Imaginary Enemies

Some kids have imaginary friends. Mine have pretend enemies.

Maybe it's because they're twins and have a built-in playmate that they don't need to expand their social group to those characters solely in their minds. Or maybe it's because their loveys, Bear and Bean, are friends enough for them, the high-pitched squeals of the teddy bear and blanket often voicing the more babyish views of my growing children. When one of them is afraid of something, their lovey tells me that it's afraid. When they want to throw tantrums, it's Bear or Bean at the forefront, doing the most misbehaving. Any notion my children deem beneath them is awarded to their loveys.

Of course, the stuffed animal and battered blanket are also the girls' main audience for their shows. They're the object of many feedings, and naps. Many times, the loveys will find themselves cordoned off in the bedroom while the girls "go to the gym" or "go grocery shopping."

The imaginary enemies, though, are different. The witch and the monster have traditional roles in our household. They intimidate the twins, compelling them to call out a warning to me or their daddy should we wander too far outside at night. They're the evil ones that my girls are convinced will try to get them in their sleep.

These are all things I expected.

What took me by surprise is the new game that's popped up in the past few weeks or so.

Giving the characters voices, much like they do for Bear and Bean, the girls will channel these malevolent ghouls, usually when they want to be bad.

There have been many dinners as of late where my husband and I have had to "kick the witch and monster back to the moon" so the girls could eat their meals.

"Mommy, the witch doesn't want me to eat my dinner," they'll say. Then they'll break into a gravelly voice. "No! Dulce will not eat her dinner. I am the witch, and I say no."

"Go away, witch," is the standard reply. "You have no power here."

And then we can continue our meal.

Sometimes, the girls will ask me if I love the witch, or if I'll hug her,. I usually say, "Well, if the witch would be good, I would think about it."

When I tell them I love them out of the blue, they'll say "I love you, too." But over the past few weeks, they've then paused, thought about it and asked, "Do you love the witch, too?" I'll usually say no. I don't know if that's the right answer.

What if they are looking for validation that I'll love them when they're good and when they're bad? But, then again, what if they don't want me to love the thing that torments them and causes them fear?

I'll give them a hug. "But you won't hug the witch, are you?"

"No, I won't hug the witch."

With imaginary friends like these, who needs enemies?

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Little Kids - They're Just Like People, Only Smaller (Part I)

You can learn so much about human nature from observing little kids as they begin to make their way in the world. This morning, Dulce taught me how people argue and why little things can carry so much weight for so long. It's something I knew, anyway, but it's amazing to see it brought to life on a little stage through my children.

Earlier, my husband was getting ready for work upstairs. Dulce was looking for her Bean, a blanket she's carried around since she was wee. She wandered upstairs, in hopes of finding it. (Bean was being stealth washed and dried after an unfortunate accident involving urine. Being a stay at home mom is very glamorous.)

When Dulce arrived in our bedroom, my husband was getting his work clothes together.

"What are you doing up here?" he asked loudly, in an alarmed tone. You see, the iron was on and he was across the room, and the last thing anyone wants is an iron to the face. You can sense the danger. She ambles up, pulls a cord trying to get a better look, and BAM. Emergency room. No thanks.

You can see it. I can see it. My husband could see it. Dulce? Couldn't see it.

She flies down the stairs, crying at the top of her lungs about the injustice of a world that won't let her look for her Bean.

I mean, this was big. She was inconsolable for at least two whole minutes. Then she started playing and all was forgiven and forgotten. Or so we thought.

When my husband made his way downstairs for breakfast, Dulce (with her newly dried Bean, that I had transferred from the dryer to the freezer then out to the chair when she wasn't looking, so that she wouldn't notice the temperature difference) walked right up to him.

"Daddy?" she asked. "Why tell me downstairs?"
"Because it was dangerous upstairs. The iron is hot and you could have gotten hurt."

Makes sense, right? Surely she would see the light now. But she didn't. That explanation did not cater to her mindset. The iron had nothing to do with anything and it was completely boggling that when faced with the straightforward question of why she had been disallowed to continue her search for Bean, her father had, instead of answering with any pertinent information, gone off on some tangent about some iron. Adults, she must have thought, utterly useless.

Then she did what we all do when faced with an answer that doesn't make sense in the box in which we live. She justified her actions and reasked her question, hoping the emphasis would rest on the right part this time, and her father would finally "get" it.

