Pluchar Baby Blog

Amelia’s bedtime routine is pretty straight forward - read a story, brush teeth, go pee-pee, pray, sing a song.  It’s very interesting how it has developed over time, while Ruth seems impatient with attempts to read a story or sing a song.  She’s content just to get in the crib.

Anyway, I was working through the routine with Amelia when, as we were getting ready to pray, she said, “Read a story.  Read a story.”

Come on!  How did I forget to read a story?

I had an idea which I’ve been thinking about for a while, and this was the moment.  It’s something I did as a child for my younger siblings, and very simple.

I told her a story that I was making up as I went along.

The preface was, “We’re not going to read a story tonight; I’m going to tell you a story.  I want you to imagine it in your head.  Try to see what Papa is talking about.”

“Ok.”

And it was magic.  She was looking off to a distance that can’t be measured, and her eyes were seeing the bird and the mouse in the story.  This was not the blank stare that adults have when they consider abstractions, when they are diagnosing a mood or a predicament then fall into the stream of consciousness.  The lights were all on - this was a new world.

Man is a giddy thing.

Grandma and Grandpa Eggert took our girls to St. Louis, to visit their Auntie Mallory and watch her play basketball.  They left yesterday before the snow, and were able to avoid it through the whole ride.

Marcy had to work, so she left around 5:30.  And as I said, it was snowing, so I wasn’t about to unnecessarily brave a drive to anywhere.

So it was just me, in a big empty house.  For the first time in years, I simply had too much time on my hands.  I didn’t know what to do with it - there wasn’t anything that appealed to me.

Most of the common entertainments - movies, video games, reading - weren’t very appealing to me.  Typically, after the girls go down for the night, I have an hour or so for these things, and it’s enjoyable.  But with 4-5 hours or more?  What do you do with the leftover time?

It really was interesting, and for the first time it brought to light just how much structure my life has as a result of being a father.  If I’m not too busy, then I’m too tired to get into any trouble.

Good thing it was snowing!

That’s the question on Amelia’s lips these days.  I, like a lot of young parents I know, want to encourage that question.  It’s a great question.

Most of the time.

Amelia asks it at appropriate times, and also at impertinent times.

Good instance:

I say, “Amelia, I need to put your socks back on.”

Amelia says, “Why?”

I say, “Because it’s cold outside and socks help keep your feet warm.”

Undesirable instance:

I say, “I need to wash dishes, then I can pick you up.”

“Why?”

“Because we need clean dishes for the next meal.”

“Why?”

“So that we can avoid bacteria and stay healthy.”

“Why?”

“That’s it.  We just want to be healthy.”

See, it’s those irreducible truths that can’t be explained any further, kid.  (Obviously she’s not aware of bacteria, let alone irreducible truth - except maybe pain and pleasure and love - so I don’t seriously fault her for this.  I just keep tabs for later).

I’ve actually been much less accommodating, to this point, than I might have expected.  I relished hearing “Why?” as I was growing up, and both hearing and offering answers.  Why not now?

Well, it’s partly the nonsensical asking, or the “Why?” after I’ve just explained why we’re doing something.  I’m waiting for that spark, when she understands why she’s asking “Why?”  Until then, she only gets three courses of “why?” until I just say, “That’s it.”

Today a funny thing happened, though.  Think back to the socks anecdote.

I told her it was cold outside, and she asked another “Why?”

I said, “Because it’s winter, and that’s when the earth’s axis tilts away so that the sun’s rays are less direct for us.  Therefore, the temperature falls and we have the season of winter.”

“Oh, ok.”

I laughed a lot.

The following rendition of the alphabet has been heard recently in the Pluchar household…

A-B-C-D-E-F-G-H-I-J-K-ELMO-P-Q-R-S-T-U-V-W-X-Y-Z

Seriously - I could not make that up.  She has since self-corrected, and will even do the ABC’s fast or slow, quiet or loud.

Sometimes it’s a bit of a chore to do, you know, the 43rd parenting task of the day (depending on how you itemize).  Today, in fact, I fell asleep on the floor while Amelia sorted “purses” on the couch nearby.  We were within 15 minutes of bedtime, and I did not want to go through the routine.

That’s not quite right, actually - that feeling was tied intimately with my fatigue, which caused me to fall asleep the way I did.  Then, when you’ve finally been given a minute’s rest, you have to wake up…

And yet, just as intimately, I recognize something like pre-destined nostalgia.  That is, I am busy trying to burn memories into my brain, because I know that these moments are, truly, once-in-a-lifetime.

I try to let the weight of Ruth’s head linger on my chest, to let Amelia’s meandering fancies continue dancing in my eyes.  I try to modulate but not dilute my voice, which has been so recognizable for my girls from among many other sounds and voices; in it I can hear the power that my father’s voice held for me.  In the space of a word Amelia might be brought to tears, or to winged happiness.

