• Late this morning Lucy spiked a fever out of nowhere, which this afternoon measured 103. Yikes. She actually fell asleep in my arms — something she has not done in more than a year — as I sang songs in her burning ear. She ate a hearty breakfast of pancakes, blueberries and banana, but the rest of the day had only water, apple juice, half a pear and some air-popped popcorn. By bedtime, she was just mildly warm (most likely from the medicine). We hope it’s just a 24-hour thing, but are bracing for a rough night
• Alice learned to roll onto her belly today, and is taking full advantage of her unswaddled freedom in bed by immediately rolling over when we lay her down. There she goobers on the sheet for a few minutes before bellowing like an angry buffalo. We flip her over, and the cycle starts all over again. Tonight it took a good half an hour of this before we learned to jam her up against the bars so she can’t propel over. Until, of course, she learns to roll on the other side. Then we may just have to duct tape her to the mattress
• Around 8:20, Alice was angry buffaloing on her belly, Lucy started crying about a hangnail and wanting, no needing a Dora mermaid bandaid right now, and the monitors and air in our living room were vibrating from their tandem screeching. Eric and I looked at each other amidst the chaos of dirty dinner dishes and toys exploded across the floor and burst out laughing. Because sometimes, that’s what you have to do

(Lucy, by Sunday afternoon, was completely normal. Kids are weird. And super healers.)

Since the moment I was first pregnant with Lucy, my Mom has been telling me about parenthood: The days are long, but the years are fast.

That piece of advice has rung true countless times in the past 2.5 years, today being another prime example. I don’t know what rotten side of the bed my daughter got up on (there’s only one, as the other is against a wall, so perhaps it was laced with irritableness? ridiculousness? drive-us-insane-ness?) but it was the nasty one.

Everything was an argument. Nothing would please her. By the time we made it downstairs for breakfast — 10 minutes after getting up — she declared she hated her shorts, her Daddy, toast and ponytails.

If that wasn’t foreshadowing, I dunno what was. I should have put her back to bed.

Mid-way through breakfast — after picking cheesy toast but wanting jam toast, refusing milk and wanting orange juice, flinging her bib into the ceiling fan and crying over the Dora bandaid falling off her knee — I actually called upstairs to Eric and rather desperately asked him to hurry the hell up already OMG I can’t handle this.

When Shelby was here, Lucy would. not. leave. me. alone.

So, to Harry from Michelin, and Tanya from Concordia, I’m so sorry for this:

*clicking to voice mail*: Hi there, it’s Carly Foster, manag…

MAMA! MAMA-MAMA-MAMA! WHATCHA DUN DOOIN DERE?!

*Holding wriggling, lunging, hugging child back with one hand, phone pressed to ear, while Shelby whispers, “Lucy! Lucy! Mummy’s working! C’mon!”*: …ing editor of…

MUMMY ALL DONE WURKIN’? NOOOOO, SHELBY!!

*Wildly gesturing for Shelby to just pick Lucy up and carry her out*: …[Paying Job]…

NO, SHELBY, NO SHELBY, NO SHELBY! MAMA! *cue uncontrollable sobbing*

*child is now hanging onto my office chair in a death grip, arms outstretched, legs and hips in the air, as poor Shelby vainly tries to pull her out of the room*: …[Magazine]…

NOOOOO, MAAAAMAAAAAA!

*cryingscreamingthrashing in Shelby’s arms, and whisked downstairs with sobbing fading*: …wondering if you could…

*beep*: voicemail ends.

On one side, we hate giving timeouts. The look of pure distress — tears, the open-mouth silent wail — that crosses poor Lucy’s face is heartbreaking, and just thinking about it makes my chest hurt. But they really, really work for us as a family, and we only use them for what we consider to be very bad behaviour.

Depending on where we are in the house, Lucy is removed from the room and separated from us (usually to the front stairs or onto her stool in the bathroom), and has to sit for two minutes (# minutes = her age). This gives us time to cool down, too.

Remarkably, she almost always stays put, calms down on her own, gives us big hugs and apologizes.

(And lemme tell you: Hearing that sweet little girl, in her high toddler voice, squeak out, “Sorry, Mommy” with big fat baby tears still wet on her cheeks makes me weak in the knees.)

This works so well, that on the rare occasions she does something she knows she’s not supposed to, she immediately says, “No timeout?” and gets almost panicked.

But we didn’t know the real impact they were having until lunch yesterday. Lucy got a timeout shortly before we sat down to eat, for turning her water bottle upside down and covering the couch cushion with (thankfully just) water.