"No," she said. "I just looking for my Bean. Why you yell at me downstairs?"

Sometimes we cannot see the other person's point of view, no matter how obvious it is. We won't work to connect something that seems unattached to our argument or problem, and the other person involved can't see where we are coming from either. The traditional impasse.

She justified her actions and asked us to justify ours, but not in some mumbo-jumbo way. In a way that directly correlated to her specific problem.

My husband and I joked afterward that it was as if she'd come up and said, "Now that we've all had some time to cool down about this, can you explain to me why you're always such an asshole?"

Which is often, more or less, what adults say to each other in that first conversation after an argument, before the sides are given equal play on equal ground. It is the sticking point that loses many friendships, simplified toddler-style.

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Frankenbean

Bean has had a rough life. I documented her descent from chipper baby blanket to sad greying rag, in a post called the evolution of bean. Since then, things have only gotten worse for poor bean.

Her border ripped off, and she became long and thin, stretching out as Dulce decided the best way to exploit the changes in bean was to wrap her around and around her little fingers until little bits and bean fibers tore off and fluttered to the ground.

I have quivered in trepidation every time the washer spins with bean inside, certain that I was sending the lovely to her death. To stop her from disingrating into nothing, we tied her up in knots wherever she was getting too thin.

Bean's days were numbered.

I knew though, that if I could keep bean alive until we got to my mother's this week, some solution could be found. My mother did minor surgery on bear (Natalina's lovey) last year, so the babies had faith in her ability to fix things. We talked it up in my house, so that Dulce would be semi-prepared for any changes.

Of course, it wasn't enough. And I can't say I blame her. While my mother did a beautiful job rendering pink and purple bean into pink/purple bean, there is an obvious difference now. I present to you, Frankenbean.

My mother skillfully sewed the remaining pieces of pink bean onto the stronger base of purple bean.

Dulce was inconsolable.

"No, open bean. Open bean," she said, imploring us to restore her beans to their former glory. She cried. She whimpered. She begged. She tantrumed. She tried to open bean herself. She threw bean across the room.

Finally, my husband and I found a way to convince her to accept bean's new look...kind of. First, my husband tied bean around her neck as a cape (which has regularly been purple bean's role), and Dulce got to play Super Dulce. Next, I told her that bean was still in the process of being fixed, and that she would open when she was done being fixed. Could Dulce love her even while she was being fixed? Dulce decided she could.

This is hopefully a lie that I told to my daughter, but not necessarily. If worst comes to worst, we will unsew beans, opening them again, and wait for pink bean's slow demise. But Frankenbean is showing promise. Less than 24 hours later, while Dulce still asks for her to open, she's also now talking about her new bean, as if she is understanding that Frankenbean is fixed bean, and that it's okay.

I hope it is.

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Hang On, Bean!

Bean, Dulce's blanket, has had a rough life. Since she adopted her around 13 months, Bean has never left her side. I can't wash Bean without tantrums at bedtime for days afterward. Once we thought we'd lost her, and I saw my mommy life flash before my eyes. I gave her a replacement Bean as the original began to deteriorate. No dice. That Bean then became purple Bean, with original "pink" Bean still holding center stage.

Let's take a look at the evolution of Bean:

Bean, the first time she tore. Last August.

Bean helping with crucial potty needs. September.

Bean before bed. November.

Bean after nap. February.

Bean after her second major tear, secondary Bean featured. March.

Bean this morning. o.O

As you can see, Bean has been well loved. She's been worn down to a dirty little scrap of knots and nothing. She's had it. It's curtains for Bean. But how to break the news to Dulce?

I can't. I won't. I tremble in trepidation at the thought.

My only hope is for Bean to hold out until June when we see my mother with her snazzy new sewing machine. My idea is to sew old Bean (or a piece of her) onto new Bean. I know this will go over like a lead balloon. I know I'm still in for weeks of anguish. But it's something, right? I consider it quite the compromise. I mean, I can't keep letting her hang on to this old thing. Bean is so worn she's literally disappearing by the day. And we don't even take her outside. Consider me flabbergasted.

But I can't just strip her of her Bean, especially when Natalina's Bear is still going strong (after some minor repairs, of course.)

