The many themes of Independence are flying high

"Um, um, um, red!"

"Okay, let's play with red."

"No -- um, um, um, white!"

"Okay, white."

"No -- um, um, um, blue!"

"Blue it is."

"Um, um, um, make french fries."

"Let's do it, sweetie."

That's us playing with Beatrice and her Cookie Monster Play-Doh food thingie-ma-bob yesterday. She was choosing the Play-Doh colors she preferred to play with, and while I manipulated the colors a little, because we don't really have white, it's been fascinating to witness Bea's word and sentence explosion these past few months as well as her daily awareness of the world around her and her path to independence.

Toddler independence that is. No, she's not driving and she won't be getting her own apartment anytime soon because's she's started grad school, but she is crossing that final length of Baby Bridge to Toddlerville and three years old.

Again, fascinating to be a witness to, to be parents of, to be mentors of, to be students of. (Yikes, and Bryce isn't too far behind not that she's a stumble or two away from walking.)

Play-Doh is a genius maker. Plus, it smells good. (What? You don't think so?) It fires the imagination and is cathartic, for those of stable homes filled with love and security, and for those without, like the kids of domestic violence I've worked with at the Walnut Avenue Women's Center (which is where I made my Picasso-esque Play-Doh face you see here).

While we played with Bea yesterday, I made a snowman witch hybrid out of brown Play-Doh (gross, I know) and Bea looked at it and exclaimed:

"Penguin!"

Right on. The power of imagination.

Tomorrow we're going to Wilder Ranch State Park for an old-fashioned Independence Day and the many themes of independence will be flying high in the sky for me and my family.

The obvious celebration of America's birth and the reveling in individual freedoms, the democratic due process, and beloved expressions like my grandfather's blast from the past, "Hotter than a firecracker on the 4th of July!" [insert what here]

Financial independence, which unfortunately too many of us have taken a backseat to in this post-apocalyptic economic ice age.

Mindful presence and emotional intelligence independence, which takes a lot more work than lip service, but the positive benefits are limitless.

Toddler, teenage and adulthood independence, which share enough collective fireworks to light up the dark corners of the universe.

But Independence Day takes on a whole new meaning when you're dependent on a broken body. Love you, Mom. We'll see you very soon.

Happy 4th of July, Family America. Give yourself a hug, would you? And break out the Play-Doh, too.

The Thrilla in Vanilla

It was the thrilla in vanilla. Vanilla pajamas with polka dots that is, with little Bryce in them, her pulling open the bottom dresser drawer in our bedroom in order to stand and investigate.

Pulling it open because she can. Just like she can crawl like a 9-month-old espresso-powered tortoise all over the house, the grass, the sandbox -- quite a contrast to Beatrice who walked at 11 months but didn't crawl until almost 17 months.

Bryce, a flower of awareness awakening to the morning dew and the warm summer sun. Bryce, much more of a Curious Georgette than her sister, getting into anything and everything and ensuring it's strewn willy-nilly all over the friggin' place. (Well, Bea did/does that too; they both make a mess.)

However, just like her big sister did, Bryce is now bonking her head and body all over the place. Because that's a universal for all babies, toddlers and children -- falling down and beating themselves up in the name of exploration and unknowingly fearless acrobatics. Parents need zero gravity rooms, you know?

So that was the deal earlier this week, Bryce pulling open the bottom dresser drawer to stand tall like a big girl, until --

Crash!

She fell and the small drawer knob punched her right in the left eye and she was down for the count. Thankfully she had closed both eyes prior to hitting, but it still left quite a welt and a mark under her eye (which has since subsided). Mama made it all better and then we went on with our day.

But then later that same day when Mama's out with Bea and I'm working out in my home office, our diligent childcare specialist (better name than the "sitter" and not as pretentious as "nanny") comes out carrying a crying Bryce who now has a bleeding, fat, split lip along with her swollen eye. She had fallen and hit her mouth on the baby "lights, shapes and sound" activity table we have in the living room child toy kingdom.

Smack!

Not the Thrilla in Manilla Ali-Frazier fight by a long shot, but no parent likes to watch their child wail in pain after falling down again and again and going --

Boom!

No, we prefer the smiles and goofy looks our babies give us, at least until rounds two and beyond.

Ding-ding-ding!

In this corner, wearing white, from the city of the "Holy Cross" by the sea...

Let the family love in before you pass out

Let the family love in.

Because when you're coming back claustrophobic in the slow moving beach-goer current after a day trip over the hill inland without the traffic, you wish you would've stayed home instead. ("The hill" being the Santa Cruz Mountains and the "day trip" being to Happy Hollow in San Jose and back again with two little girls, the Mama and the Daddy.)

Although most parents do everything they can to plan for the most painless trips to here or there with their little ones, the reality is you can't plan for when patience runs out and little emotional volcanos need to vent, and how that venting drives the dormancy out of the adult volcanos as well.

Especially when you knew the traffic would be bad coming home, and your foresight overshadowed the hope of quiet, happy kid camper, safe passage.

Earlier that morning when we left for Happy Hollow, I asked Bea, "Where are we going?"

"Zoooooo!" she answered. Bryce squealed and cooed.

Blink. We were on our way. Smooth sailing with the exception of a little scary foreshadowing -- there had been a horrible accident going the other way on Highway 17. Emergency vehicles everywhere. Multiple cars pulled over, some with visible crash marks and one car was on fire. The backed up cars behind it looked like a parking lot.

There was a pop from the burning car and Mama said, "Speed up and get by this, please." And so I did.

