The Banshee returned at 3 AM for some unknown reason. I staggered into his room thinking to plug him up with a paci and back to dreamland I would go. One of these days I will learn to STOP thinking. Little Man is standing in his crib sucking away on his pacifier in between Banshee cries. My sleep-deprived brain remembers to scoop him up and snuggle but it forgets the snuggle must last a minimum of 5 minutes or Banshee morphs into the Hulk. The snuggle lasted about 10 seconds. As I lay my child back down he managed to sucker-punch me in the face while still half asleep.
Very effective child. Very effective. You just won yourself a night in mommy and daddy's bed with your knockout.
Which is never a good idea. Our bed is playtime for our son but I was too tired to do anything else and thankfully, so was he. He only launched puppy at my face 3 times before he gave up and moved on to daddy. He only stole blankets and kicked them off seconds later 5 times. He didn't jump on us, well at least not me. He didn't pry back eyelids. he did play but not for all that long. I would threaten him with his crib and he would lie on my pillow, smile sweetly at me and close his eyes. I had to threaten 3 times. The 3rd time I muttered the threat through the veil of a beckoning dream. When it finally occured to me that I had to follow through on my threat, Little Man was sprawled out on daddy snoring in almost perfect sync.
I awoke a few hours later to a tiny little body snuggled up against me clutching my finger and the temper tantrums and acting out from the past weekend flitted away into a black hole. These are the moments I live for. The ones I cherish above all else. When my son reverts back to his infant days and will actually curl up and snuggle his way to the Land of Nod with mama. It hurt to wake him. I wanted nothing more than to put my arm around him and go back to sleep but work screamed something about a mortgage payment so I took one last look at the sweet precious child curled up in my arm and did the unthinkable. I woke him.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Boo-boos, Reality and Hope
Little Man mastered the stairs early. He showed an interest so we encouraged him. He was scrambling up and down the stairs like a pro. Right up to one fateful day when his excitement got the best of him; his legs tangled and he went flying. Well, bouncing really – head over heels down the stairs. It happened so fast all we could do was watch in horror. The half second it took for him to push himself up and start wailing was an eternity. We watched this tiny little child’s short life flash before our eyes and that wail was a huge relief in a truly bizarre manner.
That day slammed reality home hard for me. I’ve watched my son like a hawk from the moment the doctor presented his bloody messy little body announcing “isn’t he adorable?” . I’ve carefully decided which boo boos would be allowed, which would be postponed until a later date and which were to be avoided at all costs. Those that were allowed, I attempted pretty successfully to mitigate the harm done. He knows to keep his head down when crawling under the table because mommy’s hand is not always there to cushion the thump. Those that I thought should be postponed? Well, I’ve had some failures there. First blood was not to be drawn until he was old enough to drive himself to the ER. He didn’t make it to the 3 month mark before mommy blew that one out of the water and promptly went back to biting his nails rather than clipping them. Now that I feel he is old enough, I am trying to teach him how to bite them off himself. Chew, bite, spit. Chew, bite, spit. Pretty simple eh? Yeah. He’s learned spit. Brilliant.
Bouncing down the stairs head over heels fell into the category of Boo-Boos to be avoided at all costs. I’d say give me a big fat red F in that category but my son taught me that he bounces better than a basketball so maybe only a D. He came through the ordeal unscathed. Sure he cried for awhile but that was probably due to the fact that mommy and daddy were freaking out and mommy was pushing and prodding every millimeter of his body to make sure all was intact. Nothing broken. No concussion. Yes, we took him to the doctor to make sure.
Since that fateful day several months ago, Little Man has not been allowed to go down the stairs. Up, yes but not down. He is carried each and every time. Well, each and every time mama is in the house. I suspect but have not been able to prove that daddy has let him crawl down the stairs since then and managed to hide it from me. Very smart man my husband. He knows my limits.
