Beastie Baby

While I am doing the mundane shit in our house that needs to get done (still in my work clothes because 5-8 p.m. is a landslide that just rolls over me) like make dinner, pay bills, start laundry, clean, I love to hear Nate chilling with the baby girl and making up songs for her. My favs of late are his Beastie Boys renditions, but I like his random stuff, too: "Let's put this fork in the drawer / c'mon baby I'll tell you more." He'll even put her in the Snugli now and then and play the guitar in front of her--we're committed to helping her develop her inner rock star as early as possible. While many parents dread the idea of their kids discovering and pursuing their hard rock chops, we'd be thrilled. I dread getting a stockbroker or a Republican.

Sometimes I think Nate is way better at helping darling C. develop language skills than I am. I try to keep a running commentary when I'm doing stuff with her, but it's easy to get lost in thought and stop vocalizing. Nevertheless, I am working diligently on her musical taste when she will allow me to play anything other than the comforting static station in the car, and she and I read together whenever she'll sit still long enough to make it through a book. Nate has been good about showing her baby signs, too, though I think she's still too young to start using it. We're laying a foundation, and I fully expect to be shocked some day months from now when she asks for milk (using a crass milking motion that would make any breastfeeding mother cringe it's so apt). I want that to work so she can let us know how to make her life easier, but I want to be conscious about all the pressure people can put on their kids to do stuff--especially the pressure to do stuff faster or better than other kids. I call it competitive mommy-ing and think it could be an olympic sport. As darling C. gets older and strangers feel even more empowered to explain the concept of parenting to me, I have noticed the questions start running toward has she done x or y yet...my baby did x or y way early. I wish people would just shut the hell up but they rarely do.

In other news, things improved with daycare today, though my confidence in Julie is starting to waver a little. I hate to get all hung up on semantics, but calling my kid a crybaby has hit all the wrong nerves in me, and I can't get past it. I stayed home for a few hours this morning to see if darling C. was all right and ready to handle daycare--she was a peach. I packed her up and hauled her over only to see Julie just pulling out as I pulled in. I think she thought I didn't see her because she backed up quickly and was in the basement, no coat, no shoes when I got there. The kids were hanging with her assistant and watching Sesame Street on the world's largest television, which bugs me a little also (I don't like the idea of TV on all day), but I'm trying hard to let it all roll off my back. Clementine seemed to do OK for the rest of the afternoon, though she was clad in just a diaper when I came back to get her. Ah, the incredible exploding baby--I don't know how she does it.