Sorry I Asked
Abbie is good at many things. She can scream for minutes without taking a break. She can climb like a hyperactive Sherpa being chased by a disgruntled mountain goat. She can identify the most fragile object in a room within seconds of entering.
Abbie still needs to work on many things, though, especially if she’s going to have the skills by age 18 needed to live on her own like I want her to want to do. For example, Abbie is not good at answering questions. Ask her a yes-no question, and the best you might get is a smile. Ask her a multiple-choice question, and she’ll repeat the last choice, followed quickly by every other choice you mentioned. Ask her an open-ended question, and she’ll just go back to finding things to break.
I ask her questions anyway. They’re mostly rhetorical, the same way I might ask the dog what she’s eating, or the hanging plant if it can forgive me for not watering it for the past week. I don’t expect an answer, especially from the plant since it probably died a couple days ago, but talking through things can help me think.
So, it was with much surprise that Abbie answered one of my questions yesterday. I was in her room yesterday morning, rounding up the cow blankets that strayed from the boys’ room. Abbie was lying on her bed, and when I leaned over to see what she was doing, I felt that her quilt was wet.
“Why is your quilt wet?” I asked.
“Orange juice,” she replied. An empty cup at the foot of the bed confirmed her account of the morning’s events.
We’ve been experimenting with non-sippy cups recently. When Abbie demands her morning orange juice, I pour it into a regular cup for her.* In an ideal world, I’d make her drink it in the kitchen until she finishes it to be sure she doesn’t spill. In the real world, someone’s screaming usually distracts me while I’m pouring the juice, and Abbie has to pull the cup off the counter herself because I’m in another room refereeing a fight.
Abbie does well with regular cups as long as she’s motivated to drink their contents. She’ll dump the contents onto the floor if she doesn’t like them, which is why I can’t train her with water; even though water doesn’t stain, I know she’ll spill a cup of it instead of the realistic chance that she’ll finish a cup of juice.
I’m not sure what happened to her quilt, but I’m betting a brother was involved. Someone noticed sister had something tasty to drink, shoving and pulling ensued, and Abbie dump the cup to make sure that if she couldn’t drink it, no one could.
I pulled the quilt off the bed to wash it, and thanked Abbie for her cooperation. It’s nice that she can now answer what stains need be removed, but I need to teach her to wash her own laundry.
* As opposed to her demands for a brunch orange juice, a lunch orange juice, a snack time orange juice, etc, which I simply ignore.
Abbie still needs to work on many things, though, especially if she’s going to have the skills by age 18 needed to live on her own like I want her to want to do. For example, Abbie is not good at answering questions. Ask her a yes-no question, and the best you might get is a smile. Ask her a multiple-choice question, and she’ll repeat the last choice, followed quickly by every other choice you mentioned. Ask her an open-ended question, and she’ll just go back to finding things to break.
I ask her questions anyway. They’re mostly rhetorical, the same way I might ask the dog what she’s eating, or the hanging plant if it can forgive me for not watering it for the past week. I don’t expect an answer, especially from the plant since it probably died a couple days ago, but talking through things can help me think.
So, it was with much surprise that Abbie answered one of my questions yesterday. I was in her room yesterday morning, rounding up the cow blankets that strayed from the boys’ room. Abbie was lying on her bed, and when I leaned over to see what she was doing, I felt that her quilt was wet.
“Why is your quilt wet?” I asked.
“Orange juice,” she replied. An empty cup at the foot of the bed confirmed her account of the morning’s events.
We’ve been experimenting with non-sippy cups recently. When Abbie demands her morning orange juice, I pour it into a regular cup for her.* In an ideal world, I’d make her drink it in the kitchen until she finishes it to be sure she doesn’t spill. In the real world, someone’s screaming usually distracts me while I’m pouring the juice, and Abbie has to pull the cup off the counter herself because I’m in another room refereeing a fight.
Abbie does well with regular cups as long as she’s motivated to drink their contents. She’ll dump the contents onto the floor if she doesn’t like them, which is why I can’t train her with water; even though water doesn’t stain, I know she’ll spill a cup of it instead of the realistic chance that she’ll finish a cup of juice.
I’m not sure what happened to her quilt, but I’m betting a brother was involved. Someone noticed sister had something tasty to drink, shoving and pulling ensued, and Abbie dump the cup to make sure that if she couldn’t drink it, no one could.
I pulled the quilt off the bed to wash it, and thanked Abbie for her cooperation. It’s nice that she can now answer what stains need be removed, but I need to teach her to wash her own laundry.
* As opposed to her demands for a brunch orange juice, a lunch orange juice, a snack time orange juice, etc, which I simply ignore.
posted by Matt at
11:51 PM
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