Mar
20
JB’s parents have this story about going out to eat at a Sizzler when JB was little, maybe around Dylan’s age or so. Actually, it’s not so much a story, because they’ve never shared the details of what exactly happened during this outing, only that it was so traumatic they didn’t go back to that Sizzler for, like, twenty years.
We haven’t experienced anything quite so bad with either kid, but I have a very bad memory of taking Riley to a Blockbuster when he was in that mobile-yet-completely-unreasonable baby/toddler stage. He wanted to get down and walk and the instant his feet hit the ground I had to chase him all over the store, through the giant line of exasperated customers, and eventually behind the counter where the employees were. Figuring it would be better for us to wait in the car, I picked him up, only to have him do that boneless/backflopping thing while a horrible, eardrum-rupturing sound spiraled from his mouth. I remember with grim, vivid detail every moment of that humiliating march across the store to the door, as my child thrashed in my arms like a rabid badger and shrieked so loud every single person turned to stare.
JB and I were driving by this same Blockbuster a couple weeks ago and I started to suggest that we stop and pick up a new release, then I considered the logistics. Riley would be no problem, but Dylan . . . well, we didn’t have the stroller and Dylan would want to walk and he’d probably do the exact same thing Riley did a few years ago: run all over the store, tear DVD boxes off shelves, and attempt to root through the employee garbage. Then there would be the red-faced exit, ferrying a tantruming child back out the car, and JB would be left to his own devices with regards to movie-choosing and we’d end up watching some shit like Bangkok Dangerous.
The Blockbuster Thing is one of the reasons I feel so conflicted about Dylan: how at the very same time I am nearly crazed by how fast he’s growing and wish I could preserve his chubby no-knuckled baby hands and no-kneecapped baby legs in amber before they suddenly become filled with bones like some sort of big kid, I am also eager to move past this stage of Strong Will + Mobility – Ability to Reason = TODDLER DEATHSTAR.
To be clear, it’s not specifically about Blockbuster, but rather the Blockbuster-at-large. I mean, I’m looking forward to the day we plan a family vacation to Hawaii, which involves air travel, something I would only do now if you paid me eleventy jillion dollars AND promised a bevy of Thorazine darts would be available to me during the flight.
In the meantime, I’ll invest our tropical vacation money in Netflix and try and savor Dylan’s ridiculous Pillsbury legs, because like everything else, they won’t last forever.
Mar
19
Somebody left me a comment recently about how their kid was a tough nut to crack when it came to sleeping, and I’ve been rolling that particular turn of phrase over and over in my mind over the last few days. Just when I think I’ve got it figured out and I’m ready to taste the sweet sweet nutflesh of a full night’s rest, behold! Another indehiscent layer resisting my various husk-gnawings.
When I first stopped giving Dylan a bottle at night, he was furious with me. He’d wake up and start blatting, I’d go in there and pick him up, and the instant he realized a bottle wasn’t making its way to his cry-hole he’d fix me with a penetrating stare and bring his little squirrel-paws together in the “more” sign. Bap bap bap went his hands while he bored intense holes in my eyesockets, and when I shook my head firmly and said no, he would dramatically arch his back and attempt to fling himself from my arms headfirst onto the floor, FOR WHAT WAS THE USE OF LIVING.
I took this as a good sign, really: he got it. We were, like, communicating. He at least knew I wasn’t sitting there slackjawed and clueless as to his state of despair, I knew what he wanted and I was saying no.
Things picked up after that, after a few angry wailing nights he was waking up with a different set of expectations — that one of us would soothe him, but the midnight milk train run had ended. We gradually adjusted from picking him up and rocking him to simply reaching in the crib and patting his back. That seemed to put him back to sleep, and I figured we were inches from an interruption-free night.
Then he started waking up as soon as I’d walk away from the crib after the back-patting routine. I pulled up a stool and reached through the bars of the crib, in order to deal with the discomfort of leaning over the top of the bars. Then I realized he was okay as long as I was nearby, I didn’t necessarily have to be touching him after a while. I just couldn’t leave, because no matter how comalike he appeared, his eyes would fly open the instant I straightened up and started tiptoeing from the room.
The last few nights I’ve found myself in Dylan’s room at 1 AM, trying to sleep on a stool while leaning my forehead against the crib bars. Right. Might as well get the BOTTLE back out, right? At least I could be in the goddamned rocking chair then.
So last night when he woke up, I picked him up, held him for a bit, then gently/firmly told him, “It’s time for night-night, Dylan.” I put him back down with no lingering, patted his butt, told him I loved him, and left the room. Then I huddled in bed not breathing, waiting for the inevitable shrieks. Which didn’t come. Sure, he woke up for good at the ungodly hour of 7 AM, but still.
I very much doubt I have cracked this nut yet, but I sure hope we’re on the right track. Because, seriously. I am not nearly smart enough for this shit. As much as I love this kid with all my heart, I can’t help finding myself wanting to scream into the wee-hour darkness: IT IS JUST SLEEPING OH MY GOD IT SHOULD NOT BE THIS HARD. When clearly, it IS.
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