thanksgiving part deux

So much time has passed that now the post could temptingly consist of: I picked her up at the airport, we played games and ate food and went to Disney World, and had Thanksgiving, the end.

But, it won't.

Part (A) of Part 2: Picking her up at the airport

We left off with me frantically waiting in line at a store that I detest, where I was buying items we were out of and needed to have (for example WATER). I was also purchasing flowers for incoming girl and book, Wimpy Kid's 4th book.

The line was killing me. (Almost) literally. I was starting to tap my fingers on things: my leg, the shopping cart, the edge of the conveyer belt. I was breathing faster and giving dirty glances to the lady in front of me who had a million or so items, wanting to say or rather, yell, "Get out of my way! My daughter is going to be here and I have to be at the gate holding flowers and a sign! Don't you know that it's almost Thanksgiving and people have places to be!! MOVE!!!" But, I restrained myself and instead, tapped fingers and feet and reminded myself to breath for God's sake.

I get out to the car and realize I have milk to put in the fridge, because this girl is going to want milk on her cocoa puffs, damn it! I call Joe: Joe, do you think I have time to go home before going to the airport?? I am almost in tears. Yes, you'll be fine. It only takes like 45 min to get there. Right. Okay. Okay.

But, there's traffic. Then, there's parking. Then, the worthless airline attendants say This is the baggage drop line. Did you already check in? And I say very rapidly, NO. I'm not flying. I just need to get a pass to go back to pick up my daughter. There was, needless to say, back and forth here. Finally, a brisk woman comes to take me to another kiosk (they should make this more clear) to check me in. And I explain to her: I can't check in at the machines. I just want to get my unaccompanied minor. Then I want to explain that she isn't actually "unaccompanied" as they yell back and forth across the crows She has an unaccompanied minor who has ALREADY LANDED!! Because she is accompanied by the flight attendant, which we paid an addition$100 dollars to have accompany her. I am flushed, embarrassed that I am not very early to pick up my "accompanied" minor. People are staring. I have flowers and a sign, after all; nevermind the attendants yelling over the crows from desk to desk stating that I am NOT on time.

Security is horrible. I take off my shoes (no socks, gross) and put my bag in a bin. I've done this a million times... but, CRAP! I forgot to put my liquids in a ziplock baggie! Don't worry... the security gentleman chastised me then gave me one. But, this was one complication too many. Now, I am in tears, barefoot, my bag and baggie in a bin, holding a bouquet of flowers and a sign. My phone rings. It is the accompaniment meant to accompany my minor. She wants to know where I am. She wants to know if I'm coming to the gate. I'm trying! I'm in security. I'm trying to not cry on the phone with her. She offers to bring her to security and while I wanted to be at the gate when she walked out of the plane it is too late. The security gentleman is chastising, again, and the person behind me is, no doubt, wanting to scream at me for not following the Experienced Flyer guidelines. I acquiesce and realize that I will just have to wait by the shuttle, just outside of security.

She is one of the last off of the shuttle, coming around from the unexpected side of the shuttle. I try to maintain some composure. But I see her chin that I like to squeeze and her teeth and her big beautiful eyes behind those glasses and that hair and those chicken legs and that huge HUGE backpack on that little tiny girls back and I lose it. I am sobbing. We run at each other and hug, she's crying too, now. The flight attendant, a girl looking 18 years of age stands to the side, awkwardly. I know I have to sign the receipt of child and she tells me I can have my moment first.

We leave, me still carrying the flowers, because she would rather carry her blanket and goldfish crackers (extra flavor blasted) that I brought her. I keep touching her cute nose and chin, and for once she lets me do it without moaning or pulling away.

We stopped for pizza, which doesn't matter much. Then drove home. Joe had just gotten home from work a few minutes earlier and rushed out to see her, scooping her up like she was still 4.

