This afternoon we went down to our neighborhood sweet shop, Carmen’s, for a summer treat. Sissy had the gelati, a combination of custard and strawberry lemonade ice. Cousin Tay chose a straight pina colada ice. Piper wanted chocolate anything and multiple trips to the toppings bar. After selecting exactly one of all 26 toppings, Piper delivered the following discovery:
“I know why people cry at weddings. It’s because they’re romantic,” Piper began.
“True,” Sissy agreed, shoveling in more icy goodness. “But why does being romantic make you cry?”
“You see,” Piper continued, “when you’re little, everything is perfect. Then you grow up.”
“And?” Cousin Tay said.
“Your parents cry when you get married because they will miss you,” Piper said. “What else do they have to do? After the wedding, they just go home and cry. Because they’re sad. They’re bored. That makes them cry more. I’m just going to stay little.”
After my rant about Piper’s numerous food complaints in “I Hate That,” it seems only fair to share how sweet she can be with food she loves.
Last night Piper dragged in a stack of books for me to read to her as I made dinner. I chopped carrots. I read a book. I chopped celery. She read the book back to me. I brought the broth to a boil and added spices. I read another book. I sauteed seitan and put on a pot for homemade noodles. I read another book. I washed asparagus and spinach. She doused it with olive oil. We put rosemary bread in the oven to warm. Then Piper help set the table and we tasted the soup together.
I was raised with wolves. Okay, maybe not wolves. More like Shelties and German Shepherds. We had more than a dozen roaming our property in the woods of rural Missouri. My baby pictures mostly feature me in a puddle of puppies. I know pack behavior, and I’ve always known that I was an Alpha. Until Piper joined our family. She often challenges my Alpha status. She’s also drawn to four-legged friends. Piper has never met a dog she didn’t love. In one of my favorite baby pictures of Piper she is curled up under the belly of our friend’s dog, Cocoa. Piper had climbed under their kitchen table to cuddle. Cocoa was trying to get some space from her, so Piper held on like a baby kangaroo trying to climb into its mama’s pouch. Cocoa just swept the floor with Piper attached.
Last weekend we went to visit our friend’s farm house in rural Maryland. They brought along their dog, Leo, and Piper spent most of the day trying to be his best friend.
She got to feed Leo his dinner, which she hasn’t stopped talking about since. Leo took a run through the cow pasture and smeared himself good with manure. Piper thought it made him more attractive. When I suggested that she give Leo a little space, Piper growled at me for the first time “Back Off, Mom!” I was stunned. Piper has a strong will, but she’s never asserted herself so vehemently against mine. A part of me wanted to cheer her on. Another part of me wanted to hump her back into submission. Leo raised his liquid brown eyes to watch. I opened my mouth to bark back…then stopped. She was right. Leo and she were fine. I didn’t need to intrude. An Alpha doesn’t have to fight every battle. Just the right ones. Piper and Leo let the porch door snap shut behind them as they went off to explore.
Piper loves trying new things. Usually just so that she can tell us she hates it. She’s an adventurous eater complainer. Even when we fix her favorite things, like basagna, she gripes about the service. Food hating is all the rage in Piper world.
Here’s a list of foods she’s currently hating: stir fry, hot dogs, green grapes, bananas, salad, corn, apple juice, green beans, grilled cheese sandwiches, cold cereal, and water.
She’d like to subsist on macaroni and cheese. Anytime we put something in front of her that isn’t macaroni and cheese she says the same thing: “I Hate That!” But. Then. She finishes every morsel on her plate. For all of her complaining, she’s a great eater.
Sometimes she forgets to complain at the beginning of the meal, so she saves all of her offenses for after the food is gone. “That wasn’t any good,” Piper says, examining her empty plate. “I didn’t like any of it. Can I have some more, please?”
There is a theory in early childhood education studies that the slow pace of children is intended to teach parents to have more patience (I totally just made that up). At least that’s why I believe a Piper landed in our family. She moves at her own pace. That pace alternates between hummingbird and sloth. There’s nothing in between. If there is a cupcake involved, she’s speedy. If there is a chore assigned, her legs suddenly have cramps and she can hardly move a muscle. She also operates a bit like the dog in Up who is constantly distracted by Squirrel!
At lunch after church yesterday, Piper was distracted by Tiles! We were at a diner and the floor was one of those old-fashioned black and white patterned numbers. Piper decided she could only step on the black tiles for the entire mile long route to the restroom. Her tile selection meant she had to weave in and out of aisles, hopping gingerly from foot to foot and waving her arms in the air for balance. You’d think it might annoy the other patrons, but a Piper is so darn cute that people just smile and pat her like she’s an adorable puppy. Because I was afraid that her bladder may not match her tile concentration, I suggested several times that we hurry up a bit more. She ignored me. I suggested picking up the pace slightly more vehemently. Piper stood her ground on the lone black tile, crossed her arms over her chest, and said, “Mom, I don’t do fast.” Unless, of course, she wants to.
To conclude the birthday week festivities, we had a small party for Piper yesterday morning at the park. It was a breakfast picnic. She invited a few friends from her class. It was blazing hot. We brought watermelon, water balloons, and iced water. There were bubble wands and beach balls. It was just the right size. Alex and Andrew, Piper’s best buddies, were there with competing Lalaloopsy presents. It was an impressive match. Alex won be sheer volume, but Andrew surged ahead when the Lalaloopsy tattoos were revealed. There was a hush among the other six children gathered and then a “Whoa!” The tats were a huge hit. Piper’s Daddy leaned over to Andrew to congratulate him. “Nice. You scored big with Piper,” he said.