I love my babies, and they love their loveys. What's a mother to do?

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Toddler Tricks - 32

I may have done this one already, but I can't remember and internet time is limited here, so here is one we used yesterday.

Ways to Trick your Baby:

Problem: You have to go on a really long car ride, say anything over an hour with the your babies in tow.  You know they won't be satisfied from beginning to end, and you know they probably won't sleep.

Solution: Leave a bit before naptime if you can manage it.  Smuggle their loveys into the car so that they don't see them.  When the kids start getting antsy and cranky, pull out the loveys like they are some great gift for the babies.  Most likely, they'll be thrilled, and getting sleepy.  Ours usually snuggle up and eventually fall asleep with their greatest gift, the lovey that somehow got into the car.


Ways your Baby Tricks You:

Problem: Once you get to your location, you're all having a lot of fun and the babies don't want to leave.

Solution: Tell them you have to go and check on their loveys that you've left "guarding the car." Usually the pull of the lovey will be strong enough to at least interest them a bit.  Once at the car, they'll have the lovey to dry their tears if they are truly going to be upset about it.  Usually, we find that they are tired enough to accept the lovey and the car in place of the fun times they were having.

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Is There a Doctor in the House?

We have a lovey that needs some medical attention!

Now, the simple solution would be for me to sew the bear back together.  I have a mini-sewing kit. I'm a 28-year-old woman.  I even sewed my own pillow by hand in home economics 15 years ago...and I got a C-! Surely I could repair this.

No. I could not.  I am traumatized from my experiences.  I just don't sew. Ever.  Okay, maybe a button here and there. But something as delicate and sensitive as Bear's neck? I wouldn't dare try. If I do this wrong, I'm in for weeks of crying, toddler-puddley misery.  I will not do it.

Fortunately, we're going to visit my mother this weekend. My mother who sewed her own wedding dress.  My mother will sew Bear. It's a perfect solution. That's what mothers are for after all, right?  Wait, what?  Okay, okay, so I'll work on my mothering skills.

But of course, nothing is that simple when you have twins.  You see, Bean is also in tatters, and since I told Natalina Nana would be fixing her bear (Nana, by the way, doesn't know about this yet.  I'm betting I'm not even going to ahve to ask her.  If I know her, she'll take one look at Bear and get out a sewing kit herself.) Dulce now expects that Nana will be fixing her blanket.  But Bean is beyond repair, even for the most talented seamstress.

The white blob you see on her lap is called "Purple Bean." Dulce doesn't know it, but Purple Bean is in training for Bean's position. We hope to make the transition sometime in the near future. It will not be smooth. But there is nothing else to be done. Bean is so threadbare and full of so many holes, it cannot be patched or fixed.  The best case scenario would be if we can figure a way to attach it to Purple Bean.

These loveys, boy, they've had a rough life.  I still have my blanket from when I was a kid.  It's in much better shape than these two.

Still, life without them is unimaginable. So we go to Nana's this afternoon, with the hope that she can breathe new life into our loveys.

I, of course, will be sucking it up and learning how to sew, at least in a rudimentary way.  I could do it now, but the knot would be all loopy and gross, and the stitched would be too big and uneven.  Natalina would totally know.

Thank goodness for mothers.

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Toddler Tricks - 29

Ways to Trick your Baby:

Problem: Your child's lovely is on its last legs. There's nothing you can do now but sit back and count the remaining days of peace in your house before the beloved kicks the bucket for good. A new one means nothing. Your child knows who her lovey is and she will accept no other into her heart.  Truly, there can be no replacement.

Solution:

Okay, so ignore the hotdog for a moment.  No one ever said I was mom of the year. The point of this picture are the blankets Dulce is holding.  Her original "Bean" is the pink one on top.  After a week of me asking her to also try the white one, she did.  Now when "Bean" finally kicks it, "Purple Bean" will have been with her for weeks, providing at least some comfort.  I didn't wait until the last minute to try to make a replacement. Introduce the strange weeks in advance so that it becomes familiar by the time you need it.



Ways Your Baby Can Trick You:

Problem: Now every time your child needs her lovey, she needs two things instead of one.  God forbid you not find both of them.