They had the next day all to themselves, since I had work. They went swimming and soaked each other up.

go baby go

*music credits: The Hives, Tic Tic Boom*

Confessions of a Step-Mom

I think the original title of my blog was Confessions of a Step-Mom. This was changed to The Chelle Box after I realized I was writing about myself in general more than as my role and experiences as a step-mom. Sometimes writing about the emotions involved in this role are too difficult to discuss on my blog. Sometimes it would lead to me writing things I would regret. And sometimes, I just can't let it be my entire life. Eliza and Joe are my entire life, but the "step-mom" title is not. If that makes any sense. Well, today I divulge a bit.

Lately I feel sub-par filling this step-mom role. A little less patient. Busier, so a little less 'around.' But, as always, the disciplinarian. I'm suddenly no fun. Whenever she sees me she's in trouble for something (like hiding dirty socks under her bed) Or at least, that's how it feels for me.

It all makes the impending departure that much more dreaded. She's going to remember me as the Wicked Step-Mom while she's away with the Fun Mom. (enter the complex and conglomerate emotions of jealousy, love, and fear)

It didn't help that the birthday party wasn't as exciting as I had hoped. While panicking over whether any kids would show for Eliza's party (no one RSVPs in Florida), I had the following text messaging exchange with my hip, texting mama:
-Did you have those days that you just wanted a break from being a mom?
-More often than not.
-Thanks mom. I feel so overwhelmed by it today. I feel like I'm the only one who feels that way sometimes.
-You should [feel overwhelmed]. It's the most important job in the world. It will bring you the most joy- and the most pain.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Eliza's 9 now. She has accumulated 9 years of experience as of April 21st. Quite the accomplishment. This means that I have been in this step-mom / other-mom / sort-of-like-my mom role for close to 5 years. FIVE YEARS. That is 5 years of being a mom instead of the reckless 20-something. Five years of staying home to read stories. Five years of jealousy and heartache. Five years of loving someone more than myself. Five years of teaching and molding.

Stop. I can't breath.

Eliza's 9-years-old. This terrifies me. This means she is that much closer to wanting to be independent. That much closer to choosing where she lives (it might not be with us?!). Getting closer to those times when she will, without a doubt, undermine all of her parents between visits. That much closer to driving and crashing cars. Nearer to the age of boys. Closing in on the days of heightened drama and sassy-ness. I know, you are wondering how, HOW, could she become any sassier? It's coming. Watch out world. Eliza is COMING!!!

She is becoming beautiful instead of adorable. She is becoming witty. She is becoming.

And it is at once frightening, depressing, exalting, and exciting beyond words.


*the birthday post, birthday shopping pictures, and other recent photos are coming, I pinky swear*

gone baby gone

Eliza is in Utah with her Mom for Christmas. She flew out this past Saturday. Joe was working so I took her to the airport. She was so excited and nervous about flying alone that the day before....

That is a post I started to write way back when in December. I never finished the post because, no surprise, it's difficult to write about. I sobbed the entire way home from the airport. I could barely leave her at the gate with the attendant. You have my child!! GIVE HER BACK. She gets carsick. Make sure she has a puke bag. She has snacks in her back and a movie player and paper and markers and books and and and.... make sure she remembers to eat.

I sobbed and cried and called Joe to sob and say "I forgot to have her call you before she got on." sob sob sob. 

Joe had a hard time having her be away. (Once again, insert "real" Mom thoughts here: she is MINE. how do you think I feel?!? and insert my reply: I'm sorry. I love her too.)

Jump to today and why I am continuing a post I started 4 months ago.... a similar, but more difficult departure is rapidly approaching. She leaves for Utah FOR THE ENTIRE SUMMER after school ends at the end of May. That is less than 2 months away. OH MY GOD I CANNOT DO THIS OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER. (again insert the same imaginary dialogue from above).

I wish there was a way to impress upon you the beauty of Joe's relationship with his little baby Eliza Jane. He has cried when she had the flu. He cries when he has the slightest reminder about her upcoming absence. He may not like that I am disclosing his crying here. It is not obscene amounts of crying. He is manly, I swear. But, I wonder how he is going to enjoy life without her here. He teaches her to love bugs and to eat her dinner without taking a millennia to do it. He watches her baby her cat with a shake of the head and a tear in his eye. He encourages her astounding creativity and to get dirty. He wants to protect her from scrapes and mean friends, and silly boys-- but knows that he can't. So, he teaches her to understand the world instead. 

