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Posts Tagged ‘motherhood’

Bedtime Story

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Heading up the stairs, the Boo issues a proclamation: “I don’t like my bed.”

Actually what he says is, “You don’t like your bed,” because he’s making good progress on fixing his pronoun usage, but I don’t correct him when he’s overly tired and/or cranky.

I make a light remark about how nice his bed is, with the stripey sheets and the fuzzy green blanket and Tigey and Tigger. He does not reply, and we continue up our climb.

We go through the bedtime routine of books and cuddling on the glider, with a detour for adding batteries to the noise machine. These days he prefers to walk from the glider to the crib, and last night he had a question when he got there.

“What is this?”

“It’s your crib.”

“What is THIS!”

I notice that he’s hanging onto a couple of slats.

“Those are bars.”

“I don’t like bars.”

Ah. Crap. And here I’d had such lovely visions of him staying in his crib until his third birthday.

“Would you like us to take the bars away?”

A huge smile, a beam of little boy light in the dim room.

“YES!”

And now you know what we’ll be doing this weekend: cursing over poorly written directions while wielding an Allen wrench, all in the name of helping our little boy grow up.

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We recently took the Boo to India to meet and stay with the hubs’ mother (“Avva”). Yes, we might be slightly crazy, though honestly, it all went a lot better than we thought it would where the Boo was concerned. Herewith, a list of the highlights.

You asked, “Where’s Avva?” immediately after arriving at the airport for the first of four flights that would take us to India over the next 36 hours. Your next question was about going home.

You were happy to receive a lollipop for takeoff, then displeased when it became sharp after you bit into it.

You were so enthralled with your personal in-flight entertainment screen that you would watch a cartoon you’d never seen, without sound.

You hugged a total stranger at the playground in the Frankfurt airport. He happened to be a brown-skinned man. We all laughed and called him your new daddy.

You slept on the long-haul flights and never went into the kind of frenzy we had feared you would. You did get a little wiggy during the last layover on the way there, but that was an eight-hour ordeal after more than 24 hours of travel that had all three of us strung out.

You cried when you met Avva, whom you had only experienced over Skype from the time you were six months old. We concluded that you thought she lived in the iPad.

You gave your Avva a hug within 24 hours of meeting her.

You delighted in discovering all the switches and fans in Avva’s house, and particularly loved the switch for the pump that delivers water to the tanks on the roof. Fortunately, all of these switches are about five feet off the ground.

You loved watering the plants in Avva’s front and back yards despite your distress over getting mired in thick mud.

You did not get sick (not counting the rash you developed).

You became enamored of a stick that is often used to drive away street dogs.

You did not care for the noise of steam escaping from the pressure cooker and would clamp your hands to your ears when it was hissing, even with the kitchen door closed.

You experienced several firsts during our stay: your first Slinky (instant love); your first time blowing a whistle (instant joy); and your first encounter with a gaggle of adoring, but loud, Indian Aunties (instant tears and vehemently closed eyes).

You climbed onto the lap of a visitor, a total stranger. Even after you realized he wasn’t your daddy, you stayed in his lap.

You met two of your cousins, and enjoyed playing with their carrom board, tricycle, and scooter.

You woke up the first six nights we were in India, sometimes tossing and turning for four hours before you were able to sleep again and often crying from the frustration of trying and failing to sleep. Sometimes Mama singing to you would help, sometimes it wouldn’t.

You shared a bed with Mama during our stay — a first for you and a big change from your crib. At first you would sit up and call for her if you woke up, but then you realized you could just roll over and cuddle with her. In the mornings, you would lean against her and announce that you were awake.

You asked to sleep with Mama when you woke up in the middle of the night back at home. She explained that the crib was too small but said she could take a nap with you in the big bed.

You thought Daddy’s nightly ritual of killing mosquitoes before you went to bed was hilarious. You also loved the mosquito net that cocooned our bed, though you would be in such a hurry to get in or out that you would often slam into it before Mama had a chance to raise it for you.

You tried a tiny bite of mango. You seemed to like it, but refused additional bites.

You refused to try any of the three delicious varieties of Indian bananas your Avva had gotten for you.

You devoured the sev (fried chickpea flour sticks) Avva made for you, but otherwise stuck to eating the food we brought for you.

You announced, “This is not home. This is India. This is our India home.” This happened about a week into our stay.

You went to India with Mama and Daddy, and we were nothing but impressed with how well you handled the trip.

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A few weeks ago, on a whim, I began to sing the Alphabet Song and stopped to see if the Boo would pick up where I left off. I sang “A B C D” and he chimed in, though not singing, “E F G.” I sang a few more letters, he spoke the ones that came next. We went through the song a few more times, and no matter where I left off, he picked right up and never got the sequence wrong.