So if the love of my life can’t convince me to let my child go back to mastering getting down stairs sometime before heading off to college, what hope did my son have? Enter my neighbor who while younger than me, has more mommy experience than me. She politely and ever so subtly told me to get the hell over it. I allowed my son to go down her stairs. He chose to bounce down but this time he bounced on his butt in a semi-controlled manner with mama close by just in case (yes, I deleted the word “hovering” as the image of me as a helicopter parent just scared the bejesus out of me. Oh sweet Universe).
I now realize that there are some boo-boos you just can’t avoid no matter what. Little Man still does not have free reign of the stairs. If I think he is too excited to go downstairs, I carry him. It’s working for both of us. My heart is not about to race itself into an implosion and Little Man is learning that approaching certain situations calmly means mama backs off. This still doesn’t mean I don’t freak out when he gets too close to the curb. You can’t expect all my irrational fears to dissipate with one “ah ha” moment. We are dealing with reality here people.
The kid has to learn and unfortunately he has a strong mix of genes in him that will lead him to learning through doing, not observing. Watching another child take a header off the top of the bookshelf will not stop my son from trying. In fact it may encourage him. My brother is the reason we have covers for electrical outlets and I am sure at least one other child safety device. He survived his childhood with scars he still shows off with pride. So I know there is hope for my son. The question is – is there hope for mama?
That day slammed reality home hard for me. I’ve watched my son like a hawk from the moment the doctor presented his bloody messy little body announcing “isn’t he adorable?” . I’ve carefully decided which boo boos would be allowed, which would be postponed until a later date and which were to be avoided at all costs. Those that were allowed, I attempted pretty successfully to mitigate the harm done. He knows to keep his head down when crawling under the table because mommy’s hand is not always there to cushion the thump. Those that I thought should be postponed? Well, I’ve had some failures there. First blood was not to be drawn until he was old enough to drive himself to the ER. He didn’t make it to the 3 month mark before mommy blew that one out of the water and promptly went back to biting his nails rather than clipping them. Now that I feel he is old enough, I am trying to teach him how to bite them off himself. Chew, bite, spit. Chew, bite, spit. Pretty simple eh? Yeah. He’s learned spit. Brilliant.
Bouncing down the stairs head over heels fell into the category of Boo-Boos to be avoided at all costs. I’d say give me a big fat red F in that category but my son taught me that he bounces better than a basketball so maybe only a D. He came through the ordeal unscathed. Sure he cried for awhile but that was probably due to the fact that mommy and daddy were freaking out and mommy was pushing and prodding every millimeter of his body to make sure all was intact. Nothing broken. No concussion. Yes, we took him to the doctor to make sure.
Since that fateful day several months ago, Little Man has not been allowed to go down the stairs. Up, yes but not down. He is carried each and every time. Well, each and every time mama is in the house. I suspect but have not been able to prove that daddy has let him crawl down the stairs since then and managed to hide it from me. Very smart man my husband. He knows my limits.
So if the love of my life can’t convince me to let my child go back to mastering getting down stairs sometime before heading off to college, what hope did my son have? Enter my neighbor who while younger than me, has more mommy experience than me. She politely and ever so subtly told me to get the hell over it. I allowed my son to go down her stairs. He chose to bounce down but this time he bounced on his butt in a semi-controlled manner with mama close by just in case (yes, I deleted the word “hovering” as the image of me as a helicopter parent just scared the bejesus out of me. Oh sweet Universe).
I now realize that there are some boo-boos you just can’t avoid no matter what. Little Man still does not have free reign of the stairs. If I think he is too excited to go downstairs, I carry him. It’s working for both of us. My heart is not about to race itself into an implosion and Little Man is learning that approaching certain situations calmly means mama backs off. This still doesn’t mean I don’t freak out when he gets too close to the curb. You can’t expect all my irrational fears to dissipate with one “ah ha” moment. We are dealing with reality here people.
The kid has to learn and unfortunately he has a strong mix of genes in him that will lead him to learning through doing, not observing. Watching another child take a header off the top of the bookshelf will not stop my son from trying. In fact it may encourage him. My brother is the reason we have covers for electrical outlets and I am sure at least one other child safety device. He survived his childhood with scars he still shows off with pride. So I know there is hope for my son. The question is – is there hope for mama?