 

Eliza the photographer took this on one of their daddy-daughter beach trips

it's 75 out and she's wearing a jacket

Eliza and I went to the pool today and I am such a whiner. It was absolutely freeezing. When we decided to go to the pool it was, of course, sunny and hot. Hot enough that we said out loud "It's hot. Let's go to the pool." We laid out for a few minutes, to Eliza's dismay, but my legs need some color so that people don't think I am the undead walking around when I wear skirts and such. After 10 min of that the sun decided to hide from us and the wind began to turn the pages of the book I was reading. I was reading and would appreciate it if this force would refrain from blowing until I was finished with a page. We waited for the sun before getting in, which was a dumb idea because when it did come back out it lasted for maybe 2 min. So, we got in anyway. We usually hold hands and jump in on the count of 3. We were standing on the ledge with our feet in that little bit of water- I jumped right back out and said in a very whiny voice "it's SOOOO cooold!!!" To which Eliza rolled her eyes and said to placate me "I'll count to 3 the way you liiiyke." I laughed so hard at that- we jumped in and played puppies, because that's what Eliza likes to do... and I pretended to give her treats for doing puppy tricks, which she does very well for a little girl pretending to be a puppy. I named her Olive and she was a mut. She wasn't happy that I told her she was a mut until I explained that muts are cute and that she is a mix between a poodle, a pug, a labrodore, and beagle (a puggle labeagle). Then we went home. I would say that we were at the pool for no longer than 30 min. Wimps. It's 75 degrees out and we had to make hot cooca and Eliza is now wearing a jacket.

awol

I just devoured a KitKat.
I have an exam tomorrow. I am not prepared.
I haven't posted for some time and here is my excuse:
-- Eliza's mom was in town.
Not much of an excuse, I could have still posted.
Here's really why I haven't posted:
-- My life has been boring.

Here's the scoop, the dish, the update:
--Eliza's mom visited over her Spring Break. Eliza was happy as a clam (I do not know why we assume they are happy, but she was happy nonetheless). In fact she was elated. She was floating on clouds. I like her mom. She's beautiful (even with her hair totally gone), she's a great mom, and she's Eliza's hero (tied with her Dad). I did my part by trying to stay out of the house so that they could have alone mommy-daughter bonding times. I hope it helped. It always makes me horribly sad to see them say goodbye- to watch the closeness between them and then watch her leave, knowing that it's MY FAULT it's like this. Brigitta may read this and think "you're sad?! Don't tell me about sad. She is MY DAUGHTER." And I will think back "I'm sorry."

--I tried to spend time with Eliza on Saturday, the day her mom left, but I had to take a difficult physiological psychology exam that evening online. It was awful, by the way. Mostly I studied that day and told her that Sunday we would just do awesome things together ALL DAY. Me and her and her dad. Enjoying each other and the beautiful weather we've been having.

--Sunday: UTI. Urinary Tract Infection. GROSS. PAINFUL. UNCOMFORTABLE. I stayed in my pajamas all day. What a baby. Did nothing with Eliza. or Joe.

--Monday / today: Another horrible exam tomorrow (and Thursday). I have, of course, procrastinated. Took data for a project. Worked with my adorable client. No time with Eliza. or Joe. But, I did accomplish getting my antibiotic. Explained to Eliza that I am not necessarily a horrible step-mom, but just having a week with loads of tests and headaches and shoulder aches and tummy aches and urinary tract aches. I am not always sick. I just have too much stress. Joe thinks something is wrong that I am not healthy. I do not know a healthy graduate student. So, my dear Eliza, we will play on Friday and Saturday and Sunday. I SWEAR. I PINKY PROMISE WITH A KISS ON TOP.

i heart xx

Who is this mystery boy?!

