Sam is feeling much better this week, having put whatever illness she had behind her. She’s down to only an occasional wet, hacking cough instead of a constant stream. Her appetite has returned along with her health, so much so that we had to strip her down after one overenthusiastic feeding session.
There are many things I dread about Sam’s future. Paying for her school. Her having (or hopefully not having, but let’s be realistic) sex. Drugs, alcohol, and artificial DNA manipulation. But the specter that looms bigger, darker, and closer than any of these is that the “terrible twos,” the name given to those strong-willed years after children acquire the gift of language and use it to tell you off. Sam has already started to prove herself immune to both negative reinforcement and punishment, both concepts that even Pavlov’s mongrel dog was clever enough to eventually grasp, and with about the same amount of drooling.
I mean, we can get down in Sam’s face and sternly admonish her for poor behavior, but she usually thinks this is the funniest thing ever conceived of by God or man. She just laughs hautily and toddles off, as if to say “Yeah, you keep saying that kind of stuff, but you may have noticed that it isn’t stopping me.”
Sam’s rampages are such that she has managed to yank one safety gate right out of the wall, leaving twin cavaties in the drywall that forced me to prostrate myself in front of the guy at Home Depot and beg him to tell me what exactly “joint compound” is. Her next target seems to be the home theater equipment, as she seems to take great joy in pressing the “Power” button as soon as I’ve forgotten where the remote control is. Last night I think I made some headway, though. I sat on the floor in front of the television and behind Sam. Whenever she started heading towards it I grabbed her by the waist of her pants and tugged her backwards until she fell on her well-padded rump. She’d look around for the culprit of this dirty trick, but she’d just see me, whistling and looking up at the ceiling. She’d make another run for the TV and I’d tug her back again. After about a dozen tries, she gave up and went to go throw food at the cat some more. A partial victory, but maybe she IS smarter than some Russian guy’s slobbering dog.
Pictures!
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I particuarly like this one where she’s trying on my shoes and this one where she’s trekking through the Congo as she hunts Man, the deadliest of all preys.
Besides frustrating our attempts at instruction, Sam’s new favorite thing is Sesame Street. We don’t encourage her to watch much TV, but for an hour or so each day it’s kind of nice to hand her over to some blathering puppets and their letter of the day. Sam’s attention actually wanders to and from the show, but she seems to particularly enjoy it whenever Cookie Monster is on camera. And I have to admit, the way that blue-furred freak inevitably attacks his cookies cracks me up, too. At any rate, Sesame Street is pretty safe, with its lack fo commercials and mild endorsements in the form of “Today’s show is sponsored by McDonald’s, who wants children to use their imaginations (to think of ways to get parents to take them to McDonald’s and eat our fatty, god-awful for you food).” But I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before Sam toddles in and asks me for a tasty Quizno’s Toasted Sub™. Because that’s what Elmo likes.
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