Andrew swaggered away to the swing set and called over his shoulder, “I always score big with Piper.”
I’m a vegetarian by marriage. I grew up in rural Missouri. You don’t find a lot of vegetarians in the Midwest. I was raised with a chicken coop in the backyard and they weren’t our pets. Neither was the hog. My partner was raised a vegetarian. We wrestled with how we wanted to feed our own kids and decided that we’d go with the route that we felt did the least harm, so Sissy and Piper became vegetarians, too. At least until they are old enough to decide for themselves.
Sissy is actually the most militant vegetarian among us. She sneers at meat; she looks with disdain at hamburgers. Our struggle with Sissy has been to get her to be tolerant of meat eaters. We chose. They get to, also. With Piper, our challenge is to remind her that we are, in fact, vegetarians. She’ll eat anything put in front of her, especially if it’s fried. She doesn’t care what’s under the breading.
The “pretend” meat revolution confuses a Piper even more. “Is that ‘fake’ taco meat or ‘real’?” Piper asks, assessing what looks like seasoned hamburger waiting to be stuffed into her corn shell. She’s right. Veggie hot dogs are called “Smart Dogs.” Soy burger is called “Crumbles.” Fake sausage is called “Gimme Lean.” The marketers spend a lot of time trying to make vegetarians comfortable. Bait and switch doesn’t do it for me. If I wanted to eat bacon, I’d eat bacon. I don’t want “Fakin’ Bacon.” I assume the naming of vegetarian products is for “transitioning” vegetarians or “occasional” eaters. Sissy and Piper have been raised on tofu, tempeh, seitan, beans, and nuts. These are their norm and they’re perfectly comfortable with these choices until another kid looks into their lunch box and says “What is THAT?” Hmm. Perhaps Sissy’s judgement is a defense mechanism.
Piper cares greatly, though. The vegetarian choice seems a mystery to her. At lunch with a cousin the other day, Piper led an inquisition.
“So, is that a ‘real’ hot dog or a ‘fake’ one?” Piper asked.
“It’s turkey,” Cousin Jillian said, taking a bite. “It’s real.”
“Mom, is mine real?”
“Yours is a veggie dog, P. It’s not real. We’re vegetarian, remember?”
Piper looked from her plate to Cousin Jillian’s again. “So,” she said. “Do you eat real dogs, too? Like the kind that bark?”
It’s today. Pipey’s big day. I know you’ve been anxiously awaiting the 5th birthday as much as we have. It’s here! Let’s celebrate. I’ll be updating this blog throughout the day with piperisms. Be sure to tune it for the funnies!
8:12 a.m. Piper runs into our room to cuddle. She likes to wake up smooth.
8:22 a.m. “Piper, it’s your birthday!” I say.
“It is?” she asks.
“Yes! Happy birthday, baby!”
“Really? Today?”
“Yep. You’re five. Happy birthday!”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I gave birth to you 5 years ago. I remember.”
“Mom, it’s my birthday. Stop being gross.”
“Happy birthday, Piper!”
“Wow,” Piper says. “I’ve been waiting so long to be 5 and a half!”
8:52 a.m. Piper orders her breakfast in bed. She invites Sissy, too. And Cousin Tay. What did she order? Oatmeal. With rainbow sprinkles and chocolate chips.
9:23 a.m. Still eating. Piper is now sporting a chocolate mustache. She says she’s going to wear it all day so she can snack whenever she wants. “You know why I’m so cute?” Piper asks. “If I wasn’t so cute, I’d get in a lot more trouble.”
10:08 a.m. Our neighbors will love us. Piper gets a new drum set:
12:15 p.m. Sunflowers for the Birthday Girl!
1:17 p.m. More drumming. More bongos. More dancing. More singing.
2:03 p.m. Starting to regret the drum set present. What was I thinking?
2:41 p.m. Mandatory nap time. Mine, anyway. Piper asks, “Can I put on a concert while you nap? I’ll be quiet. Promise!”
3:13 p.m. There is a band in our basement. They must have a big show coming up, thus the constant rehearsing.
3:47 p.m. “Mom, can we have basagna for dinner and then go out for frozen yogurt?” Absolutely. I’ll take sweating in a hot kitchen over steaming pots if I’m rewarded by a trip to the mall. They don’t have drum sets there, right?
5:15 p.m. Basagna baking. You haven’t lived until you’ve heard Lady Gaga solo on the drums. Just sayin’.
5:35 p.m. At dinner Piper complains, “I didn’t even get to name myself!”
“What should we have named you?” Dad asks.
“Stella,” Piper says. Of course.
6:32 p.m. Off to Build-A-Bear because a birthday girl has just got to build a bear.
8:32 p.m. Introducing the newest member of our stuffed menagerie: Stella.
Alright. Alright. We cheated. It was too hot. We did the parade downtown as the temperature climbed toward 100 degrees. We spent the rest of the day in the pool. There was yet another fake birthday party for Piper. We were exhausted. The car was packed. A fifteen hour drive awaited us. We stayed home for the fireworks. Forgive me. Or maybe we started a new 4th of July tradition. We’ll see. I’ll let you know when I recover from holiday fun hangover.
We made rootbeer floats and cuddled up on the couch to watch everyone else’s fireworks live on T.V. We wore our pajamas. Paty Kerry sang “Firework.” What more could a Piper want? A dance party, of course! Piper got us all to our feet. Again.
“Mommy, these are your moves!” Piper shouted, gyrating just like this:
Maybe we’ll go downtown for the fireworks next year after all.
piperism 