So, let not fatigue nor aches nor stress drain away any of the deep joy that parents may be blessed with.

Or, as Amelia has often said when I am neither sleeping nor pretending to sleep, so that I take it to be an unintended metaphor:  ”Wake up, Papa!”

I love when children talk with their whole bodies.

We’ve taught Amelia (and even Ruth has picked it up, a little) to pray before meals.  We also pray before bedtime.

When I’m putting Amelia to bed, I typically consider the day she’s had and then list the things we can be grateful for.  This list begins with all of the people she’s seen that day, then the people she’ll see the following day.  We list some activities and, following that, I sing a song, and it’s off to bed.

Starting last week, Amelia will now interject into my song with a few extra names - often the people she saw yesterday, or somewhat recently.  Her thoughts come faster than she can express them, and her body clenches and heaves to get all the words out.  The real pleasure, for me, is that she will be sitting on my lap, facing me, so that I can feel her stomach pulling the air in and her chest pushing the words out.  There’s something about the chest-to-chest contact, like a good hug, that really opens one’s heart.

She knows my father as “Grandpa Eddie Pluchar.”  This alone is amusing to me.  He has been “Dad” for over 30 years, and I’ve heard his mother refer to him as “Eddie” maybe once.  Everyone else, everywhere else, has said “Ed.”

To hear a two year old girl work through that name in a state of stammering exuberance is really something.  To keep from laughing I had to stop breathing.  ”Dandpa - breath - Eddie Ploo-chaw”

I’m grateful for that.

Very seldom, except when I’m singing, I find an opportunity to whisper some secret of the universe to my daughters.

Actually, only when singing, so far.

I don’t mean lessons, even the good ones which are richly taught and clearly understood.  I mean just a word or a phrase, just the tip of a spiritual iceberg.

Lately, I took one from Mumford and Sons and I whispered to Ruth, “Oh man is a giddy thing.  Man is a giddy thing.”

If you’re not from PETA, I think you’ll understand - A past friend of mine wanted to argue that deer are far more admirable and well-adapted creatures than man.  In the sense that they are incapable of sin, and in the sense that they are so well endowed as to be considered graceful in their movements (except when they’re running into the side of my truck), there is an argument that they hold up favorably.  But no deer has ever built a lean-to, let alone a castle.  No deer has ever grasped economy of scale and founded a chain restaurant.

And no deer was ever a poet.

I think God, in fact, breathing life into us, was whispering a secret.  And when you catch a really good secret - not gossip, but joyful news - there’s an elation in it.  Deer can jump, but man can fly.

Man is a giddy thing.

(And humbly I ask, let’s put to rest any objection that I would whisper about “man” to my daughter.  I certainly intend it, and I think the artists do too, as the term for all humankind.  It’s simply more poetic to say “man” sometimes).

Fine, fine motor skills

Can’t get it to rotate…

This goes along with the most recent post, but I wanted to make sure it got your attention.

Naturally, as part of the learning process, praise and rewards can be effective motivators.  Marcy tells how her mom used to reward the kids with an M&M if they successfully used the potty.

We’ve stuck with verbal praise, and remaining upbeat even in the face of accidents.  We tell Amelia, “Be sure to tell Mama/Papa if you have to go pee pee, and you can go on the potty like a big girl.”  And, “You’re so smart!  Good job!”  And, of course, applause and cheering and the like.

Amelia has taken so well to this, and to peeing on the potty, that she never wants to miss an opportunity to use the potty.  When better to use the potty than when Mama or Papa is using the potty?!

I’m pretty much over the “invasion” of privacy element.  Since Amelia began to crawl, I have not expected to ever go pee pee alone.  I’ll go in and start closing the door, when her voice will ring out.  It’s absolutely adorable, if a little awkward for an adult.

“Pee pee, too!”  She really does pause where that comma is.  And she raises her pitch for the word “too,” as though her enthusiasm will open all doors.  So far, it has.

Still, I sometimes try to steal away when she’s playing intently with a toy, or down the hall a bit.  Halfway through, I’ll hear, “Pee pee, too!”

Hurry!

I’ll be wrapping up and going to flush as she walks in.  Completely unfazed, she will smile…and clap.  And sometimes she even says, “Yeah, Papa!”

Yup - I hear applause when I go to the bathroom like a big boy.

As my beautiful wife has said, Amelia underwent potty training over the last few weeks.  Quite successfully.

Now she’s beginning to say “pee pee” with such fervor, and seeing her success, we are venturing out into public again.  Nothing tremendously embarrassing has happened, though I felt the first pangs of it when, at church, she was emphatic about her need to urinate, especially at the quiet moments.

In other news, Ruth turned six months young yesterday, and so we gave her a celebratory…green bean.  Actually, the operative phrase is more accurately, Ruth seized a green bean and, like Unicron in the animated (and still best) Transformers movie, pulled it arachnid-like toward her mouth.

Yet, it was fun to watch.

Gnawing on a green bean.