Solution: When not in active use, tie or attach the loveys together somehow.  Also, have a special lovey spot that your child knows about. If they get used to putting their loveys in one spot, they will always know where to find them, and they will assume that spot is where the loveys belong.  Think of it...no more tossing every toy out of the box to see if the lovey is at the bottom (which it never is.)


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Discovering Priorities

Last night, I saw my mommy-life flash before my eyes.  We were mid-way home from our trip to Connecticut.  It wasn't the plane ride, or the airports, or the unsafe bus, or the fact that we were all exceedingly ill that pushed me over the edge.  It was Bean.

Bean, Dulce's blanket and lovey.

You see that pile of dusty, threadbare pink in the middle?  That's Bean.  Sitting right next to Bear, Natalina's lovey.  Bean watches us eat.  She watches TV with us.  We pretend to feed Bean.  Bean goes potty with us.  Bean definitely sleeps with us.  Bean is the perfect complement to a pointer finger in the mouth in the late hours of the night or the early hours of the morning.  Bean understands Dulce like no one else. 

Bean is torn, tattered and faded.  In fact, when describing her to a stranger who was doing a last check on the now-vacant bus for us, I said, "Please, sir, can you just check the corners and floor for an old pink rag?"

I felt bad.  Poor Bean.  What an awful description.

Of course, the main point here is that Bean was lost.  We had lost Bean.  Dulce, already strapped in the car and ready for some well-deserved pointer-finger action after a long day of traveling, was calling for her.

"You lost Bean?  How could you lose Bean?  You know better than that.  Really?  Are you sure?  You lost her?"  My husband, beside himself.

"I... I didn't lose her.  The baby must have dropped her."

Oh, okay, sure, Darlena.  Blame the baby.  In my defense, I was reacting in cold fear of the nights and weeks and life ahead of me, should Bean fail to appear.

I saw then where my priorities actually lie these days.  I even thought, 'Oh, I wish I had lost my license, instead.  I wish I had lost a bag.  Anything but Bean.'

That rag, worthless to the common eye, is worth more than spending the day at the DMV to me.  It's worth more than a $200 necklace.  More than an entire week's worth of clothes.  Bean has quietly risen to being one of the most important things in my life.

We were headed back to the airport.  I would scour the grounds, asking the throngs of people if they had seen a faded pink rag.  I would check the trash cans.  I would cry at security if I had to.  I would make them turn that plane back around somehow. 

Then, we found her.  I had stashed her in a bag after Dulce had dropped her for the umpteenth time.  The whole ride home, I was merely thankful Bean was still with us.  I could hardly think of anything else except for what my life would have been like without her.

Turns out, we did leave a bag.  Now, I'm biased because it's my husband's bag, and I only have a few things in it, but I'm so thankful it's the bag and not Bean that's missing.  And it only further proves how important that scrap of cloth is.  We left his bag at the car lot because we were madly searching for Bean and took off in a cloud of worry, without checking that we had everything.

Don't be like me, parents.  Have a spare.  Someday, this nightmare will be my reality.  Whether we lose her or she disintegrates completely, someday, we will no longer have Bean.  And my life will never be the same.  Buy many, many loveys.  Switch them out frequently when your kids are babies so they get equal use and wear.  You need spare loveys.  Your future depends on it.  Save yourself.

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Rejected!

Around a year of age, your child will probably choose what's known in parenting circles as a lovey.  My children chose theirs carefully at 14 months.  At first, Dulce tried to make a hot pink plastic watering can her lovey, but it just wasn't cuddly enough.  She settled on a pink blanket.  Natalina took to a bear with which the twins had shared their infancy.

You may remember Blankie and Bear from one of my earliest posts where I told you how to wash them.  Reading back, I agree with my techniques for preservation, but I realized I glazed over the most traumatizing part of the whole affair: the after-wash lovey rejection.

Dulce has gone up to five days and nights rejecting her cleaned Blankie.  She simply refuses to sleep with it unless it smells like her.  She'd prefer it to smell dirty than clean because while dirty, it still smells like her underneath the dried milk and fermenting grape juice.  Once it's clean, it smells like nothing - a fate worse than death, and apparently deserving of total exile.  Of course, without Blankie, she can't sleep.  The days after a wash can be brutal.  I've devised some ways to save you my fate.

