the bar. You're thinking, thanks for telling me buddy, but let's just get you home.

At brunch, things even out. Sure she takes off her shoes and demands that all the napkins be folded into flowers, but I'm okay with that. She tells the waiter that she wants pancakes and bacon. A woman after my own heart. (I forgot to mention earlier, but my two friends do a wonderful job of ignoring the whole meltdown scenario, pretending as though I am not scooping up a shrieking little girl multiple times, which was nice. It's the equivalent of being in a thunder storm and saying, "Oh, it's raining. I hadn't noticed).

After a while the novelty of the food wears off, and she starts to get crazy eyes. When she has crazy eyes, you don't know what's going to happen, but you know it won't be good. She spends the latter portion of brunch trying to run away, briefly succeeding, while blocking the waiter's access to the cash register. Success. We all walk back to the car, and I offer them a ride home. They respond with a no, which is nice, because I can tell that they're just trying to get away from the ticking time bomb that has hopped out of her car seat and is sitting in the driver's seat, testing the pedals.

We got home without incident. And, we jointly went upstairs to use the bathroom. In the next room, I heard the toilet flush, and I went to tell her how proud I was.
S;  "I pooped," she said.
M: "In the toilet?" I asked, innocently, hopefully, sweetly.
S: In my pants.

There is nothing quite so sobering as being elbow deep in someone else's feces. It makes you start to question all of your life choices, and I was somewhere between crying and retching. Luckily, I finished cleaning them without vomiting and put her in the bath. And, then I went to take a break on the computer. Moments later I discovered that she'd emptied a brand new bottle of shampoo into her bath, because, why not. I'm not mad, though I do point out that better uses of shampoo exist.
S: I made bubbles.
M: I can see that.

Finally, she goes down for a nap, and I watch the first episode of Breaking Bad.

In the evening, I pull her around on a blanket, which she asks for by saying,
S: Slay me.
M: Okay, but I want to use the blanket to avoid making a mess.
S: Sleigh me.
M: Okay. (Humor is wasted on the young)

We go outside to pick some weeds for roughly six minutes and are bitten by mosquitoes about ten times each. We retreat.

Inside, we have a little bit of time to kill, so we make some dance videos. Because, if you had time to kill with a two and half year old little girl, you'd make dance videos too.







After they're over it's time for bed. She keeps saying she wants chocolate but refuses to eat her dinner. I am the world's greatest parent, so I send her to bed hungry. But not before we watch this video, which she calls the funny video.



Then we head upstairs. Only, she doesn't want to go upstairs and is picked up like a sack of potatoes and taken upstairs screaming, kicking. She says she wants to wear only one type of pants and tries to kick over the lamp. As she screams, I sing "Get Lucky" and do some head bobbing to avoid going insane. I'm not sure she felt valued and listened too, but I'm also sure that it was the only way to stay sane. And, after being told to go downstairs to get a particular book and read it to her, she's off to bed. Easy as 1, 2, 3. Okay, she isn't sleeping yet, but I know it's coming soon.