Tonight I made dinner for a couple we know from church who just had a baby girl. Because Sam was working and Cate and I had no other plans, I made a fairly elaborate dinner. Nothing fancy--but it required a lot of chopping and a sizable collection of pots and pans. My sous chef is still not much for slicing and dicing and as a result I typically pull the Pack n Play in to the kitchen where she hangs out while I prepare dinner.
The immobile Cate of old actually seemed to like spending a few minutes in the Pack n Play each day. The turbo-mobile Cate of today does not. Never has that been more apparent than tonight.
For better or worse, the third prong of my very sophisticated parenting strategy (see previous post about first two prongs: speak to her like she understands English and give her lots of kisses) is: Do not respond to hysteria by caving. Never has that been tested like tonight.
Cate cried her little head off for longer than I'd like to admit while I prepared dinner. In my head, I imagined myself giving her a pep talk: "I know you don't like it in there. Sometimes we have to do things we don't like to do. You have your favorite toys and I am right here. You can choose to be miserable or you can choose to manage how you feel about this hard thing. I love you." But there was no pep talk. I just continued preparing dinner.
I finished dinner. We both survived. I swear she was glaring at me for an hour. We delivered our dinner and admired the new baby and the new baby's nursery. We stopped by the store, which is basically Cate's favorite thing in life, so I think I earned some points back there. We came home. And it was time to do the dishes.
To clarify, once she's in the Pack n Play I am all about her toughing it out. But I have a brain (and a heart). When we got home, I put her down on the floor in the room adjacent to the kitchen and got to the dishes. Within about 10 seconds she and a toy she had managed to lug along were in the kitchen at my feet.
And you know what? She crawled around in there checking stuff out the whole time I was doing the dishes.
And she's still alive.
She didn't open the door of the fridge, crawl in, and close the door on herself.
She didn't climb into the dishwasher, grab a knife, and cut herself.
She didn't find some quarter-sized piece of something on the floor, put it in her mouth, and choke on it.
She didn't claw her way on to the counter top, turn on the stove, and burn herself.
She didn't open the cupboard, unscrew the Windex, and drink it.
Shocker.
What a rookie I am.