Feb
9
Passing
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It’s true that some of the most accurate parenting advice is This too shall pass although it’s rarely appreciated while you’re in the midst of whatever it is that shall someday pass. I know I’ve had myself an involuntary eye-roll or two when the sentiment’s been offered in my direction, like thanks so much for the reminder I should be all zen about this shit instead of indulging in a good old-fashioned freakout, but since I am not motherfucking Yoda over here I guess I’ll just continue my useless hand-wringing, if you don’t mind. Would you tell someone in the midst of passing a kidney stone not to whine like a little bitch? Okay then!
Like a kidney stone, the various difficult stages small children go through tend to irritate the linings of your urinary tract. Er, wait: your heart. Whatever. The point is, it’s irritating when a child suddenly refuses to eat any food whatsoever except for, say, crackers, and MONTHS go by while he exists purely on sodium and white flour, and meanwhile you’re hearing about other kids who eat things like TOFU and LENTILS and HUMMUS, and clearly you made some sort of irrevocable nutrition mistake somewhere along the line and now your kid is going to succumb to scurvy, and there’s going to be a big article about you on the front page of the paper: SCURVY-RIDDEN TODDLER FED ONLY SALTINES; WOMAN TO BE CHARGED WITH BEING A BAD MOM. AND ALSO AN ASSHOLE.
That was Riley. I mean, not the scurvy thing, ha ha (I think), but seriously, he ate crackers for like a year. I don’t even know when the food madness receded, exactly, but it’s only been in the last few months that I’ve stopped worrying altogether about his diet. He’s not the most adventurous eater but neither is he limited to items that leave a salty crumble in their wake. The extreme pickiness that sucked up so much of the real estate in my brain, entire quadrants that could be better purposed for remembering where in hell my keys are, was a stage. Like the good people predicted, it passed.
Ditto the hitting stage, the greatly-preferring-his-father stage, the Blue’s Clues addiction stage, and of course, the refusing-to-poop-in-the-toilet stage. Each one caused me all sorts of anguish: what am I doing wrong? What could I be doing to make this better? And while there are entire books devoted to answering those questions and offering strategies and coping skills, sometimes the answer is simple: this too shall pass.
Lately I’ve been fretting about Dylan’s ongoing wee-hour wakenings and wondering just how bad I’m making things by continuing to get up with him. I know I shouldn’t be giving him a bottle, but I do; I shouldn’t be rocking him back to sleep, but I do. (JB tells me I should let him cry, and I say the person who actually wakes up when the baby cries is the person who gets to make the decision on what approach to take, while the person who lies there snoring like an elephant seal can suck it.)
I can feel the brain-quadrants rallying together in order to more thoroughly devote themselves to the subject of SLEEP, and here’s what I’m telling myself: this too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. And then I’m all, hey, Yoda? STFU and get me a Red Bull.
Feb
6
Cupcakes, pajamas, stairs
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Dylan’s birthday started off on an ominous note with a cough-triggered puking episode — thankfully I had my Barf Radar on high and whisked him into the kitchen and over the sink just in time, having learned from the night before that a baby who coughs in just the right sort of way then looks deeply unhappy and contemplative for a few moments before smacking his lips and starting to whine needs to be picked up and ferried away from all fabric-covered surfaces IMMEDIATELY, like at LIGHT SPEED, instead of standing there like a dumbass staring at him wondering what’s wrong only to figure it out at the last second and in carrying him mid-barf from the room end up with stomach contents (PUREED CARROTS OMG) sprayed not just in one repulsive-but-dealable puddle, but in a long horrendous streak from one end of the carpet to the other and even on the WALL and in the OUTLET COVERS, dear GOD, and by the way if any of you have any tips for getting the stubborn remnants of barf-stain out of a cream-colored carpet I sure would appreciate any advice on that — and he was kind of extra clingy during the day and I thought the festivities might get scrapped in favor of a jaunty trip to the pediatrician’s office, but he rallied by late afternoon and we had a little family party in his honor.
While Riley, JB and I were enjoying Dylan’s cupcakes as the birthday boy contentedly sucked on a bottle, I realized that he’s a little behind the curve in the types of foods he’ll eat. The child has one hell of a gag reflex (see also: coughing, Streak Of Horror, etc), always has, and we’ve learned the hard way that finger foods get sent right back up and onto the highchair tray, if you know what I mean. It doesn’t seem like a big deal, really, but I remember at least offering Riley a cupcake, while I didn’t even consider giving any to Gaggy McHorkerton.
Eh, whatever. It’s not like Riley ate his, either, since he was so freaking SUSPICIOUS of them, despite the fact that I baked them myself — mini carrot cakes with cream cheese frosting! — using heart-shaped cupcake holders for the love of god.
In comparison, I purchased Dylan’s from Amazon’s grocery service. Oh ho HO yes, store-bought, same-day-ordered, and chock full of unhealthy ingredients. It’s not like I haven’t learned a thing or two in the last few years.
Man, don’t both kids just look THRILLED on their big day? First birthdays, sheesh. Really, parents should just hire a babysitter and go out on their own to celebrate having survived twelve straight months of INGRATITUDE.
Among the small collection of gifts Dylan received, he got a couple pairs of fleecy snuggly pajamas, which we forced him to model right away:
These are the exact sort of pajamas that, when Riley sleeps in them, have a pancake-syrup smell to them in the mornings. Dylan’s mostly smell like milk-drool, but Riley’s definitely get this Mrs. Butterworth’s aroma, and when I mentioned the Syrup Phenomenon to JB he was all, what whaaat, bitch you crazy. When I mentioned it on Twitter, however, I heard from like ten people who were all DUDE MY KID’S PAJAMAS SMELL LIKE SYRUP TOO, so that just goes to show that Twitter is more awesomer than husbands, so there.
Lastly! I feel kind of awkward mentioning this since I know most of us are cutting back on spending, but just in case, I signed up for a horrible-sounding event in March where I’m going to try and hike up 69 flights of stairs, like on purpose, what the fuck, and all the fundraising proceeds benefit The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. (The LLS honor patient is Caleb Thorstein, whom you can read a bit about here.) If you’d like to sponsor me (click the “Support Linda” button under the photo), I would be totally honored.
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