“I’m Having Such A Good Time”

If you’re an adult and you say hello to Weevy, she automatically thinks you want to take her toys, and greets you with a petulant “No!” and a pout and glare.  I have no idea why she believes this.  But it’s the case, and why anyone in our building still says hello to her is beyond me.

Occasionally, however, she will glom onto an adult for, as far as I can tell, no reason.  This happened last week with my new friend F., who stopped by the playground to pick up something for me and to meet Weevy for the first time.  She was suspicious at first, but within seconds, they were happily chatting.  Their meeting of the minds only lasted about 15 minutes, but it was enough for Weevy to pout when F. had to say goodbye; she asked for hours afterward, “Where’s F?”  “I want F. to come to my home.”  “I want to play with F.”

Well, F. stopped by the other day.  The night before, she gave me gifts to give to Weevy — a big bag of gummy bears and a little Hello Kitty battery-powered fan.  Clearly, F. knows how to win a kid’s heart.  Weevy wasn’t in the greatest mood, but within ten minutes or so, this conversation happened.

“You’re F.?”

“Yep, I am.”

“Did you buy me this?” (Points to a Lalaloopsy bus that F. did not buy her)

“No, I think maybe Mommy and Daddy bought that for you.”  I interject: “Mommy’s friend M. bought you that, remember?”

“Yeah.” (To F.) “Mommy’s friend M. bought me that.”

“I bought you the gummy bears and the fan though.”

“Yes, you bought me those.”

(Pause)

“I’m having such a good time.”

And then came out the big guns, her most precious possessions in the world.

“F., these are my Lalaloopsy dolls.  They have names.”  And she went one by one through the entire roster, which by now must be about 438 characters.  I don’t think she let F. touch them, but just to initiate her into the world of Lalaloopsy land… well, that’s huge.  Weevy showed F. everything she could think of:  “F., this is my juice cup.”  That sort of thing.  And to top it all off, she pooped.  In front of a veritable stranger.  A big, nasty, smelly, messy poop that took forever to come out.  That is the ultimate sign of friendship and trust in Weevyworld, and to think F. accomplished it in a week and two meetings.

Or maybe V. just really needed to poop.  But I think it was something more than that, too.

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It’s So Hard To Say Goodbye To Yesterday

For the last few months, whenever Weevy has mentioned something in the past, she says it happened “yesterday,”  pronounced “Yeh-stoo-day.” The thing is, “yesterday” could mean yesterday, or it could mean six months ago.  It could even mean earlier today — once she’s taken her midday nap, anything that happened in the morning also becomes “yesterday” too.

To know what the hell she’s talking about when she refers to yesterday, you have to have a pretty sharp and quick memory.  Take a question as innocuous as “Did we do that at the playground yesterday?”  First, I think, did we go to the playground yesterday?  And if the answer is yes, did we do the thing she’s talking about?  Unfortunately, the answer to one or both of those parts is usually “no.”  Weevy may be young, but her memory for random, not-particularly-memorable events is quite sharp.  So the key is to frantically rifle through the file cabinets of my own memory while asking her leading questions — “Do you remember where we were at the playground when we did it?  What were you wearing?”  Anything at all to speed up recall a little bit.

There are some other events that legitimately qualify as milestones, notably the time she puked all over her bed and herself due to a stomach virus.  That was last fall, but she still says, on occasion, “I yakked yesterday.”

But a real, serious milestone involves her friend B., who moved with her family to California a couple of months ago.  B. was Weevy’s first real friend, and despite B’s being a selfish, tantrum-throwing, toy-grabbing pain in the ass, she could also be a sweet girl, and Weevy was nuts about her regardless, even if their playdates as often as not ended with one or both of them bawling.

When it came time for them to see each other for the last time, we tried to convey the magnitude of the event to them, but neither of them was really interested in fond reminiscences and tearful farewells.  So they swung on the swings, the parents commiserated, and… that was it.  Weevy on some level knew she couldn’t see B. anymore, and she knew B. was in California, whatever that was.  They even managed to have an online play date which according to the missus went quite well.  But she’s still a little confused.  She wants to go to their house, even if they’re not there, so she can play with B’s toys.  She wants to see B’s nanny, which I actually ought to try to make happen.  She wants to know why she can’t see B.

Time and space.  Separately, they’re pretty hard to wrap one’s brain around, but collectively, they’re a real bitch.

Regardless, Weevy has a new best friend, Olivia, a very pretty half-Asian girl whom she met at Gymboree.  Their get-togethers usually seem to revolve around Olivia playing and Weevy bouncing around in her wake hollering “It’s Olivia!”  Thankfully Olivia seems to have none of B’s deficits, instead displaying a quiet, confident charm, possibly owing to the fact that she’s a year older than V.  I hope this is the start of a beautiful friendship.  Or at least I hope they don’t move to California.