More Spinning

Just watching this gives me motion sickness. I think it's pretty obvious who will be taking this kid on the teacups at Disneyland.

Sheesh. When did I become so old?

A whole lot of two.

She is 34 and a half inches tall. (65% percentile.)
She is 25 pounds (35% percentile.)

I couldn't resist putting her stats in an adult height predictor/calculator that I found online. According to that thing, she will most likely be 5'5" as an adult. I can't imagine her being taller than me.

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Other current Lola facts:

Her favorite songs to sing are"The Wheels on the Bus," "The Alphabet Song," and "Itsty Bitsy Spider."

She can properly identify things that are purple. According to her, everything else is "blue."

She can count to fourteen. All. by. herself.

Her favorite dinner meal is gnocchi with gorgonzola cheese.

Her favorite snacks are goldfish crackers and freeze dried mangoes.

Her favorite book is Farmyard Tales.

Sometimes she refers to Josh as, "Daddy (LastName)." She also refers to Archie in the same manner.

Every time she sees or hears a motorcycle, she yells, "Curtis! Motorcycle!"

Every time she sees or hears an airplane, she comments on how "Airplanes go to Grandma's house."

She believes everyone has a mustache. She often points to her mustache (upper lip) and comments on other people's mustaches too.

Every night when I ask her which pajamas she would like to wear, she says, "Moon jammies!" Usually, I have to tell her that they are dirty. Then, she says, "Mommy, clean them up!"

She loves using Skype to talk to my parents.

She loves accessories: necklaces, bracelets, sunglasses, hats, headbands, purses. She can't get enough of them.

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Tonight, as I put her to bed and told her that I loved her, she said, "I love you soooooo much." And it was adorable.

Happy Birthday, Bike!

Lola loves bicycles. A few weeks ago, I asked her if she wanted a bike for her birthday. She said, YES!! (note, two exclamation points.) Ever since, whenever someone mentioned something about her birthday, she would say, "Bike?" And then, we would sing, "Maybeeee for your birthday," knowing full well that the tricycle that we bought her (in December) was sitting in the garage, waiting for February 7th to arrive.

On Monday, her birthday, I excitedly told her it was her birthday. I made her banana pancakes, and even stuck a candle in the stack, while I sang "Happy Birthday" to her. She wore her homemade birthday crown while she ate, but the importance of the day didn't seem to quite register with her.




(Don't worry, I cooked her a new pancake.)


Later on, we met up with her friend Zander at the local park for some lunch and cupcakes. When she saw Josh carrying the tricycle across the park, she made the connection.






Happy Birthday, bike. Happy Birthday, Lola.

Mother of the Year

Last week, Lola had a cut on her thumb. It wasn't a huge abrasion, but it was noticeable enough that she spoke of it often.

"Mommy, thumb, owie," she said, putting her crayon down, to look it over.
"Lola, would you like a band-aid?"
"Yes!" Her eyes light up, excited for the prospect of something new, something sticky that she can mess with.

We go into the bathroom. I take her thumb in my hand. The cut looks a little red, so I remove the hydrogen peroxide from the locked bathroom cabinet and place it on the counter while I search for a cotton ball.

Right as I find one, the dogs start barking.
"Daddy home!" Lola yells. She runs from the bathroom, looking for Josh.

We find him, carrying in some groceries. I help put away the milk and the cheese. I ask him how his day was. We begin to talk about our upcoming date, set to take place later that day. I tell him that I already scoped out the cafe's daily menu online.

Then Josh yells, "Lola, NO!"
I turn to see what is going on.
Lola says, "Lola, drinking," as she holds the opened bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

Josh and I both panic.
He grabs the bottle.
I grab Lola.

"What do we do?" he asks.
"Uh uh uh. We need to call Poison Control."
"What's the number?"
"I don't know! Call 9-1-1."

Josh calls 9-1-1.

Lola rests on my hip, smiling as she watches the commotion.

I race to pull out a toddler book, one where I vaguely remembered reading instructions for what to do if your child swallows something harmful. My mind races. My mother always had the poison control number on the refrigerator. Why did I never take the time to look up the number and put it on the fridge?

Josh tells the 9-1-1 operator what happened. She transfers him to the poison control hot line. He then retells the story. The woman asks us to smell her breath. Lola laughs as I place my nose halfway in her mouth. The woman asks us if Lola has vomited, whether her belly hurts, if her clothes smell like hydrogen peroxide. We tell her no, no, and no. She tells us to keep an eye on her, and Josh promises her that Lola will never be out of his sight ever again.

He hangs up.
We look at each other, exhausted.
How our little girl, the one who refuses to drink anything but water and vanilla soy milk, would take a swig of some nasty hydrogen peroxide is seriously baffling to me. But, also, clearly, very possible. I usually pride myself on Lola's ability to at least try something before she decides that she doesn't like it. But now, my stomach felt sick.

Lola wiggles out of my arms and runs to her kitchen, pulling out toys, acting as normal as can be.

The next morning I open the paper, and this is what I see.



As soon as I read the headline, I laughed. Hard.

Apparently there are lots of health benefits associated consuming with hydrogen peroxide. I believe it, but I also now have the poison control number on my fridge.

So this is what goes on while I'm at work