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Dinner
Making dinner had been quite a challenge for me now that my son is mobile. He wants undivided attention when we arrive home which is hard to provide when you are elbow deep in raw chicken, eggs or any other salmonella-loving food. The game plan was to cook our meal after he went to bed and immediately wrap up a portion for him to have dinner the next night. The best laid plans don't come to fruition if you are constantly forgetting to defrost the meat ahead of time. Needless to say I've only been successful maybe, at best, a handful of times.
It was suggested that I give Little Man a snack while I make dinner. Little Man doesn't grasp the concept of snack. At least not this close to meal time. I'd offer him a cheese stick. He'd grab the whole package. We'd compromise on two. Then he'd be after the yogurt and from there he'd be reaching for the box of cheerios. By the time dinner was ready, I'd be lucky if I got 2-3 mouthfuls of rice and veggies in him.
I'd contemplated switching it up by giving him dinner in the morning and breakfast when we got home at night. That idea is still on the table.
Tonight I had some success. Upon arrival in our lovely abode, Little Man did his usual Drink Dance routine and then promptly noticed the package of Ritz crackers left on the counter. I decided to try the snack routine. So I give him a cracker. Prep one chicken breast. Scrub my hands. Give him another and prep the next chicken breast. Scrub. Cracker. Scrub. Cracker. Dinner is in the oven. Woo Hoo!
Now I have to distract this kid for the next 45 minutes. Ever try convincing a toddler that OUTSIDE no longer exists? I think I would have better luck convincing Bin Laden that the US is the greatest country on the face of the earth and worthy of his undying devotion. And no, going outside for a short time while dinner cooked was NOT an option. Forget the whole, trying to get him back inside. That's not the issue. The issue is me remembering to go back inside before the chicken cooks itself into a permanent blackened lump in the middle of the pan.
I managed to succeed on all counts and by all counts I mean dinner was NOT a blackened mess. I would have presented myself with a Nobel Prize and launched into the best acceptance speech ever heard in the Universe but Little Man decide enough was enough and you better get that food on my tray NOW WOMAN.
So I plop a 50% made from scratch, fresh-from-the-oven dinner in front of my child and he refuses to eat. Except the dinner rolls. He chose the Pillsbury Dough Boy over my chicken. I scrubbed my hands 50 times while making that damn chicken so he could have his crackers sans salmonella and now he won't eat it.
As a child growing up, if you didn't eat your dinner it was served to you for breakfast the next morning. I think my dad may have been on to something. I'll let you know tomorrow afternoon...
It was suggested that I give Little Man a snack while I make dinner. Little Man doesn't grasp the concept of snack. At least not this close to meal time. I'd offer him a cheese stick. He'd grab the whole package. We'd compromise on two. Then he'd be after the yogurt and from there he'd be reaching for the box of cheerios. By the time dinner was ready, I'd be lucky if I got 2-3 mouthfuls of rice and veggies in him.
I'd contemplated switching it up by giving him dinner in the morning and breakfast when we got home at night. That idea is still on the table.
Tonight I had some success. Upon arrival in our lovely abode, Little Man did his usual Drink Dance routine and then promptly noticed the package of Ritz crackers left on the counter. I decided to try the snack routine. So I give him a cracker. Prep one chicken breast. Scrub my hands. Give him another and prep the next chicken breast. Scrub. Cracker. Scrub. Cracker. Dinner is in the oven. Woo Hoo!
Now I have to distract this kid for the next 45 minutes. Ever try convincing a toddler that OUTSIDE no longer exists? I think I would have better luck convincing Bin Laden that the US is the greatest country on the face of the earth and worthy of his undying devotion. And no, going outside for a short time while dinner cooked was NOT an option. Forget the whole, trying to get him back inside. That's not the issue. The issue is me remembering to go back inside before the chicken cooks itself into a permanent blackened lump in the middle of the pan.
