Too Big

I’m not entirely sure how this happened, but now anything undesirable is “too big”. Like, “Do you want peaches?” “No, peaches are too big.” Or “Do you want Daddy to put you to bed?” “No, Daddy is too big.”
All I can guess, is that when we play Hot Wheels, some of the Tonka trucks are too big for the tracks. So those trucks are “too big”. Somewhere along the line, we never explained that “big” was a relative size. It just meant that they won’t work. So they are “wrong” or “bad”. I don’t know.
Damn “too big” is hilarious. I don’t want to stretch it out for too long, and I’ve already started to try and explain things, and show him sizes and “big” and “little”.  He’ll get it eventually.  It’s just too hard not to laugh when he’s upset and saying he doesn’t want to go to bed because going night night is too big.
But yesterday I did end up desperately telling him that throwing his toys was “too big”. And he stopped throwing them.

S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y Night

Not so very long ago, the weekend meant sleeping in, then coffee, a workout, and a shag.
Then some shopping, getting dressed up and going out. To a bar, dinner, a movie–whatever.
Sunday afternoons I would watch decorating shows, email friends, pick up the house, maybe even a second movie.
Real pedicures. Long baths. Naps. Daytime TV.
Now, the weekend means getting up early and making pancakes. Then going to the playground. Making hot dogs for lunch. Frantically trying to clean the house during naptime. Doing mountains of laundry. Playing Hot Wheels for hours.
Then, after the hours of trying to get the Bub to sleep, finally, a glass of wine and a few minutes of TV. That half hour feels like a whole party to me now.

Choices

The bub is now really and truly two. It’s only been in the past few weeks that he’s been trying out tantrums. I’ll tell you, they are working. Many times I am just too tired to do anything but help him with whatever is freaking him out.
Want milk not juice? Sure. Hot Wheels under the couch? I’ll get them. Whatever. But, I was getting concerned enough to pull out the parenting books and see what they have to offer. And what do they suggest? When your kid is having a tantrum, distract him with choices. Then, he’ll feel that he has control over his little world and will stop freaking out.
Totally wrong. Because what if they don’t want ANY choice? What is nothing offered is the right thing? What if it takes 20 minutes of crying to decide between a spider t-shirt or a spider MAN t-shirt? What then? What if you give up and offer the entire drawer of t-shirts and they ALL are WRONG! Then, you just have to grab a shirt and yank it over his teary and beet red little face. And then you have to hear, “NOOOOOO SPIDER T-SHIRT!!!” So then you have to switch shirts. And then you are an hour late. No more and then.
I’m going to give up on the choices stuff. I’m just going to present things as a fait accompli and see what happens. And if what is presented is wrong, then I’m not offering a choice. If he comes up with a “right” thing that is doable then we’ll do that. But if all he does is freak out, then we freak out. And if it works, I’m writing my own parenting book.

Bitches

This weekend the Bub and I got snubbed at the playground. I was chasing a ball while playing “soccer-basketball-slide down the slide” and I ran past some other mommies. I said “Hi” but I just got the snotty nod.
Now these mommies were young, and skinny, and dressed in maxi sundresses with beaded wedge sandals. They had on makeup. I, however, had on paint stained jeans and a spongebob squarepants t-shirt. And I am neither young nor skinny nor made-up.
When I was pregnant, I really, truly thought I would be one of those mommies. And that I would have a little girl in pink sandals with painted toe nails. When I found out I was having a boy, well, that was OK. He would be cool, in Ramones onesies and teeny Chucks. And we would be clean–no Kool Aid mustaches on my kid!
But the reality is, is that I am a mom of a boy. A boy who could care less about the Ramones (other than the obvious pleasure of dancing to Sheena is a Punk Rocker) and would much rather wear his stained and worn Thomas the Tank shirt. And forget the teeny Chucks. They are expensive, and fall apart, and have LACES not velcro so hell no.
And I am a mommy who is ass-deep in the sand box. I’m just as stained as my kid. We probably both have juice mustaches, because I obviously am eating the juice and cookies at snacktime!
I’m still jealous of the thin, pretty mommies, but I know I’m having more fun! Plus, I saw their husbands, and let me tell you, mine is much, much cuter than their Gone to Seed McHigh School Hero and Baldy McAccountant! But they could have at least said “hi” back.

May you never see your kid bleed from the eyes

The Bub had eye surgery to open up his tear ducts. They had to put little tubes in, because his ducts were so blocked. This is outpatient surgery–and we were told several times that he would be groggy, and then fine the next day. Lies!
The anesthetic, instead of making him groggy, made him hyper and cranky. He didn’t sleep at all that night. Not for a minute.
Then, they said that he might have “pink tears” if he cried. Wrong again, he had blood, regular blood, from his eyes and nose. And pink “panda bear” rings around each eye. And a fever.
This lasted a few days. Really bad days. Really long days.
And, after three weeks of sleeping through the night. Three weeks where we cautiously were optimistic that perhaps, the night waking was over. That he just needed a pillow. That once he started sleeping through he would get used to it and it would become the norm, he’s not sleeping well.
I can’t describe the panic this is causing me. I mean, I still wasn’t sleeping that great–after two years of waking up every few hours, but I was doing a lot better. I was looking great. Losing a few pounds. Doing my hair. Dressing up. But now I’m back to going to bed every night with a sleeping snake, just waiting for it to wake up, my heart racing the second I lie down, wondering when he’s going to start crying and if he’s going to need someone to go and rock him, or if he’s going to go back to sleep. We’re back to the endless middle of the night conferences about how the crying sounds, if he’s standing up, how long to wait before going in, if we should even go in, is he cold, is he hot, and what “technique” from what book are we going to use this time.
It’s taking years off my life.