First, if you do nothing else I've advised, do this:  wash your child's lovey twice a week.  Do this whether or not the lovey is dirty.  Of course, the more you wash the lovey, the more quickly it will wear out.  Buy multiple loveys, all exactly the same.  Get your child used to the switch early, before toddler stubborness sets in.  Also, wash the loveys using the tips I wrote about in August to keep their lives as long as possible.  If your child gets used to the smell of a clean lovey, that's the smell your child will want.

If it is too late for you, and you suffer clean lovey rejection like I do, here are the less-than-ideal alternatives that I use:  wash the loveys with baking soda only, not soap.  No smell at all is better than clean smell.  If it needs to be a quick and dirty wash, take that literally.  Throw the lovey into the wash at the end of the cycle, so that it only gets half the amount of soap and wash as the other laundry.

Make sure, also, that the lovey is dried completely and cooled to room temperature before giving it back to baby.  The fewer things that are different about the lovey, the more likely the baby will accept it.  If at all possible, wash and dry the lovey without your baby realizing it's gone.  Once it's dried and cooled, put it back on his bed so that he can find it on his own, as if nothing ever happened.

Nothing is more sad in daily parenting life than a baby's rejection of his lovey.  It's as if an old friend abandoned him.  With any luck, if you try these tips, your child and his lovey can remain best buddies in any stage of clean.

Who's the Boss?

I often joke that my toddlers are my boss, but really it's very true, and, sometimes, I have to use workplace tricks to get anything done at all.  Common phrases in my house include, "I'll do that right now," and "Yes, yes, right now, yes, in a minute, yes, of course."  I'm pretty sure I used those daily in the workplace, and I'm pretty sure they meant the same thing they do now - "No, I'll get to it later," and "I forgot, but I'm babbling at you while I get my stuff together so it looks like I was on top of it all along."

One of the key transferable skills is making the boss think it was their idea.  Whatever it is, it was their idea.  At work, if I came up with a new scheme to intermingle web promotion with video, the only way I could pass it through the big guy was to hint around it during a meeting, wait until he said it, and congratulate him on his wonderful cutting-edge idea.  Dirty trick?  Maybe.  But you do what you have to do.

Last week, I needed to go to the Walgreens.  We don't have a car during the day and a trip to the Walgreens requires a mile-long hike with a double stroller.  It is impossible to accomplish with two screaming writhing children such as I had at the time.  They were tantruming, of course, because by now they've figured out that a mile walk while strapped into a stroller is much more boring than a freedom jaunt outside in the back where they can run and play.

I tried force first because they do usually like going on walks, and I thought maybe once they were in their stroller seats they'd calm down and get the idea.  Nothing doing.  Then I tried giving them hats.  That usually works, but by this point, they were too wound up to care about even their most favorite accessory.  Somehow I was able to convince them to get into their seat, but they both had their loveys with them, and loveys do not leave the house in this family.  Just as I solved one problem, another problem emerged.  They would not let me take their loveys.  I waited.  And waited.  And waited.  Alas, they were perfectly content to wait me out, sitting smugly in their stroller, hugging their beloved blankie and bear.  I went out of sight.  It didn't fool them.  I went outside in front of them and shut the door.  All that did was make them cry and cling to their loveys even harder.  I was at a complete loss and running out of pre-naptime minutes.

Suddenly an idea.

"Boy, I know you two really want to go on this walk, and I'm so sorry I can't take you with the blankie and bear.  What can we do about this?"

Blank stares.

"It was such a good idea you had to go on this walk.  Mommy is so excited to take you.  But bear and blankie are so tired.  So very very tired."

A pause.  Then a question. "Nigh nigh?"

"Oh, that's a great idea!  Would you like me to unstrap you so you can put blankie and bear down for nigh nigh?"

And I unstrapped them and off they went into the bedroom, proudly placing their loveys in bed and giving them kisses.  I didn't have to worry about getting them back in the stroller because now that the walk was their idea, it had turned into a goal, and now that they had taken steps to accomplish that goal, they were willing to go the rest of the way.

Dirty trick?  Maybe.  But you do what you have to do.

A Tale of Two Loveys

Meet Blankie and Bear.  For identical twins, you couldn't ask for two more different "loveys."  And ragged and worn as they may look, they've only been used for a year - not to mention, I only just washed them yesterday, so this is absolutely as sharp as they look these days.  But it doesn't have to be this way.  I'm here to help you preserve your children's loveys with knowledge I learned too late.