Yesterday I started the same way, singing “A B C” and then stopping. He said, “NOT D.” And giggled. I giggled, and we continued this way through the whole song, singing, speaking and giggling, right down to “now I know my” “NOT ABCs.”

Such a mystery, the mind of the toddler. So much information packed in there, and such creativity in how it comes back out.

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20140701-170106-61266583.jpgOver the past week, the Boo has been issuing declarations, usually after a period of what I can only describe as intense quiet. Herewith, a list.

During an episode of Thomas and Friends:
– When the steam stops, the train stops.

After we made a couple of mini books, bound with safety pins:
– If we take out the pins, no more book.

At the kitchen sink:
– Some water is good, some water is yucky.

Also at the kitchen sink:
– Fast is good. Slow is bad.

Always thinking, this one.

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Hanging out in bed, the three of us, the Boo in the middle. There might have been an iPad involved — hard to recall now.

The hubs sneezed. Well, not really. Rather, a sound with a thousand pointy edges exploded from his face. Twice, I think.

Rarely have I seen the Boo scramble so quickly.

He didn’t quite cling to me, but he wanted to be very very near me, and not his Daddy. (A rare occurance when both of us are around.) Keep in mind that his pronouns are still mostly reversed as I tell you what he said over and over: “You don’t like that sound.”

Neither do I, Boo. Neither do I.

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You can recognize certain words, most notably “yo,” which was in a recent library book as well as on Mama’s T-shirt:

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You have discovered how to slide down the stairs on your belly, feet first.

“Say Hello” by Rachel Isadora was your surprise favorite from our last library run.

You remain obsessed by AC units, which you call fans. You ask to “walk the neighborhood” so you can look at your favorites over and over, requesting to be lifted up to see if they’re spinning.

You love running across open spaces in parks just as much as you enjoy conquering ladders and slides in playgrounds.

You like to throw the afghans and couch pillows onto the living room floor.

You are adept at unscrewing the top of your toothpaste tube. And Grammie’s lotion tube. And anything else with a screw-on lid. This would be a downside of you having a building set.

You recently had your first professional haircut, from a friend of Mama’s who came to the house. You were unsure about her at first, but eventually showed her your favorite cat video and munched chocolate chips while she snipped away. You did not, however, enjoy the sensation of tiny bits of hair on your skin. At all.

You have developed an affinity for Caillou that borders on obsession.

You regularly declare your love for Daddy. You have declared your love for Mama exactly once, during a diaper change.

You know what pill bugs are and like to look for them during walks.

You have begun to (sometimes) announce when you need a diaper change.

You like to see how much taller than you the sunflower plants are.

You do not care for babies grabbing you, but you do allow them to grab you.

You almost never opt to sit in your high chair anymore.

You sometimes hit Mama with your bedtime buddy (or, on one occasion, a toy screwdriver). Usually this happens when you are tired, excited, or craving attention.

You have a pair of scissors, and occasionally like to use them to slice stuff up.

You are learning how to ask kids to share toys at summer camp — in particular, fire trucks and dinosaurs. You have also learned about sand in your shoes. You’re not a fan.

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Chapter One

A week ago I took part in a performance, part of a really cool project that turns poems into songs. Rehearsals had gone reasonably well, I had practiced quite a bit the week before the show, and I knew my keyboard and vocal parts well enough that I wasn’t nervous.

Then I had a massive brain fart in the middle of a song I’d had down cold for weeks. Started singing it in a different register. Lost my place. Stopped singing. Somehow found my place again and trudged on.

I had a strong desire to flee.

But we were less than halfway through the show. The song I’d written was coming up. And I was sitting as far from the steps as I could be. To leave the stage, I would have had to either hop off the front of the stage, or thread my way through cords and people and instruments.

So I stayed. I made a decision not to cry, to focus on not screwing up the rest of the songs. And that’s what happened. The rest of the set was fine, and the last song, where I had the most prominent keyboard role, was great.

Chapter Two

A few days ago during a bath, the Boo piped up. “What’s that?”

I turned around to see what no parent wants to see in a tub.

I had a strong desire to flee.

Instead, I mustered every scrap of Zen I had in me. Calmly, like it was no big deal, I said, “Oh, that’s your poop.”

I scrubbed my little boy, again, several times. I dried and dressed him, chatting all the while about the basic points of potty training. Then I attacked the tub with bleach.

So that’s the metaphor for the week, I thought as I scrubbed. Fighting the urge to flee, sticking around to deal with shit.

