The Age of Innocence
Who ever said that toddlers are innocent? I've had three of them, and not one has lived up to it yet. Miss Cora, as she now prefers to be called, has officially entered the age of mischief. The one that means I have to re-grow eyes on the back of my head, keeping my finger on the pulse of her activities at all times. Why? Let me give just a few examples, all of them from the past few days.
She's absolutely sure she needs to potty train, even though she has no concept of her need to use the toilet until the deed is done. Still, she went missing the other day and finally turned up in the bathroom. She had lifted the toilet lid, snapped on the child seat, and was sitting perched on the toilet with her little pants still on. At first glance, I actually thought her feet were in the toilet. My body gets its elevated-pulse-benefit from moments like this these days. Who needs exercise?
Yesterday I was upstairs tucking our little newborn friend for a nap. I came down to find a heap of toilet paper coiled around several stuffed animals in the kitchen. That would have been enough, but when I tracked down the culprit, I found her walking around the house with our metal cheese grater in her little hands. I have no idea what her plans for it were (or how she reached it in the cupboard!), but I can only assume the handle at the top made her imagine it was a purse, in which event all bets are usually off.
Later in the morning, I found her standing next to a wipe container, completely empty, scrubbing our window sills. "Cleaning, Mommy." Deep cleaning, apparently.
Today is her fourth day in a big bed. She's done well, considering. Bedtime usually involves some tears before she gives in, diving onto her little mattress, and falling asleep. The point is, she usually falls asleep. Not so today. She's been in her room for forty-five minutes. I just heard an unusual amount of thumping and banging around. I was hoping it wasn't her brothers, who are both reading in separate rooms, causing the ruckus. It wasn't. I was met at the baby gate by a disheveled, pigtailed toddler in pink. "Downstairs, Mommy," she ordered. I think she knew how clearly the evidence would convict her. Behind her stood a heap as tall as her of all of her clothes, onesies, tights, and socks. She emptied her entire dresser (and then some!) onto the floor.
Needless to say, she has clearly left that elusive "age of innocence." My days just got a whole lot busier...
She's absolutely sure she needs to potty train, even though she has no concept of her need to use the toilet until the deed is done. Still, she went missing the other day and finally turned up in the bathroom. She had lifted the toilet lid, snapped on the child seat, and was sitting perched on the toilet with her little pants still on. At first glance, I actually thought her feet were in the toilet. My body gets its elevated-pulse-benefit from moments like this these days. Who needs exercise?
Yesterday I was upstairs tucking our little newborn friend for a nap. I came down to find a heap of toilet paper coiled around several stuffed animals in the kitchen. That would have been enough, but when I tracked down the culprit, I found her walking around the house with our metal cheese grater in her little hands. I have no idea what her plans for it were (or how she reached it in the cupboard!), but I can only assume the handle at the top made her imagine it was a purse, in which event all bets are usually off.
Later in the morning, I found her standing next to a wipe container, completely empty, scrubbing our window sills. "Cleaning, Mommy." Deep cleaning, apparently.
Today is her fourth day in a big bed. She's done well, considering. Bedtime usually involves some tears before she gives in, diving onto her little mattress, and falling asleep. The point is, she usually falls asleep. Not so today. She's been in her room for forty-five minutes. I just heard an unusual amount of thumping and banging around. I was hoping it wasn't her brothers, who are both reading in separate rooms, causing the ruckus. It wasn't. I was met at the baby gate by a disheveled, pigtailed toddler in pink. "Downstairs, Mommy," she ordered. I think she knew how clearly the evidence would convict her. Behind her stood a heap as tall as her of all of her clothes, onesies, tights, and socks. She emptied her entire dresser (and then some!) onto the floor.
Needless to say, she has clearly left that elusive "age of innocence." My days just got a whole lot busier...