Blink. We were there. At Happy Hollow. Riding the Merry-Go-Round. Running to the goats, to the miniature horses, to the cow, to the turkey, to the turtle, to the monkeys, to the meerkats, Bea throwing the food pellets to the ground in front of the animals because she was scared to feed them -- then to the swing ride, to the slide area, having lunch on the grass, then back to the Merry-Go-Round for one last ride.

Blink. We were on our way again. Back in the car. Going home. Moving along nicely until --

We weren't. Memorial Day Weekend gridlock stopped us cold, inching towards the mountains, the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk and other coastal drifts.

Inching along with Mama in the back between Bryce and Bea, doing everything she could to distract and entertain. But then the toy luster wore off and the DVD player locked up and the iPod Touch lost juice and only my iPhone remained with just enough kid video misdirection for Beatrice to relax the rest of the way, poor little Bryce blew.

Her patience had run out miles back and her unhappiness eruption spewed all over the back seat, covering her and the Mama, but thankfully not Bea. Mama kept it together and sang to Bryce (although I did see a thin stream of red lava flow down from the top of the Mama's head). That calmed Bryce down enough to survive the final 20 minutes to get across town to home, which was painfully glacial for me because by that time I was ready. To. Get. Out.

Blink. We were home again. No more crying. All laughter and smiles. As if nothing happened except the fun family memories we shared.

Right on, sister B-hive. Right on.

Let the family love in before you pass out.

Like birthday balloons in the fog.

They're like multi-colored balloons loosely tied together coming in and out of focus through the coastal morning fog...

Bea's words. We're almost to her second birthday as the fog lifts from those balloons a little more each day. It's clear we're on the cusp of bunches floating around her as she rips around the living room.

Crystal clear.

Today we were all down walking along the ocean, pushing Bryce in the stroller, when Bea tripped and fell, hitting her knee. She cried for a few and favored it, and when we asked where the "owie" was she pointed and said:

"Knee."

Brilliant. Don't you think?

We do.

Mama Versus the Volcano

Mama told me a tantrum story the other day...

She took Beatrice to the playground where they usually go two to three times per week -- swings, slides, sandboxes and lots of climbing fun.

We have a bag of outdoor toys she brings for Bea as well, including digging tools and bouncy balls.

There was another little boy playing with a pink ball.

Bea's ball was red.

Bea wanted the pink ball.

But by that time it was time to leave, so Mama gathered up all the toys and grabbed Bea's hand to take her to the car.

Then the toddler tantrum erupted, red face seethed with tears spilling from her eyes, angry babble shooting from her mouth.

"Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-nah!"

No!

She broke loose and ran toward the boy with the pink ball.

"Beatrice, come back here! We're leaving, sweetie."

No effect. Mama had to run after Bea and scoop her up.

Molten lava oozed from Bea's every pour.

"Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-nah!"

They walked away and Mama put her down. Zoom -- she was off again to the boy with the pink ball.

"Beatrice! No."

Now, I don't know if you've ever picked up an erupting, almost 30-pound toddler before, but try doing it when you're 8 months pregnant with a bag of toys in the other hand.

Mama ran after her and scooped her up again.

New islands formed in the seas of Bea's angry tears.

"Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-nah!"

This time Mama got farther away from the little boy with the pink ball, thinking that it was far enough to put Bea down and get her closer to the car.

Zoom -- back she went to the boy and the pink ball.

Exasperated and exhausted, Mama ran to get Bea again and this time hauled her all the way back to the car, Bryce getting a drive-by belly thrashing along the way. She strapped Bea into the car seat and gave her a hug and a kiss.

"Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-nah!"

Lava buried the back seat and flowed into the front.

"I love you, baby. Let's go home."

***

Tantrums. Can't live with them. Can't live without them.

Bea's are usually short-lived. Usually. With rare exception as related above.

We were just asking each other last night what to do, what to do...

Let's AskDrSears.com!

On Parenting.com, another mother did ask Dr. Sears:

My 17-month-old's tantrums have become absolutely intolerable. He cries hysterically until, within a couple minutes, he throws up. The only way to calm him down is to distract him or to give him whatever it is he wants. I know it's not good for me to cater to his every whim, but I get so frustrated, I don't know what else to do. How can I temper my son's excessive tantrums?

Throws up? Good God.

We're pretty darn lucky.

You can read his detailed answer here, but here are the bullets to consider:

• Identify the triggers. Is he tired, bored, hungry, or frustrated?
• Identify the purpose of the tantrums. Tantrums come in two forms: frustration tantrums and manipulative tantrums. Know the difference.
• Teach him alternative ways of expressing his feelings. Part of childhood development is learning what language gets one's needs met and what doesn't.
• Know your anger tolerance. If you lose patience easily when your child throws a tantrum, know when to walk away. (But not literally in a crowded mall or congested intersection.) Count to 10 and take a deep breath. Know the difference.
• Know when to intervene. In extreme cases, "holding therapy" works best. Hold your child in a relaxed and comforting way (even if he squirms) and reassure him with the most soothing voice you can muster. (We've done that. Mama has more luck than me, though.)

Dr. Sears writes, "Temper tantrums usually end between 18 months and 2 years of age, when a child develops the language skills necessary to express his feelings with words rather than actions. So when you're at your wit's end, remember: This too shall pass."

Most of the time we can let her go and ride them out. Then all is well again. As if nothing ever happened.

Until the next time, when 20 minutes after we put her to bed, she howled and cried and then writhed in our arms -- lava everywhere!

Let's work on those words, Beatrice.

Love you.