Eliza has a crush. She's giggling, looking over my shoulder while i'm writing this.

She was writing in her notebook while i was doing school work. I looked up at her and she slyly covered the page. She was writing "i heart (2 secret initials)."

She is growing up. This is so weird. Eliza likes a boy! ok, this has happened before. a couple of times. but it is always cute. and Joe always gets a seriously freaked out about it and tells me to not encourage this. But eliza says he won't find out about this one! (She just told me to write that) SO, if you are reading this "you better not tell him." (She said that too)

First she wouldn't tell me what the initials were because I would know whose they were. So i was like "Is it Gianni?" and she say's emphatically, "NOooOOOOo!!! I HATE him!" And I said, "Well, he is the only boy you have talked about! So just tell me the initials because I won't even know who it is." Finally I said, "Is it a girl?" And she said quizically, "NOoo?!" I was like, "Well, you only talk about your girl friends and Gianni." Eliza, "Well, that's because Gianni is always getting in trouble so I have to tell you about him." (The other day she was hating him because he was fighting with a boy and threw a clipboard and it hit her.) Well, I KNOW WHO IT IS AND YOU DON'T!!!!!

since i haven't posted for quite a while and still have nothing i would like to post on my blog i will contribute a bit of random information:

eliza fell asleep to "the never-ending story." i both loved and hated that movie when i was young. she simply loves it. it was much more complex to me. that flying dog thing was obnoxiously fake looking = lame to me, but atrayu... and the princess... mesmerizing.

i have been incredibly stressed out. anxiety. running helps. so does sleeping. but that may actually be the thyroid. what doesn't help, but what i do: pick at my face, freeze up and accomplish nothing.

Hula Hoop Hoopla

Eliza and I went to the beach this past weekend to hula hoop and draw in the sand with our feet. Yes, our feet. Eliza drags her foot around and makes large circles with her digging toes. One of them we drew people on the inside of the circle and tried to protect them from the waves to no avail: I am sorry to report they drowned. Aside from the untimely death of our sand friends, the day was fun- Eliza beat me at our hula hooping contest.

yes, honey, yours will too

Eliza and I went for a quick swim the other night before bedtime. It was pretty cool out, surprisingly. So, we started with the hot tub. Eliza likes to sit in the bubbly until we are roastin' and then go jump into the big cool pool. The other night she didn't feel like doing front flips into the deep end, so we hopped on the steps until we were in. She calls it "the bobbing method," because when we get into the pool we bob around to get a little warmer before jetting back to the hot tub.

On each step, we face each other and hop up and down a few times before going to the deeper step. The second time of the "jumping method" portion of the "bobbing method," Eliza said, "They're bouncing." I said, "What?" "They are bouncing." "OOOH." So, I held "them" while jumping and was stopped with, "Don't hold 'em, it looks cool!" "OK." [Pause] "Will mine do that when I get some?" "Yes, honey, yours will too."

all hallow's eve

I had too much school work, so Joe took Miss Eliza trick-or-treating on this evening of haunting. Eliza was a witch. Grandma Claudia miraculously made this costume just after moving to Seattle. Joe, Eliza, and I all love Halloween. Each Halloween we make caramel apples, carve pumpkins, and roast the pumpkin seeds. Pumpkin carving has never before involved the power tools. After they got back from Trick-or-Treating, we watched a marathon of Goosebumps movies from in our fort. Eliza ate maybe 3 pieces of Halloween candy, some popcorn, and a few sips of a slushee before crashing mid-movie.


[Click the witch to see all of the Halloween pictures.]

night in at the spa

I am not sure why I am taking the time to post when I am so overwhelmed I want to throw my laptop on the floor, stomp on it, put my head down, and cry myself into a nap. BUT, this was such a fabulous time!
Eliza wanted to have a spa treatment evening. Joe was working late, and while my friends were all out for 'the day after Halloween' mayhem, Eliza and I had an utterly perfect night in at the spa. You are probably wondering what slimy goop is on our faces. It's not puke-- it's a homemade banana and honey mask (yummy). Eliza is sure this made her face much softer. Eliza's feet are in a pan of warm water with lavender salts. We massaged each-other's feet and hands after they soaked in a sugar lotion concoction we made. We are just a fabulous pair.

l'il liza jane

She just may be the cutest damn thing I've ever seen. I know, the glasses are adorable, the nose, the cheeks, and that chin! The chin! I love her little chin.