The Secret Life of Mommies

There has been alot of press lately–NPR, Oprah etc. about the secrets mommies keep. About how moms pretend their lives are perfect even though they do dumb things and make *gasp* mistakes.
The only thing secret to me about this is that people still act this way. WTF? Only one douchey mom from breastfeeding class EVER has acted this way. The rest of us? Even if we do brag about our kids and lives a bit–we always own up to the mistakes.

I call bullshit on this whole “true mommy confessions thing. Haven’t these people ever actually talked to a real parent? Or read a mommy/daddy blog? We’re all about telling stories about how we fuck up. Hey, my kid never sleeps and he’s pooped in the bathtub twice! He fell down the stairs! I admitted him to the hospital when he was sick so I could get one night of sleep at home alone! My once beautifully decorated living room now looks like Toys R Us! I have nothing to hide because there’s no reason to hide anything. And every parent I talk to–from close friends to strangers at Target, are the same way. In fact, we all try to *top* eachother’s parenting fails. He who gets the most laughs and shocked gasps, wins.
We’re all trying to be great parents. But the operative word is “trying”. We love our kids passionately. In fact, the depth of my love for my son may be my *only* secret. Hint–it’s more than even I can comprehend. But kids are strange, and unpredictable, and they poop everywhere. There’s no secret about that.
So, I say to the tools who are on NPR “confessing” to fronting a perfect life–give up. Your way went out in the fifties.

800 sleepless nights, countless books and articles on sleep, and this, THIS is what works??!!!???

A pillow. A fucking pillow for his melon.
Now, I’m in no way saying this will work for other kids. And I am not, never, ever saying to use a pillow before they are a year old, at least. And, if you are at all nervous or worried about using one–that your kid will smother, or get stuck between the pillow and the bed rail or whatever, do not try–you won’t sleep.
But, if you haven’t slept in over 2 years, and are wondering what the hell else to try, and you notice your kid snuggling a couch cushion, or playing with the pillows on your bed, try it. It could just save your life.

Conversations with my husband

Me: Did I tell you that the new Wiggles DVD features Kylie Minogue and John Waters?

Him: Kyle McLaughlan and John Mayer??

Me: No, KY LIE MIN OGUE and JOHN WAT ERS!!

Both: That’s weird either way.
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Him: I can see your leg hair from across the room!

Me: I can see you haven’t worked out since February from across the room!
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Me: Why did you read all these porn star twitter feeds?

Him: What? I don’t even have twitter?

Me: See? These? In your search history!

Him: Oh, they were following Obama during the election. I was looking at Obama and just clicked a few random followers to see what they were saying.

Me: Zami69?????
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This was all just yesterday evening.

Mina! Head!

My son was dragged across the playroom at daycare. By his hair! He recovered after some crying, and Miranda, the hair puller, was put in time out, and all was well. All the little girls at daycare treat him like he’s a doll. He’s little, and so good natured that he lets them dress him up, and feed him the fake baby bottles, and try to put him in the doll stroller. At least, he used to. Now he wants to be a big boy! I’m sure he just wouldn’t cooperate so she drug him around like a dolly. Anyway, I asked him what happened and he looked at me, cluctched both hands around his melon and cried, “Mina! Head!”

Let them be little

Hello, it’s me, the Bub himself!  I’m here to set the record straight on a few things that other mommies are harshing on me about!

First of all, I still sleep in a crib.  I’m a crazy sleeper–when I sleep, and I need to be caged.  I like my crib so much, I don’t even try to climb out.  I like it so much, I ask for it by name when I’m tired.  I like being up high, so that when I stand up I can see mommy eye to eye.  There’s a rumor that there’s a toddler bed up in the attic, but I’m just not ready yet.

I also sit in a high chair.  I’m short, OK?  I can’t reach the table even with a booster seat.  I could sit in a booster seat with a tray–but that *is* a high chair.  I could sit at a little table by myself, but how fun is that?  Not very.  I want to sit up next to Papa and make faces at him and show him my seafood and have burping contests–from my high chair.  And utensils?  I tried that.  I used them for months.  They just slow me down.  I’m back to using my hands and loving it.

And, I am not potty trained.  I’m just starting to talk, and I can’t say all my letters yet.  I also find it tres amusant to answer every question with “no”.  Even “Do you want a cookie”.  Yes, I do want a cookie, but if I hear your voice go up in query I will say “no”.  Potty training now would just be frustrating for mommy and for me.  “Do you have to go potty?”  “No.”  Change wet pants.  Repeat.  Why not make it easier and wait until we all can communicate better?  My doctor said, “you can potty train at 2 and be trained by 3 or you can potty train at 3 and be trained by 3.”  Who needs a year of wet pants?

And the talking thing, I’m getting there.  I talk all the time.  I never stop.  But I can’t say all my consonants so no one understands me.  I also am sort of fuzzy on what words go with what things.  I need to be reminded all the time.  All cars are blue cars until I am reminded that the red ones are red.  Sometimes papa is mama.  Or, I forget and just call everyone mapa.  And I enjoy putting “my” in front of everything.  Even things that aren’t mine.  I’m sure I’ll get it all straightened out later this year.

I mean, I’ve only been alive for two years.  During that time I’ve grown hair, learned to walk and run and jump and climb, learned tons of words, been to the hospital twice, started to sleep more than 2 hours in a row, I eat real food–I mean, I do tons of things!  I’m a big boy!  As for all this other stuff, I’ll get there.  I promise.