A note of appreciation

First off, let me say that I feel quite embarrassed to have left that last post up.  It’s like only realizing after seeing it pixelated online that the picture you posted makes you look a little fat & a little drunk.  You feel self-conscious that it is up, but just as self-conscious about taking it down.  Won’t that seem vain, to the people who already saw it up?  Isn’t that the “real” you, even if you wish it weren’t?  That’s how the last post feels.  I hate that it is there, and I hate that it is true.  And yet….to take it down feels wrong somehow.  Life isn’t all tumbling parties & first words.

Fortunately, the funk I was in when I wrote the last post has gone and in it’s place is the new normal I am accustomed to:  exhausted, sinking under a long To Do list & madly in love with you-know-who.

We went to the library this morning.  One of the nice things about living in Pleasantville is that the libraries here have entire areas devoted to children, areas often the same as or larger than the adult sections.  Everyone out here is the parent of a kid, a babysitter of a kid or an actual kid.  And the library knows that “real” adults (the ones with lives not dominated by karate, soccer, birthday parties & camp) do not come to the library.  Accordingly, the library has child-size tables and chairs, stacks upon stacks of children’s books, puzzles, stuffed animals and even padded areas for the climbers and the floppers.

In addition to reading and playing, the library encourages Z to be very loud.  I think it’s a combination of the stillness in the air & the fact that Mommy overemphasizes her whisper-mouth.  Z still thinks when I whisper that it is the beginning of a game, to which the appropriate next move is to yell.  (I blame the “Opposites” book we read that marries “whisper” and “shout.”)  Fortunately, though, there was not one other sole in the library this morning, save the good-natured, bespectacled lady who sings The Library Song at storytime.  (Imagine singing this 30 times in a row, while clapping and swaying:  Look who came to the library today….the library today….the library today….Look who came to the library today…..YOURRRR NAMMEEEE DIDDDD!)

It will surprise no one who knows us to hear that in addition to yelling, the library encouraged Z to do something else:  poop.  It was his 10:45am poop, not to be confused with his 9:50am poop or his 11:30am poop.  He is still very, um, regular.  But what DID surprise me is this:  I could not find a changing table!  Not even a pull-down in the bathroom.  Only a sign in the children’s area that says, “Be courteous and respectful of the library and do not use the childen’s tables or reading area to change diapers.”  Ok, fair enough.  We moms sometimes have the tendency to forget normal social decorum and will nudify and wipe-ify our children just about anywhere.  But to not have any place to do so?  In a library overflowing with child-ness?  I asked the kindly librarian where to go, expecting her to direct me to a back room I did not know about, complete with changing table, rocking chair and soft music.  Instead she just shook her head and said, “Hmm.  Maybe the bathroom floor?”

I recognize that my son comes in contact with un-countable un-mentionables on an hourly basis.  He’s been known to eat Cheerios off the coffeeshop floor & use his public-playground-mud-hands as tissues.  I get it.  But the bathroom floor?  That’s just too gross to consider.  There weren’t even hand towels to use as a barrier with the floor.  She really expected me to just lay him down, unprotected, on the same floor where four-year-olds stand and attempt to pee at the bowl.  No thank you.

Ordinarily, my immediate response would be to whisk him to the car.  Lay him inside, hover over him from outside — poof, a changing table is born.  It’s not exactly sanitary, but I know that mess, I made most of that mess, and I can accept it.  But winter means frigid temps and brisk winds on a tiny bottom.  What to do?  That is how today became the day that I discovered that Z & I can both fit in the trunk of our little SUV, hatch shut.  It looked weird (probably the reason that man walked by us four times), but actually worked quite well – I was able to let the car run (for heat), and Z was so enamored by the idea that he and mommy were climbing inside the back car cocoon that he made no fuss.  And no one’s butt got frozen.

Of course, I didn’t realize until too late that one cannot open the trunk of our car from the inside.  Note to self if I ever choose to join the mafia!  So that involved a fair amount of contorting.  But to have an option, a winter changing room on the go, is huge.  Especially for someone carting around a someone else who is right now gearing up for his 6:20pm poo.  So as a thank you to you, SUV, for giving me the bounty of your backseat (folded down), I promise to always put the stinky, cheesy, gloppy diapers directly into the micro-bacterial-funk-buster pocket of my diaper bag, and never to leave them to soil and spoil your generous cloth interior.

The Harshest

I’m having a love-hate relationship with my son right now.  I can’t believe I’m typing that, it sounds so harsh and mean.  But it is true.  I love that kid so much, it’s beyond anything I could have possibly imagined.  I have nothing but the biggest smiles for him every morning (which is saying a lot since he is an EARLY riser!), hugs & kisses galore, and love exploring the world with him, seeing things through his eyes, watching him grow and learn.  He is fabulous.  Exceptional.  Wonderous.  And incredibly annoying.  Yeah, I said it.

This week he has been *really* annoying and I found myself struggling more with my patience, stamina and understanding than every before.  I need to reharness my zen or something.  He has just been whining and crying and yelling for me and needingneedingneedingnonstop.  Even when he is with me, it’s like somehow it’s not enough.  MAMAMAMAMAMMA!  Whine, whine, whine.  MAMAAAAAAAAA.  Cry.  Uhuhuhuhuh (this is the I NEED MORE sound).  UP UP UP (this is the constant HOLD ME sound.)  It’s so unbelievably grating, he is the only person in the universe that could annoy me in this way, in the pit of my body.  Every single cry, whine & whimper pangs my insides, like he was made biologically to push my inside-buttons.  I’m not saying I love the sound of a crying baby, but no other kids’ crying even phases me.  Wail away, little one.  It may hurt my eardrum, but it doesn’t pierce my soul.  But my son…..oh, it pierces.  It sends my adrenaline coursing, my blood pressure soaring and my patience evaporating.  It’s enough already!  Shut up!