“We don’t like giving you timeouts, you know, Honey. They hurt Mommy and Daddy, too.”

“Cee-Cee no like timeouts.”

“I know you don’t. How come you don’t like them?”

“They make me sad.”

Eric and I turned to each other open-mouthed, while Lucy obliviously kept on eating her pizza. For a 2.5-year-old to have such perception and be able to articulate an emotion like that just astounded us.

I loathe to think timeouts are making the poor child sad, but we find they’re far more effective than begging or yelling or hitting, and Lucy very rarely repeats the behaviour she got the timeout for. Distraction seems to work great up until a certain age, but stopped working around the “2′s”: 20 months+.

Of course, they’re working so far. Moms of older kids I know say timeouts lose their effectiveness as kids get older. But for now, what an excellent tool.

Lucy, in her never-ending quest to make Eric a manic-depressive father with her “NO DADDY!”/peeing-pant love giggles because he just launched her up the stairs like a rocket attitude, has a new weapon.

A few weeks ago, we were practicing the I love you sign, while saying it out loud. Lucy would do the sign and say the words to me, but not her father. Because she’s a jerk like that.

I turned to her and said, “Honey, we love Daddy very much. He’s your one-and-only Daddy! Daddy’s very special.”

The exasperating/completely illogical part of her toddler brain zoned in on the last part of that sentence. Adding her own condescending tone in the exact right spot (completely un-taught, I swear), she repeated, “Daddy veehhhdddy special,” while nodding her head sadly at him.

I spat milk across the table. Eric gaped at her.

And so it began.

Now she says it to him ALL THE TIME. At the most appropriately hilarious times, too. If Eric drops something: “Daddy veehhhdddy special.” If he stubs his toe: “Daddy veehhhdddy special.” After goodbye kisses in the morning: “Daddy veehhhdddy special.”

Because Eric is The Adult, and because you can’t reason with a 2.5-year-old, and because he’s a boy and he’s Eric, my husband has started arguing with her.

“Daddy veehhhdddy special.”

“No, Lucy very special.”

“Daddy veehhhdddy special.”

“No, Lucy very special.”

And so it goes, on and on and on, neither of them willing to let the other win. It’s hilarious for the first 10 seconds, then I feel like I’m at a tennis match simultaneously refereeing a pair of 5-year-olds. This exchange often happens first thing in the morning when I’m still in bed and Eric’s changing Lucy’s diaper. They usually stop when I hoarsely yell, “Ohforgoodnesssake, enough already!”

They’re both very special. And stubborn. And best friends.

Our week goes like this:

• Monday-Wednesday, Lucy is at Julia’s (our home daycare provider) from 8-4:30-ish
• Thursday, Lucy is at my Mom and Dad’s
• Friday she is home with me (and, currently, Eric)

By the time mid-morning Thursday comes — especially since I’ve been out Wednesday night with the girls and only see Lucy for a few hours — I’m really missing my daughter. I’m aching for her to arrive home from her Nana’s, and for Friday morning to come so we can start our day.

Except Thursday nights are often…difficult. Lucy is almost always riled up, high on grandparent love and attention and treats, and also excited to be reunited with us. So she usually comes back to Chez McDougall-Foster blazing around like she’s got a fire cracker up her arse, running and yelling and squealing and laughing and not listening.

I’ve dubbed this time Thursday Night Toddler Terror.

Did I mention this is almost always around 7-ish? The time that we’re normally getting her ready for bed? Hahahaaaaa, *sob*

I don’t for a milisecond blame my parents, nor would I ever want to change the Thursday arrangement. All three of them adore their day together, look forward to it all week, and are quite literally squirming in anticipation by Wednesday evening. (Me, too, ’cause Thursday is my not-working-at-the-paying-job day where I work on the site, get caught up on email, do housewifey things and garden and shop and sometimes meet friends for lunch.)

Plus, it’s Grandparent Right #1 to be able to hype up a child, then leave. After the trials and tribulations of raising your own children and setting them free on the planet to explore and grow and love and breed, damn right you should get to spoil your grandchildren and not have to suffer any of the resulting meltdowns (see TNTT, above).

Do you hear the snorts and cackling? Those are our parents, being smug.

So Thursday comes, and I’m so excited to see my Goose, and we manically laugh and giggle and kiss and nuzzle, and then after 10 minutes of her rampage through the house, I count down the seconds and nighttime tasks until I can literally throw her in her crib and collapse on the couch, gasping for air.

And then Friday morning comes and she is sane once more, divulged of the grandparent-induced high, and we have a fabulous day.