I managed to succeed on all counts and by all counts I mean dinner was NOT a blackened mess. I would have presented myself with a Nobel Prize and launched into the best acceptance speech ever heard in the Universe but Little Man decide enough was enough and you better get that food on my tray NOW WOMAN.
So I plop a 50% made from scratch, fresh-from-the-oven dinner in front of my child and he refuses to eat. Except the dinner rolls. He chose the Pillsbury Dough Boy over my chicken. I scrubbed my hands 50 times while making that damn chicken so he could have his crackers sans salmonella and now he won't eat it.
As a child growing up, if you didn't eat your dinner it was served to you for breakfast the next morning. I think my dad may have been on to something. I'll let you know tomorrow afternoon...
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Fears realized
My neighbors have an infant. I finally caved last night and asked him if I could hold him. I've been fighting the urge since they first brought him home from the hospital because I was afraid and it turns out for a good reason.
I'm holding this sweet baby boy in my arms. He's smiling and cooing away. He snuggled into the crook of my arm and my heart melted while my mind starting crunching numbers trying to find a way we could afford 2 in daycare, diapers, and everything else.
Have you ever actually looked at Government accounting? I have. It makes ZERO sense in the real world. My number crunching made Government accountants look like geniuses, the kind that could have the entire world out of the recession in a month's time. But I've convinced myself I've based everything on solid economic principles.
Then their first born went into full-blown big brother mode and started teaching Little Man all sorts of cool things like throwing an object at the ceiling fan turning it into the ultimate projectile; like diving head first off the couch and diving safe into home plate and I was sold. Little Man was in heaven. What could be better than TWO marathon farters in the house (oops - 3. Forgot the man who taught Little Man all he knows)? Two children shaking their sippy cups sending milk flying? 2 children creating tidal waves in the bath? 2 children eating crayons? Oh and I would have poop finger-painting X 2 to look forward to. How exciting! Oh I can't wait for that! Where is that husband of mine?
I'm holding this sweet baby boy in my arms. He's smiling and cooing away. He snuggled into the crook of my arm and my heart melted while my mind starting crunching numbers trying to find a way we could afford 2 in daycare, diapers, and everything else.
Have you ever actually looked at Government accounting? I have. It makes ZERO sense in the real world. My number crunching made Government accountants look like geniuses, the kind that could have the entire world out of the recession in a month's time. But I've convinced myself I've based everything on solid economic principles.
Then their first born went into full-blown big brother mode and started teaching Little Man all sorts of cool things like throwing an object at the ceiling fan turning it into the ultimate projectile; like diving head first off the couch and diving safe into home plate and I was sold. Little Man was in heaven. What could be better than TWO marathon farters in the house (oops - 3. Forgot the man who taught Little Man all he knows)? Two children shaking their sippy cups sending milk flying? 2 children creating tidal waves in the bath? 2 children eating crayons? Oh and I would have poop finger-painting X 2 to look forward to. How exciting! Oh I can't wait for that! Where is that husband of mine?
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Call the Guiness folks
Parents live for milestones. We watch like hawks for the first sign of a potential roll. Some of us have taken to stealth maneuvers for our imps who refuse to take a step within eyesight. We celebrate each milestone as if our baby is the first to ever achieve such wonders. Tonight was such an occasion. Our stellar Little Man decided to go for the Guiness Book of World Records at the tender age of 1.5 years.
He is the youngest long-distance farter of all times. He managed to toot his little horn for a good 30+ seconds straight.
We are so proud.
He is the youngest long-distance farter of all times. He managed to toot his little horn for a good 30+ seconds straight.
We are so proud.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Answers are never easy
I am a firm supporter of religious freedom. I believe all should be free to worship as they see fit without repercussion. This includes a staunch support for the separation of Church and State but a recent conversation has me wondering where the lines are.
I have always had a problem with those whose (apparent) sole reason for opposing gay marriage is because it isn't found in the bible; because it is against their religion. The key being THEIR religion. Your religion is not my religion so you may not dictate how I live my life based on your religion. Correct?