Seriously though, I found a drawing. Imagine this: A shirt with circles on it in the middle of the page. It's circled and labeled "shirt." There's shorts or capris below that with a box around it, labeled "pants." There's a necklace labeled "necklace," a bracelet, earrings, shoes... all labeled.

Now, picture this: At the top of the page is the title, "What I Would Wear Hanging with my Friends."

"blue tray"

I found this picture today at http://burcuavsar.com/. It cracked me up. Literally, pieces of me all over the floor. My fingers remained intact and fully functioning. Like the chicken moving with its head already cut off. So feel lucky that you even get to read this post.

That was totally beside the point. This picture conjured up some memories of making Eliza's lunch for school. She has grown past this, but I seriously used to number her food items so that she would know what to eat first. Anything labeled with a '1' was a required food item. A '2' was still important, but could not be eaten until '1' was gone. '3' was optional, a treat. '3's of course, were not to be eaten until '1's and '2's were both gone. The best part about this is that she liked it. She had actually been getting stressed out about what she had to eat.

She is a proficient lunch eater now and numbering is no longer necessary.

crazy town

What are we going to do about this???

** Update ** Eliza is totally and utterly freaking out!!

She has demanded that I write an addition that states it is not beer.

It is actually cream soda.

(Don't believe a word she says)

little girls are mean

When I say "little girls are mean," I am not referring to the blunt comments made by Eliza. (She used to poke me and inform me that my ass is "squishy").

Little girls are mean to each other. They create and revel in drama. As long as they are on the giving end, that is. Eliza has relayed "mean girl" instances as early as pre-school. At 4-years-old, Eliza had a friend who informed her that she won't play with Eliza if she (Eliza) has other friends. Little grown-up Eliza informed her, very practically, that she (Eliza) can have however many friends as she wants, and that they can all be friends together. In kindergarten similar issues arose, but not too frequently. First grade, not much drama. One particularly nasty incidence occurred where the group of 5 girls temporarily split apart after one called another fat. (IN FIRST GRADE).

Second grade… much worse. I would pick Eliza up from school and notice that she was quite grumpy. One day in particular, I suggested going out for a treat. The mere thought of this brought on some frustrated replies of "Well, I wouldn't even know where to go," and "I can't even think of a treat I would want because it's rainy and I would have wanted ice-cream." Tears obviously followed such statements. It took the rest of the day to pry the real source of upset out of her little lips. During dinner, she finally exploded—her best friend told her she couldn't play with them at recess. I was heart-broken. I wanted to call that bitch's mother and tell her what a little bitch her daughter was. I wanted to go to class with Eliza and beat up any bullies. I wanted to fix it.

Third grade, at a new school. Eliza has always been social and makes friends easily. Since she started school, she's made new friends every day. Today she seemed fine when I picked her up. She seemed happy. She didn't explode at the thought of choosing an after-school snack. Then we started working on her project. She was suddenly in tears at every question that she had about the assignment. I asked her a couple of times what was really wrong with no success. After it had become completely ridiculous I told her to just get ready for bed. That did it. She finally told me that the homework was not the real problem. "I really didn't have a good day." This led to the confession that one of her new friends that she plays with during after school care has been mean for the past few days. Again, I want to call that mom. I want to hold her hand all day at school. I want to tell that girl to be nice. I want to fix it.

