Portraits from the "virus"

Uploading pictures from our smaller camera, I came across these shots from the sick-leave week, all of which I had forgotten I had taken (thanks to my ever-worsening pregnesia.) I love that you would never know Clio was sick in looking at these, except that we generally don't let her run around in a onesie when she's well,
and the closeups follow a series where she's got a teaspoon in her mouth, from drinking her "medicine drink," aka pedialyte. A dead giveaway.



She looks like such a happy kid, right?

Right.

Except, she's going through a phase, and as it started right as "the virus" waned, I have moments of fear that the horrible week inexorably altered her character.

The new phase includes a favorite phrase, which she says in a very firm tone, while shaking her finger at whoever is getting the talking to: "Don't do that, Daddy. Don't do that!" Sometimes this is clearly in reference to an action, like don't put a bib on me or don't throw that ball, but sometimes it seems an utterly random power trip, and we find ourselves asking, "don't do WHAT?!"

This phase also incorporates a lot of throwing herself on the floor in protest to whatever egregious thing it is that we're asking her to do, like put on her shoes or walk down the stairs. In fact, she completely refuses to walk down the stairs in our house, preferring entirely to be carried down. This became especially bad during that sick week, when she really was a weak little thing and she got carried around too much. Recognizing that this must stop before it becomes one of those embedded habits like the blankie that requires a full-scale intervention at the age of 10, yesterday I took a stand. For about a half an hour, she sat at the top of the stairs and I sat in the living room. Every once in a while, she would call to me, and I would call back that I was ready to help her whenever she was ready to try it. Eventually, when it looked like I wasn't watching, she turned around and started to scoot down the stairs... until Dave came over and looked at her, at which point she threw herself back on the landing and started to suck her thumb.

I was reminded- not entirely pleasantly- of the first time I tried snowboarding. My old roommate Sarah and I were on the bunny hill with an instructor (Marni and our friend Kate Greene were expertly whizzing down the slopes of Hunter Mountain) and after some modest improvements, he suggested we go up a short little lift. We did, and after making it about halfway down the tiny hill, I wiped out. Sarah and the instructor were at the bottom, watching me try to get up, at which point I sat down and dug my board in to wait. And wait. We sat in our respective positions for quite a while, until Sarah, knowing me very well, eventually turned to the instructor and said, "You know what? She'll come down when she's ready, but she's not going anywhere if we watch."

They turned around and chatted amongst themselves, and eventually I did make my way down that mountain, just as Clio made her way down the stairs. I recognize that this is ridiculous. I think it's about the inability to transition a moment to no big deal once a big deal has been made of it, even if you were the one being a drama queen.

I suppose our kids inheret all kinds of things from us- for better or for worse.