Bear has been sewn and resewn, at this point.  He's had a long and hard life.

Blankie, as you can see, is missing about a third of her original material because someone thought it would be a good idea to embroider a baby's blanket.  It's not.  The embroidered corner ripped off, as did the hemline around it. By this time next year, I expect Blankie to be the size of a handkerchief.

Bear has been with the twins since before they were born.  A gift from my brother in law, at one point, Bear had a soundcard inside of him that made the sound of the inside of a womb.  I highly recommend this.  Our babies fell asleep five times faster and without me having to rock their crib if the bear was on.  When the twins were too big to share a crib, Bear moved in with Natalina.  She was the lighter sleeper and having the sound-maker right next to her made the most sense.  It is only natural he grew to be her best friend.


Dulce discovered Blankie at around 14 months.  At first, she tried a watering can as her lovey, but it was just too hard.  Blankie happened to be her covering in the crib the day she decided she also wanted a best friend.

In good times and bad, in sickness and in health, in tug of wars, and immersed in bodily fluids, these toys have prevailed.  Natalina sucks on one of Bea'rs ears so much that no matter how clean I can get it, the fur is matted and discolored there.  Lately, Dulce has been using Blankie as a partner in potty crime, cleaning up her spills so mommy won't find out.

So, how can you keep your child's loveys clean - or, at the very least - not disgusting?  Let's start at the beginning.

Choosing:

While, ultimately, your baby is going to grow attached to something on his or her own, you may be able to help guide the choice.  If you can, steer away from the stuffed animals.  They're hard to wash, harder to dry, and often too big to pack on trips without a hassle.  Go the blanket route, I strongly urge you.  If you pick a blanket, try to pick one without any fancy embroidery or buttons or stick-ons, or anything that can tear off.  Your child will tear them off, causing structural and often irreparable damage - I guarantee it.

Washing:

Start washing the loveys on a regular basis right away.  The younger the baby is, the easier it is for them to accept that this is the way things are going to be.  If you wait, like I did, not only are you going to have a bacteria-ridden, disgusting toy to clean, you're also going to have a rip-roaring mad baby or toddler on your hands.  I now wash both Blankie and Bear in the washer, after having tried all other methods.  I find this easier, quicker, and relatively sanitary.

Steps and tips:

Put the lovey in a pillowcase, and knot the open end.  (This preserves the structural integrity of the toy.  It also allows you to "hide" the fact that you're daring to wash the lovey, as it's unrecognizable in its bag.)

Throw the lovey in the wash with the towels or lights.  Use vinegar in the cycle to thoroughly clean.  Do not use bleach if you can help it.

Dry the lovey in the dryer, still in the pillowcase, with a few of the towels for an hour.  Put a tennis ball in there.  It keeps everything fluffy.  Then, if it's a stuffed animal, dry it again for another hour.  I know it feels dry.  It's not dry.

If at all possible, do this in the morning.  Maybe this won't be true for you, but my babies will reject their loveys for hours after they come out of the wash.  A tough naptime is much easier to deal with than a hard night of lovey rejection.

Keep an eye out for rips and tears.  The sooner you repair these, the longer your lovey will last.  If at all possible, have a back-up lovey or two (the exact same toy) and intodruce it the first time you wash the first lovey.  (I didn't do this, and I am dreading the day these toys finally wear out completely.  At this point, my two year olds would know the difference and would not accept any other lovey, even if, to me, it's the exact same thing.  There will be much crying in this house one day.)

Finally, whenever possible, keep the loveys at home.  It's much easier to keep a clean lovey when the toy isn't being dragged around the grocery store floor, being dropped at the doctor's office, or having frozen yogurt dripped on it at the parlor.  My twins are old enough now where we can make this a game: "Okay, time to go out.  Put Bear and Blankie in bed.  Oh, you don't want to?  Okay, I guess we'll stay home then."  (This works almost every time.)

There are exceptions.  When we go on a trip lasting over an hour, I'll secretly pack Blankie and Bear and take them out at crucial we're-going-to-turn-this-car-around moments.  If it's close to naptime, this means almost instant sleep.  Otherwise, it just means happy babies.

Good luck in your lovey-preservation project.  I hope it goes better than mine is going!