The difficult thing about this parenting thing is that I can't fix it. All I can do is hold this little girl in my arms while she cries and tell her that it will get better. That it always gets better. I remind her that sometimes things in life get worse, but they do get better at some point. Either she'll make other friends or this girl will get over it and they'll be friends again. But that just doesn't feel like enough. Maybe tomorrow I'll escort her to class and tell that girl to tell her mom to meet me on the playground after class…

ridin' the waves

Eliza is truly a beach babe... and Joe, well he's a bum.

{Click the picture to see more}

Taking Eliza boogie boarding could have gone either way. There could have been much resistance on her part, begging and pleading 0n ours. We probably would have told her that she won't get hurt, that it will be the most fun she's ever had. Then, we would be proven wrong... she would get sand-burned, get sand in the eyes, salt water in the nose... and I would be thinking "god forbid the water might actually touch our skin. "

Drama did not ensue since it "went the other way." I cannot express how grateful I am that she absolutely loved boogie boarding. She now has something to do at the beach besides searching for sea shells and running away from the last remains of a wave, the minute aftermath of a wave crashing 10 feet away. She dove right into boogie boarding. She didn't even want help. She would ride the waves in like a pro (if there are indeed pro boogie boarders). She did walk away with a few sand-burns on her knees (like rug-burns) and got salt water in her eyes and nose more than a few times. She did not, however, allow that to keep her from running right back out to be attacked by another wave. Way to go baby!

she's got the whole world in her hands.

Eliza has had many answers for what she wants to be when she grows up. The newest is photographer. She used to answer with "Maybe a dancer and a rock climber and a professional snowboarder and a soccer player and an artist and a teacher." I think she still wants to be any one of these things.

She is entering a photography contest through National Geographic Kids. She has some great pictures so far. She has taken pictures at the zoo here in Florida, on a hike in Utah, and in St. Louis of the arch.

Look at this little photographer. She's so very serious.

just you wait

I would cry, inconsolably. I would feel as although I couldn't take a breath because the crying was consuming. Dad would hold me close, gently rocking. "Michelle, what's wrong?" He would beg me to tell him what thoughts were going through my head. The tears would momentarily subside. The thoughts would become clear within my mind. I would not voice any of these thoughts. In my mind they were not clear enough. Still too jumbled. It wouldn't make sense if I say it out loud. It's just giving up. He wants me to say it out loud and I can't. I just can't. The cries would start again, but louder. Dad would be frustrated, lovingly so. He would get up and ask me again, to just tell him why I'm so upset. "I'm upset because I can't tell you! I'm upset because my thoughts are trapped inside of me." I just sit there and cry. Too upset to look at him. He probably thinks I'm ignoring him. He tells me, as if he just lost a battle, resigned to the fact that I'll not talk to him, "I can't just sit here if you're not going to talk to me." He leaves the room and I'm heart-broken. He's given up and doesn't even realize I was about to say it! I was about to open my lips and explain myself! I sob uncontrollably until I fall asleep.

Later on in life... I always had a messy room. As did most teenagers. I still believe that Kelli's was usually messier than mine. Either way I loved to tell my parents, "It's my room! Don't open the door if you don't want to see it." My parents would usually say something to the effect of "You just wait until you have your own kids." Statements like this (from any parent) always imply that one day they'll get their revenge. Your kids will be worse. Or worse, the same. You will understand why they make you clean your room once you're the parent.

For me it reminds me of the pain and frustration I often brought upon my parents. The crying would ensue over shoe laces that were not tied just so. I liked the loops and tails to be of even length. It would begin over sibling arguments. Over bumps in the hair. Over pennies lost in a store. I've heard these stories many times throughout the years. Always with a look of relief that I turned out so well. The "just you wait" reminds me that my own future child may be just as emotionally inept.

Eliza is not this way. She's not biologically mine. But at times, remembering what I felt like in those "trapped words" moments, helps me to understand her. Her first day of first grade she cried because her khaki pants had a bump above the button hole. She was afraid that the other kids would see this. I assured her that everyones jeans do this. That it's "normal" for the button hold material to stick out a bit at the top. She said "I've never noticed your pants doing that." I remember how I liked my socks rolled a very particular way and just try to reassure her that no one else will know that it's bothering her.