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Flowers aside, I don’t go in for Mother’s Day all that much (though I am looking forward to weeping over whatever my kid makes for me at school). I do, however, like to use the day to navel-gaze about what I’ve learned in the last 2.25 years. Herewith, my list for your amusement.

1. I loathe washing bottles. And yes I’m still washing bottles because…

2. I get off on being able to give my kid what he needs, whether it’s a new pair of flip-flops or another month of bottles because he’s just not ready to give them up.

3. My mistakes will not permanently harm my kid. I once made him cry because I yelled at him as he was about to grab a cup of scalding coffee. And I’d do it again tomorrow.

4. Having less free time makes me better at spending it well. Sometimes it’s chopping veggies that floats my boat, sometimes I just collapse back into bed, but when my kid goes down for a nap, I make the minutes count.

5. Staying home with the kiddo has turned me into a person who likes chatting with the neighbors despite being introverted.

6. That thing about getting dressed in non-stretchy clothes every morning even if you’re not leaving the house? Just doesn’t work for me.

7. I firmly believe that the garbage man should not be allowed to see me without makeup. You’d understand if you could see how fabulous he is as he waves to us every Monday morning whilst executing a flawless three-point turn in a behemoth of a truck.

8. All parents should be given as much kindness as possible because you can’t always tell when they’ve had a rough day with their kid. Compassion goes a long way on days like that, believe me.

9. I need my mom friends, to whine with, to laugh with, to shake my head with.

10. I’m so much better than I thought I was. More patient, inventive and fun. Able to claw my way through a day on very little sleep. Willing to let someone puke on me for hours because I know they need me to hold them. I can change a diaper like a goddamn ninja. If this sounds like bragging, that’s because it is — and more moms should do it.

And because this blog goes up to 11…

Nothing has ever made me as angry as celebrity anti-vaxxers, and nothing will give me as much satisfaction as seeing them go down in flames.

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You can climb onto this all by yourself:
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You have begun eating open-faced peanut butter sandwiches, a definite step up from peanut butter off a spoon with a side of bread bits.

You picked out your own outfit the day we went to Mama’s office: jeans, a white polo shirt, and one of daddy’s ties. The tie cleared the ground by about 4 inches. You charmed the pants off everyone you met.

You are fond of saying, “Mama forgot.” We are fond of hearing you say it because of the way you draw out the second syllable of “forgot.”

You have developed a fondness for gargling whatever you’re drinking.

You still refuse to take even a sip of juice, even after asking for it to be poured into your most favorite cup.

You like to give your baby doll baths, then have Mama give you a pretend bath. Both of you use the same “tub,” a toy bin that’s the perfect size — for the doll.

You’ve checked out your first library books, which you like to have read to you one after the other (there are only three of them, phew!).

You tried to use Mama’s library card to get a digital jukebox to play.

You’ve had your first trip to Blueberry Hill. You enjoyed eating your usual carb smorgasbord there (graham-and-PB sandwiches and Cheerios followed by a dessert of chocolate chips). Our dining companion was flummoxed by your refusal of mac-n-cheese.

You delight in watering the plants on the deck and in the front yard, and you want to count the sunflower sprouts every time we water them. More precisely, you like Mama to make your hand point at each sprout as she counts them with you.

You delight in watering the plants in the front yard, and strongly desire full control of the hose at all times.

You like to take to take rides in the wagon at the end of the day, but at a certain point you want to pull it yourself, and will swat our hands away if we attempt to help you.

You like to look at and play with your potty seat, but you have no interest in using it for its intended purpose, preferring instead to make a mad dash to the next room to do your business.

You were told you had to hold someone’s hand when crossing the street, and so you grabbed your own finger and said, “you can hold your own hand!” (your pronouns are still charmingly reversed).

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The Boo was over a year old when he decided he liked being sung to at bedtime. This did wonders for my self-esteem, what with me being a teenage opera major and all. The songs he likes, however, are far from the repertoire I studied in college.

Here’s the current lineup:

Port Side Pirates, a gem we found to explain what pirates are.

Downtown, yes, the Petula Clark tune. I don’t know all the words, I just fudge my away through a verse and chorus, twice. He also likes me to play it on the piano, and it’s one of my favorites to from a vocal perspective.

Our House, the Madness song from the 80s because yes I am that old. I started singing it on the way home one day and he liked it so much I showed him the video and put it into heavy rotation.

The Thomas And Friends theme song. I won’t inflict a link on you, although as kids’ songs go it is fairly tolerable and interesting to sing.

Last but far from least, Don’t You Worry About a Thing, which I randomly sang in the grocery store one day.

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