Of course, I don’t say SHUT UP (ok, almost never) because he doesn’t get it.  He is still too young to even understand that the sounds he is making are annoying.  He needs something (moi) and wants something (that moi is needed to provide) and willnotdowithoutitMAMAMAMMAMAMAMA!  And I know in my heart to treasure even these annoyances, because his love for me is so complete and so unconditional and so precious.  He is sweet and cuddly and loving, and his affections….I have no words to describe what they do to me.  They make my heart burst with happiness and contentment.  So I take every moment in and treasure it, enjoy every clingy hung and, yes, even every desperate attempt to grab me and my attention and never let go.  But it is hard.  Hard to experience such extremes every minute of every day of every week of every month.  Hard to live that reality.  It makes me feel almost like a manic-depressive, with his cries sinking me lower and stressing me more than I ever could have imagined….and his kisses elating me beyond the clouds and filling me with more joy than ever seemed possible.

I guess when I stop to think about it, he doesn’t really annoy me.  He can’t annoy me.  But that sound, that grating, neverending sound – it annoys me.  I need to find the OFF button, or at least the OFF button inside.  To find a way to let it roll off a little more, find a way to make it cut me a little less deep.  What do other moms do to build up their patience reserves?  Am I alone in this reality of extremes?

King Lunch

At this age, it seems all kids are picky eaters.  The quirks may be different, but in some way they are all pains in the lunchbox.  As a parent, it is hard not to get frustrated.  You want to make sure your kid is growing healthy, getting the nutrients and calories he requires, and oh yeah you are trying to teach some ground rules about meal-time, too (think: food belongs on your mouth or on your tray, not splattered all over the felines and the floor.)

Typically, I will rack my brain during the day to come up with a dinner plan that is healthy, tasty and can be enjoyed by young and old alike.  I will race home from playgroup/park/activities/shopping in time to plop kiddo in front of the babysitterbox and then race around with pots and colanders and chopping boards in effect.  By the time the meal is on the table, I am spent but supremely proud of my efforts.  I will offer a small bite of food to Z, or place a morsel on his tray, and he will do the exact same thing every time.  Cry, whine, smash the morsel with his hand, rub his hand all over the tray in an attempt to spray it everywhere, and then beg for more milk and some crackers.  He wishes to have crackers for every single dinner, plain.

Now that he is old enough to understand the implications, usually his dinner ends quickly and often without eating a single bite.  Once he realizes there is no more milk or no crackers are coming his way, he insists on being “ALL DONE” (with a vigorous hand wave) and we let him go.  Sometimes we’ll offer a little food again just before bed, but in the past month I can count on one hand the number of times either food offering has been fruitful.  He does not eat dinner.

In addition to the stress and frustration of our dinner failures (they are not wars anymore because we shan’t be fighting about it – if he doesn’t want to eat, so be it), it is hard not to worry that he is going to wither away from not eating.  Mind you, I say this with full comprehension of how ridiculous it must seem for me to complain about my, um, *healthy* sized mini-man.  He’s not quite the porker he used to be, but he’s still off-the-charts in height and head and towards the top in weight.  Toothpick he ain’t.  And usually he is running around with his big belly sticking out from in between his strong, thick legs and meaty arms.  And yet.

A girlfriend of mine was bemoaning a similar struggle in her household and I admitted that my son goes most days eating his last bites of food at lunchtime or perhaps a tiny snack after his nap.  He can go all day without eating again, refuse dinner, and then sleep through the night.  Mind you, he *does* wake early and *does* beg for milk within seconds of waking up.  But that is because milk to him is like a dark chocolate molten lava brownie cake to me.  I’d beg for it all the time, too, if I knew I could keep getting it and I didn’t feel self-conscious about my big belly and meaty arms.

This friend seemed shocked that I would “let” my son skip dinner.  ”If he refuses to eat what you make, he just doesn’t eat?  How can you do that? Aren’t you worried about him getting enough calories?”  I hadn’t been….until that moment.  I had no idea, according to her sources, that toddlers needed 1200 or so calories per day.  That seemed like a LOT.  My son eats no dinner.  My son often bird picks at just a few Cheerios at breakfast.  Sure, he drinks milk, but how can he be getting what he needs?  And that’s when I paid closer attention to lunch.  Oh, how my son loves lunch.

Today’s lunch:

Half of an fruit&veg oatmeal bar (*technically this was a post gym-class snack, but it was within thirty minutes of lunch so I count it)

2 Sweet Potato Pancakes

1 Broccoli Pancake

1 Whole container of full-fat yogurt shake

1/2 Almond Butter & Honey sandwich

1 Cup Full-Fat milk

A quick estimation brings his lunch caloric total to about 750 calories, I kid you not.  Possibly even more.  AND he would have kept eating but he had, yet again, fallen asleep in the highchair while still munching (can anyone say FOOD COMA?)  I let him blind-grab for the last few bites of sandwich on his tray, but when he whispered “more” with his eyes still closed tight, I made the executive decision to put him to bed instead.

Oh & before you question whether or not today was a fluke, I paid attention to lunch yesterday, too.  You know those party-packs of hummus you get from the store, the ones that are supposed to feed like 300 people hors d’oeuvres?  He clammed through half of the entire container, spread on about 3900 Wasa crackers, plus ate a whole banana and drank another cup of milk.  No doubt another full’s day of food in one sitting