• Previous posts

  • Aging is for the weak, and everyone else
  • More short cuts
  • Smol Ketchups
  • What’s the opposite of green juice and deep breathing
  • Living through it all online
  • The Change
  • 18
  • Ok but ALSO:
  • Midlife POV
  • Influence and Dooce
  • Horse therapy
  • You can’t go home again
  • Obsolescence
  • Before and after
  • A cringe confession on friendship

Archives from 2002-2006

No one mentioned my CLEVER use of the word “Twilight” in yesterday’s post title. TWILIGHT. Because he bit me, see? And it was in the middle of the night? Get it? It works on so many levels! HA HA HA HA ehhh.

Anyway, whether it’s teething (every time I peer into his scream-hole there seem to be more and more teeth erupting from his gums, further and further back, possibly in double rows like a goddamned shark) or just plain 18-month Hellfire Missile stage, I am suddenly noticing that Dylan is biting everything lately. I’m the only one that’s experienced teeth-to-skin contact so far, but whenever he’s angry he runs off to bite sofa cushions, furniture, toys, his own hand, and random passing wads of dog fur. When I was changing his diaper yesterday and he was pitching his usual fit about the great injustice of having someone wipe smashed-flat poop remnants off his ass, he groped wildly behind him, snatched a book off the changing table, and furiously chewed the cover while staring at me with murderous eyes. His meaning could not have been more clear: I WOULD GNAW YOUR FACE-FLESH OFF IF I COULD, WOMAN.

Ah, biting. It’s always something, isn’t it? I remember when Riley went through a hitting stage and in throes of a tantrum would raise his little fist to us and we’d be looking at him like, are you kidding me right now? I know there are all sorts of techniques for dealing with small children who physically assault you, but my first reaction is always incredulous anger: you sure you want to start this? Because man, you be writing checks your tiny ass can’t cash.

The only thing that makes the parenthood pendulum survivable is that after it goes swinging through the Bad Place—after you’ve actually felt your your patience get up, briskly dust off its hands, mutter “fuck this”, and saunter away with a GONE FISHIN’ sign left in its wake—it always goes hurtling back in the other direction. The same kid who just spent five minutes screaming and drumming his angry little hooves into your belly while you had the audacity to pull a pair of jeans over his thigh-rolls is suddenly giggling and burying his face in your knees, clinging to you like a happy barnacle. And so it goes. All you can do is hang on during those times you’re dragged into the shit.

And if you’re really lucky, you’ll manage to snap a photo that provides you with endless, wicked cheer, that seems custom-made for lifting your spirits when you’re neck-deep and floundering.

Ohhh, head-bonk. Yeah, that’s gotta suck. Everyone okay? Yes? Cool, just let me get another picture or two, then.

Tomorrow we’re heading down to the cabin in Oregon for one last summer outing. Although Riley’s birthday isn’t until the 31st, we’re having a family celebration on Saturday, which should be fun. I also plan to try out my newly acquired swimming skills in the Umpqua River, and hopefully do so without remaining laser-focused on that one time I saw a dead seal in the water. A DEAD ROTTING SEAL FLOATING JUST UNDER THE SURFACE OH MY GOD.

Tell me, what are you guys up to this weekend?

At 4 in the morning Dylan started howling from his bedroom, the nagging sort of insistent cry that tells you there’s no hope in lying there waiting for him to fall back asleep. I poked JB (whose ability to snore peacefully through any and all distractions makes me feel like telling him that every single night for the last year I’ve been setting my alarm for 2 AM in order to lean across the bed and ask if he wants a BJ, and boy, too bad he never once took me up on it because here’s the bad news, it was only a year-long offer. 365 potential blow jobs, ignored. Bummer, dude) and asked him if he’d go in there, which he did. Silence descended, JB came back to bed, and I started to fall back asleep.

Then: blat, blat, blat. More complaints from Dylan, so I stumbled into my robe, went to his room, picked him up, and he LOST HIS FUCKING MIND.

He arched, he screamed, he pushed himself from me with both hands, he flung himself backwards, he squirmed and kicked me, he shrieked, he batted at my face, and finally, while I held on desperately and unleashed my entire soothing arsenal—the “Bear Went Over the Mountain” song, back pats, increased rocking chair cadence, and gentle up-and-down jiggles—he lunged forward and sunk his sharp teeth into my shoulder.

To my credit, I did not leap to my feet, shout “Motherfucker!”, and fling him out the window. I did, however, advise him in no uncertain terms that biting is not on my list of tolerable behaviors, and then I carried his furious little ass over to the crib and . . . well, let’s just say I didn’t place him on the mattress with my normal night-time care. Let’s just say it was less of a cautious Fabergé egg transfer, and more of an unceremonious dumping.

Back in bed, I stared blindly at the ceiling while Dylan did his level best to wake up our entire neighborhood. I told JB that I couldn’t go back in there, and I raged uselessly about the pain of being rejected (and BITTEN). The reason I’d woken JB up the first place is because Dylan had flipped out just the night before when I tried to comfort him, and the instant I’d handed him to JB, he’d relaxed, a nearly visible air of relief surrounding his small body.

Some of you may remember when I talked about Riley going through a very strong Daddy preference, which seemed to last forever. Dylan doesn’t seem to show favorites during the day, but this week I am definitely on his shit list when it comes to back-to-sleep soothings. And I know, it’s like, who cares, just have JB go in there at night, right? More sleep for me! But man, it doesn’t feel good. It feels downright shitty, even. When it comes to whatever comfort he needs when he wakes up—whether he’s scared, or uncomfortable, or just needs a little physical contact to get back to sleep—I want to be able to give that to him, you know?

While I was listening to Dylan crying and the reactionary anger was slowly seeping out of me, JB said he didn’t think he should go in. “I don’t want to . . . perpetuate anything,” he said, carefully. I waited a bit longer, then heaved a giant sigh and got out of bed. I went into Dylan’s room and reached in the crib and picked him up, and he burrowed into my chest. We sat in the rocking chair and he snuffled against me for a while, then fell asleep, curled in my arms.

← Previous Page — Next Page →

• My product review site:

  [Older recommendations]