Lola has become completely obsessed with her stuffed animals. I would be lying if I told you our transition outdoors was flawless, seamless, effortless, without the sight of even one tiny, sorrow-filled tear. I would be lying if I told you that, in getting out that door, there was absolutely no kicking and no screaming, no meltdowns, no flopping around like a fish out of water. So I won't lie. Whenever I utter those infamous words, "Let's go, Lola", I know about the extra three minutes it takes for her to rally up the troops (woolly mammoth, cocker spaniel, horse, and Rex), the way she'll fumble them around, trying desperately to extend the reach of her almost two-year-old, little arms. I know about the fight we'll have, the clever way I'll try to
trick convince her into only taking one of her pals, her hurt feelings, and that sure enough, those sorrow-filled tears would be just around the corner. To tell you the truth, it breaks my heart every time. So we compromise. She can pick up to two pals to bring along with her because I know that the moment she is buckled into that jogger, she'll lose interest (we bring zero pals with us if we are on foot because I end up carrying her, the groceries, and her pals home). She normally settles into the jogger with her pals just fine, anxious to hold onto them, not realizing the only visible part to her is from her big browns up. But she's happy. And we like that.
Being home with her pals is easy, quite funny, actually. No matter how many times I put up her piles of plush, it never fails, she always goes over and takes them down. I feel, sometimes, like I'm ruining her playtime. Like maybe, she is, in fact, playing with them. Maybe she is imagining she is on the beach and they are working on their tans. Maybe. When bed time finally rolls around, it's the same three minute entertainment without the tears, including as many pals as her little toddler arms can carry. She normally goes into her crib, whimpering a bit, holding onto them tightly. Twenty minutes later, she is still awake, playing. The distant sound of her little chipmunkish voice coming from the bedroom. She normally falls asleep within ten minutes of that, on top of her pals. This, lately, has become our nightly sight.
If she wakes up for early morning snuggles, she is not alone. She insists that they are part of the family and rightfully deserve snuggle time as well.
And after thirty minutes of trying to drift back to sleep with her horse in my ear and Rex in my back, I give up, roll over to glare laser beams, and see this...
early morning entertainment. Yep, not upset anymore!
It's all fun and games when she wakes up, piling them all on the couch, yawning like her mama, getting them situated for Disney's Oceans. Again.