“Humm mm Humm.” Something is disturbing my peace; it is circling me as if looking for an entrance. There’s that sound again, near my legs this time. “Humm mm Humm.” Every few weeks, this sound tries to track me down, as if I’m in a snow globe, studying my every move.
I jumped forward and transitioned into a backflip.
It was much easier to maneuver in this jello sack seven months ago; now, I am continually fighting for space. Perhaps it is investigating whether I am worthy of attaining nirvana, testing my dedication as I am in the process of rebirth.
I can barely make out the words, “She’s moving a lot. I can’t find her heartbeat.” It wants my heartbeat.
I shall appease them else they will deny my entrance to enlightenment. I sat down and started meditating.
I listened to the waves in my surrounding with my eyes closed, the fluid gently vibrating as the humming slithers towards me. “Finally got her!… I think she’s sitting up because the heartbeat is above the belly button.” Yes – ma’am, I am trying to concentrate here.
After a minute, the humming stopped, “she’ll be ready in two months,” the words echoed through the chambers.
Yes! Finally! I will attain nirvana! In my euphoria, I kicked my arms and legs for an early celebration. I’m too thrilled to meditate right now; I’ll do it later.
“Thank you for letting me pick your nose.” After saying that to 10-month-old Izzy, I realized that self-image and etiquette are no longer a priority. What if my husband, my coworkers, or my friends heard it?! I am kneeling on the floor in PJs in the middle of the day with a flashlight on one hand and a dirty tissue on another, looking up my daughter’s nose as she sat on the couch.
That sticky booger had been peeking out and tempting me all morning. Izzy was still enough to let me pick at it with my thick fingers. After multiple attempts, I ran to the bathroom for the boogie-tweezer (yes, those exist, it’s a plastic tweezer with round tips. “Why not use a Nose Frida?” you ask. It is not as effective…).
While digging in the dark caves of her nose, I hoped that Izzy wouldn’t get fed up with all the mining expeditions.
When the tweezers finally got a hold of that gooey mucus, the booger was clinging on to dear life, until eventually, with a yank, it snapped and out it came. “Does that feel better?” I asked Izzy – probably more a question for myself. It was a successful day.
“Bffttttt” – what is that sound? It just came from behind mommy, who or what is there? Mommy’s cheeks are slowly turning pink; that sound is making her change colors. Cool~~~ how do I do it? Mommy’s eyes started to turn towards my direction. Should I act like nothing is happening? Out of habit, I do my usual stare into space as a 2-month-old and cooed; she always likes that. “Aww, you still love me,” she whispered and then kissed me on the forehead. After a few weeks, I learned that this sound is called a “fart” or a “toot.”
It is a ball of air released from the lower body, in addition to the noise, one can actually feel a little ripple on the butt cheeks.
However, I have such limited control of my new found body that it often gets trapped and I would wail in pain. Daddy is my designated “gas reliever.” He’ll lay me on my back multiple times a day and push my legs up and down as if I am an accordion, singing, “it’s time to do the bicycle.” Every time I let out a toot, he’ll say “good job” and kisses me.
Toots = Kisses.
I like it. But I want to do it myself, I want to “own it,” you know what I mean?
One time, my tummy was rumbling again. Mommy was holding me in her arms. This is my opportunity to prove to her I can do it myself! I looked into her eyes, deep into her soul, and tried to push, really hard. The familiar sound discharged from my lower body, success! If only I can see myself, I wonder if my cheeks are pink. Wait, what’s that smell?
My butt is damp and sticky. Did I push too hard?
“Good job!” exclaimed mommy as she excitedly puts me on the changing pad.
What is that soft, silky feeling on my fingertips? Let me try that again – my fingers gently sweeping over my eyes. “Eyelashes,” murmured mommy every time I touched it. I like it – Eyelashes. At six months old, I realized touching my eyelashes would put me to sleep. Two months later, while lying next to my parents, I realized they have lashes too – must be a genetic thing. Hmm…would touching their lashes also give me the same drowsy effect?
