Now I can be neurotic. Sure, I'll admit it. I was hoping that Lo would be spared the inheritance of this trait but I fear that it's not to be.
Example one: While at work, I systematically take the baby things off my desk (juice cup, baby, shoes, goldfish) and put them in the cubby above my drawers. Easy access, closer to Lola's height, out of my way. Win-win right? WRONG. For some reason Lo takes it as a personal insult that I don't want her juice cup in the vicinity of my keyboard, her shoes tucked into the (little) space between my butt and the chair and her goldfish artfully sprinkled across my desk, lap and floor. She's actually been playing across the office and I moved her stuff as stealthily as I could and she noticed, ran over (not exaggerating) and starting crying like her heart was broken by her evil, evil Mom while trying to replace her belongings on my desk. What's this about? Is this a "being like Mommy" distinction between desk and cubby? How does she grasp the concept that the cubby is second-class storage?
Example two: Poop. Lola freaks out about poop. I'll pause, let it sink in, reiterate: freaks. out. about. poop. When she sees it in the toilet, scrambles off with a little panicked scream. I try to distract her when it's in her diaper so she doesn't thrash. Why is my child afraid of her waste? Today we are at work together and she has been wearing her Dora pullups because they have Boots, Dora's best monkey friend on them. The problem with these diapers is that when poop is in there we have to pull them down to get them off. Bum Bum Bummmmmm.....
Today Lo got onto my lap and I asked her if she pooped. Immediately, a wary look crossed her face. "Gotcha!" thought I. I took her to the changer, took off her jeans and she starting throwing a fit until I took off her socks. Ok, no harm in that.
Next I had her put her hands on my shoulders and had her concentrate on the picture of the Mama and Baby on the wipes box, so she wouldn't see the poop. As soon as she felt me sliding her pullups down, the shitstorm began. Kicking, screaming, flailing of the arms, it was a doozey.
I calmed her down by holding and rocking her and telling her all about everyone else pooping, how poop isn't scary, I might've even tossed in a vocab word like "sphincter." Calmed, we tried again, she whimpered but kept watching her baby. Almmmooooost there, about to guide the first foot through the hole when she looked down. Shitstorm II, this time with real shit.
Needless to say, I'm doing laundry tonight.
Totally off-topic but check this out, if these parents get prosecuted, there's no justice in the world and I will go to Britain myself and bitch-slap the authorities. They lost their son to a freak accident, did their best to cope and help him adjust and grow in his current state, failed and then supported him in the most difficult decision any parent could stand by and watch their child make. How much more punishment can they possibly need?
Oh yeah, and guess who rocked out with her proverbial cock out last night. ME! I got a 20/20 on my last quiz, I met a few new people in my philosophy class and the exam left me giving my professors a look like, "whaaaat, thass all ya got?"' Hurray for me!