To me, it comes down to a basic human right. If two humans wish to marry, I believe that neither the Church nor the Government has the right to oppose them. But therein lies the conundrum. It is my BELIEF. Opinion does not equal fact. Belief does not equal fact. Hell, fact doesn't always equal fact (flat world anyone?). Do I have the right to slam my beliefs down another person's throat?
I guess the fact that we feel the need to have laws either way on something as personal as marriage is still beyond me. One's relationship with God is personal and sacred and cannot be legislated but a marriage can be?
If my beliefs are in conflict with your beliefs, where do my rights begin and your rights end?
I have always had a problem with those whose (apparent) sole reason for opposing gay marriage is because it isn't found in the bible; because it is against their religion. The key being THEIR religion. Your religion is not my religion so you may not dictate how I live my life based on your religion. Correct?
To me, it comes down to a basic human right. If two humans wish to marry, I believe that neither the Church nor the Government has the right to oppose them. But therein lies the conundrum. It is my BELIEF. Opinion does not equal fact. Belief does not equal fact. Hell, fact doesn't always equal fact (flat world anyone?). Do I have the right to slam my beliefs down another person's throat?
I guess the fact that we feel the need to have laws either way on something as personal as marriage is still beyond me. One's relationship with God is personal and sacred and cannot be legislated but a marriage can be?
If my beliefs are in conflict with your beliefs, where do my rights begin and your rights end?
Monday, July 6, 2009
Be Careful What You Ask
My son is testing his boundaries. He has learned that standing in the bath is not allowed. He still requires an occasional reminder but once reminded, he promptly plants his butt and does not push that boundary again at least again during that particular bath.
Standing on the couch is one boundary he has not learned and continues to push. Bah and Bah-Bo counting to 3 elicits gales of giggles. Grabbing his thighs and planting him on his butt is a glorious game in his mind. So glorious that it must be repeated countless times for the next 20 minutes. This kid is a knuckleballer and we are striking out. Time for the switch hitter.
Bah: On your butt.
LM: giggle giggle
Bah: If you don’t sit down, you will go on the floor. Do you want to play on the floor?
LM: Shakes his head
Bah: Then on your butt. There is no standing on the furniture in this house
LM: giggle giggle giggle
I plop him on the floor and go to my happy place in a vain attempt to block him out as he morphs into a banshee. He attempts to climb the couch but I’m blocking his every move without making eye contact. As he slowly morphs back to a boy, he stands in front of me mournfully begging to be allowed back on the couch with the biggest, saddest eyes.
Bah (in a very stern I’m-the-mommy-and-I-mean-business voice): If I let you back up are you going to stand on the couch?
LM (with the most innocent, angelic expression ever experienced by a mortal ): Nod, nod, nod.
Hey, at least my kid is honest.
Standing on the couch is one boundary he has not learned and continues to push. Bah and Bah-Bo counting to 3 elicits gales of giggles. Grabbing his thighs and planting him on his butt is a glorious game in his mind. So glorious that it must be repeated countless times for the next 20 minutes. This kid is a knuckleballer and we are striking out. Time for the switch hitter.
Bah: On your butt.
LM: giggle giggle
Bah: If you don’t sit down, you will go on the floor. Do you want to play on the floor?
LM: Shakes his head
Bah: Then on your butt. There is no standing on the furniture in this house
LM: giggle giggle giggle
I plop him on the floor and go to my happy place in a vain attempt to block him out as he morphs into a banshee. He attempts to climb the couch but I’m blocking his every move without making eye contact. As he slowly morphs back to a boy, he stands in front of me mournfully begging to be allowed back on the couch with the biggest, saddest eyes.
Bah (in a very stern I’m-the-mommy-and-I-mean-business voice): If I let you back up are you going to stand on the couch?
LM (with the most innocent, angelic expression ever experienced by a mortal ): Nod, nod, nod.
Hey, at least my kid is honest.
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