My two little hands comb the air, like tentacles of an octopus searching for prey.
Once I know their head’s general direction, my hands swiftly glide through their chin, nose, and finally land on their eyes. With a quick sweep through the lashes, I gain instant gratification as my entire body relaxes; as if all the burdens of being a child are lifted (it is a lot of responsibility being cute and cuddly, you know).
Sometimes, it’s annoying if they changed positions when my hands are still on their lashes and I was just about to fall asleep. To be fair, it probably doesn’t help that my hand rests on their nose for support. It is particularly funny when I hear them breathing through their mouth when they have a stuffy nose. Still, my hands would frantically search the air again, fingers twitching for the lashes, and accidentally stab their eyes with my little fingers in desperation.
Oops, that was an accident.
When I find my prize again, I’ll comb lightly over their lashes once more, back and forth until I finally drift off.
After a few months, they gave me multiple toys with lashes on it; one of them was a doll that I enjoyed. However, it miraculously disappeared the next day (that’s a story for another time). Eventually, a stuffed cow with lashes was the keeper, it’s not as good as mommy’s and daddy’s lashes, but it’ll do.
I have suspected for a while now that I am stuck in a perpetual loop at daycare. It will miraculously return to its initial state every morning no matter what happens – spilled milk, crumb trails, lost toys, etc.
Today, I can finally prove my theory.
It is morning, and mommy just dropped me off. The neatly stacked bins packed the bookcases with various toys – puzzles here, farm animals there. The dollhouse is now fully stocked with plastic furniture and barbies staring blankly back at me. I was pretty sure I took them all out yesterday. The pots and pans are back in the kitchenette cupboards. Running towards them for a closer look, I can hear mommy talking to the caretaker. “Oh, she really likes the kitchenette, doesn’t she.” Mommy is clueless about the true powers of this daycare. Wait… is that… no, it can’t be! I purposely hid the pink teacup in one of the toy cars yesterday, but now it is sitting on the shelf, waiting to be filled again.
Over the past few weeks, I ran multiple experiments, but it was always unsuccessful.
The first time, I purposely covered a barbie with my crumbs and saliva to mark my territory.
Still, she reappeared spotless the next day; I presumed she might have a twin. So then, I hid the smallest dinosaur I could find under a pile of toys, like a dumpster at a construction zone. Not only did it escaped unscathed, but it was also chilling with friends the next day in the dinosaur bin. After unsuccessfully misplacing multiple objects, this teacup had been my 5th (or 10th? I’m not sure, don’t know how to count yet) and final experiment. The conclusion?
Daycare is a magical place, where the future is the present, and the present is a repeat of the past.
No matter how much I try to change the daycare for the better (or worse), the daycare will always return to its initial state after I wake up.
THIS. IS. AWESOME. My first thought is – how much mess can I make today? One kid is putting all the toy trains in a straight line, the other has blocks stacked above his head, and the last is drumming away like there’s no tomorrow. As an 8-month-old highly experienced in crawling, I have more mobility now than ever before. Putting on my imaginary “Taz” hat, I zigzagged across to the other side of the room with as much speed as I could muster. At the end of my journey, I turned around admiring my creation. Success! The trains are in a crooked formation with some wheels facing upward, the blocks are loosely scattered across the playmat as it should be and in my left hand is one of the drumsticks. Ba dum tss. A big grin formed on my face as the kids looked at me, still in shock. The caretaker walked towards me and asked gently, “did a tornado come through?”.
The other kids slowly surrounded me chanting, “Izzy Tornado, Izzy Tornado.”
I graciously accepted my new title; I have earned it since I helped them out.
The next day, my eyes glittered with excitement as we approached the daycare. The front doors flew open, and one of the girls ran up singing “Morning Izzy Tornado.” I look around – sure enough, the daycare is back to normal again. I need to learn this spell so I can use it at home.