We were at our favorite pizza joint last night. Eliza was so hungry she was getting quite ornery (That I understand all too well!) Looking at the menu, I ask her "Do you want meat on your pizza?" She says "No." Joe asks her, "So, you just want vegetables on your pizza?" She looks exasperated... "Well, I don't even know what there is to have." Her voice has gotten quiet. Tears are on their way. Joe asks, "Do you want pepperoni?" She looks a little relieved and nods. "Did you know pepperoni is meat?" "No." Okay, we've gotten somewhere. By this point I am quite frustrated. If you don't know that pepperoni is meat, then what do you think it's classified as? If you want pepperoni and don't think it's meat or vegetable than just ask for pepperoni!

We ask her if she wants mozzarella sticks. We get a shrug of the shoulders. We ask again. "I guess," she responds as if she's given up on food altogether. I say, "Eliza, what does that mean? Do you want them or do they just sound okay? Would you rather have something else?" This was way too much! "I want mozzarella sticks!"

After dinner is through I find out that she really wanted bread sticks.

These times I have to remember that sometimes our words are just stuck in our minds as children. Sometimes as adults, too. I have to remember that asking extended questions doesn't help. I have to remember that little girl on her daddy's lap just wanting so badly to say what's in her head. I have to remember to wait... to find new ways to ask what she wants on her pizza.

behavior analysis

I love seeing the principles of behavior analysis at work in my daily routines (and in others'). On the most fundamental level, behavior analysis operates on the assumption that behaviors are preceded by certain antecedants or stimuli and followed by a consequence. This consequence can either increase or decrease the likelihood that this behavior will occur again. If it increases the likelihood of the behavior it is a reinforcer and if it decreases the likelihood of the behavior occurring in the future than it is a punisher. That is enough information for me to get on with the fascination. Eliza has, knowingly, been a case study of mine since I am constantly using the principles of behavior to my benefit in parenting.

Our prior apartment was two-story. At bedtime, I would tell Eliza to go get her pajamas on and brush her teeth. Inevitably she would get her pjs on and come back down. For a split second I would wonder whether she was superhuman. Then, I would realize that there's no way in Hell she managed to brush her teeth. (and if she had, certainly not for 2 mintes). I would then ask her "Eliza, did you brush your teeth?" If she answered "Yes," I would explain why I knew that she hadn't. She quickly learned to say "No." The problem behavior consistently occurred after the next exchange. I would tell her to go back upstairs and brush her teeth. This was invariably followed by an audible moan of despair, then by a stomping up the stairs I am certain our neighbors were aware of. Once, she even sobbed, "I already walked all the way up the stairs once!" As a future behavior analyst I looked for the function of this behavior. Was she reinforced by a reaction I had given her? Did she believe, from other similar behaviors, that I would let her escape from this task? I decided to take care of that right away. A behavior analyst cannot allow their child to grow up with contingencies that increase the occurrence of such socially inappropriate behavior! I began to require her to re-do the exchange and re-walk the stairs-- without the sighing and stomping. This is, of course, just one example. Clearly it worked or I wouldn't be going into behavior analysis. She no longer stomps around or moans with despair when she has to go back to brush her teeth.

Have no fear... I have not altered the essence (this word makes me groan inside as a BA) of Miss Eliza. She still rolls her eyes and yes, sighs in mock despair. I love the drama that tiny beautiful girl can dish. The sarcasm that drips heavily, like molassas, from her lips...

Recently I have been trying to increase the "loud voice." Miss Eliza's "soft voice" is well known and I am trying to get that girl to talk with confidence. We'll see... maybe I'll carry some m&ms in my pocket and give her one each time she speaks clearly. wink.

UPDATE: I may actually be carrying skittles or m&ms in my pocket. I just finished reading this post aloud to this Miss Eliza girl and she is literally drooling on my shoulder. Jumping on the bed exclaiming "Really???? Really??? I can have m&ms???" "Maybe even a big butterfinger in your pocket????"