Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts

Friday, May 21, 2010

Private Time and the Single Preschooler

Last week Violet made her first expression of body shame. After days of dismal chill, we were enjoying a really warm day and I encouraged her to disrobe in the living room.  She was sweaty and uncomfortable, but she demurred, "You need to close the blinds first Mama or people will see me."  

I was a little sad to see her cross over, but she is almost 5 and I'm glad she figured it out on her own.  I prefer for the seed of shame to be a weed, rather than something I deliberately planted.  After all, my first priority as a parent is to keep my daughter off the pole and accomplishing that starts with keeping her clothed. 


At some point in our parenting journey, the husband and I introduced the phrase Private Time. I'm pretty sure we were talking about pooping, but Private Time has many guises and over the past week or so, Violet has quietly made the association between nudity and Private Time. Like most milestones in her life, she waited to unveil her findings until she was sure she knew what she was doing. I never get to see the wheels turning. She keeps things to herself until she absolutely cannot stand it any longer. It makes for great theater. That much is certain.


This afternoon, the curtain went up on the Private Time Show.  The stage was set with a blanket on the floor and an audience of stuffed animals and dolls. I was invited to come upstairs and see what she had been working on and that's when she unleashed the following dialogue on my unprepared ears.


"This is where you have private time, like sex,"  she said. Pointing to the innocent receiving blanket laid out on the carpet.

"See here, I have the music and you just press his tummy and you have music for your private time." I guarantee the musical Baby Einstein Dragon was not created for this purpose.

"Knuffle Bunny can't wait for private time.  Private time is Knuffle Bunny's favorite thing in the whole world.  He loves to be naked!"

"You need to have naked stuffed animals around your blanket when you are enjoying private time, NOT humans."

 "Stuffed animals are already naked", Violet giggled. "Bear has a ribbon, but he can keep that on for private time."

"Mama, what else can you do when you are having Private time?"

"You know. Private time is just like sex." After this, I ask her what she knows about sex.

"Sex means you are naked."  I assure Violet that it's a bit more complicated than that.

"Well, you can jump in the water naked...in the house, when it's not summer. And...you can lay down, without a ponytail, on a blanket on the ground. Naked. NAKED! You can't have private time in the rain. You can only have private time in the house, because the rain can't touch your skin. Well, it can touch your arms, but no where else."

At this point I am just nodding along, waiting for the next epiphany.

"You should ask Mommy and Daddy before you take naked pictures." I'm pretty sure she got that notion from a story about racy cell phone pics on HLN this morning.

"What do you do with the empty spots when you are having private time?" She is referring to the areas surrounding her blanket that are not occupied by stuffed animals, but the adult brain wanders to darker places.

"I should make a jewel collar for my naked time. You have to ask to touch it. You wanna touch it, Mama? It's the most naked collar in the whole world!"

"I need lotion for my private time."  I give her permission to use the lotion on the bathroom sink and when she returns she wraps things up.

"Okay. I think I should get naked now."

I'll be in the kitchen, drinking, if you need me.


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Friday, May 7, 2010

Boys and Girls


Violet has a lot of girlfriends.  It is no coincidence that I am also friends with the mothers of these girls. Which came first, the kid-ship or the Mama-ship?  I just invented two words.  There lies the problem.

Violet has complained long and loud about not having anyone to play with.  Oh sure, we have playdates, but that isn't what she means and it has taken me a long time to figure out why.  Those playdates, really are like date dates.  They are sometimes forced.  They are sometimes too long.  More importantly, they are always chaperoned.

Playdates with Vi's girlfriends double as Mommy dates. We don't mean to hover, but with eager younger siblings and needy babies and other mitigating circumstances, the playdates end up being too....well, supervised.  Kids need to run free and misbehave in benign ways.  They need the space to learn how to get away with stuff, like dumping clods of dirt on each others head.  They also need to learn how to make it known that they don't like the dirt shower, with their own voice.

**********************************************************************************

The boys moved in next door almost 2 years ago.  We've always been friendly. Their Mom is pretty cool, but we each have shit to do and time passes and you just never get around to bringing over that welcome-to-the-neighborhood coffee cake.  No matter.  Small children can smell each other. They sense a willing playmate from a mile away and no fence will keep them apart.

Our neighborhood is "colorful" and I have always been a bit "paranoid", so we have a high chain-link fence around our whole yard and each of the gates has a padlock.  This keeps the marauding thieves from stealing my recyclables and broken lawn mower, but is also keeps other children out of my yard. Until the boys came along, I was just fine with keeping the local spawn out of my yard (remember Hannah?). 

The boys would not be kept out of the yard.  I spied them scaling the fence and decided to unlock the gates and let them in.  They are a bit older than Violet, but they are sweet and funny and appropriately gentle with their preschool playmate; without treating her like something fragile. 

And so, the tables have turned.  Violet and "her boys" have forced us Mommies to get to know each other better.  Last night, I stood in my steeply angled front yard and leaned on the decorative fence chatting with my new friend, while our children did things we would probably tell them not to do if we were really paying attention.

Long after the kids should have been embarking on their nightly rituals, we said goodbye and went in the house.  Violet paused in the living room for a moment, a layer of dirt visible on her scalp and said, "I miss the boys." 

I think it's going to be a nice summer.
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Monday, October 12, 2009

Lunch is a Battlefield

Lately, I've been lacking in kitchen inspiration.  I used to watch hours of the Food Network and I looked forward to experimenting with new recipes and flavors, but now not so much.  Food is totally unappealing to me as an activity. Sure, I want to eat it, but I'm really tired of having to prepare it. I'm tired of trying to figure out how to cook within a reasonable budget while keeping three divergent  appetites happy. You see, although creativity is usually aided by loose guidelines, my list of dietary restrictions is so long that I feel trapped inside a box full of boneless chicken and steamed peas.

My husband is not supposed to eat red meat, dairy or other high fat foods. Aaron also needs to carefully monitor his balance of soluble and insoluble fiber. He has IBS. My daughter would gratefully eat fresh fruit and steamed veggies all day long with a side of buttered bread and a slice of cheese, but she's not so keen on anything that once had a face.  In fact, she's anti-protein in general.  No beans please.

Another problem is that my husband needs to eat plain starchy foods to help with his digestion. The child sees the rice or white bread and says, screw all of this other food, I want the carbs. Oh, and Aaron has borderline eating disorder type food issues to begin with, so some days it takes every ounce of my creativity to prevent him from gorging himself on cheeseburgers or pizza.  I don't expect Violet to have a handle on good food choices, but it would make my life a hell of a lot easier if her father did. Our biggest fights are over food, because no amount of suffering is too great to come between my Aaron and a quarter-pounder with cheese.  We only have one bathroom gentle readers, so when my husband has an IBS attack, the whole house pays for it.

Violet also suffers from garden variety childhood food anxieties, like food mixing and touching and not looking like she remembers it looking. Today I made soup. Soup makes for a stressful lunch because all the food is mixed together.  Even when I make an effort to ladle chunks of familiar veggies onto her plate Violet dissolves into terrified tears. This afternoon it was celery that had her in a tizzy. The celery was touching the carrots and the potatoes on her plate and she not only didn't want to eat them, but she was scared that she might eat them by accident unless she picked up each piece of vegetable with her fingers.

 Last week, I snapped. I opened a can of Spaghettios because I was just too tired to think about making something else. All kids love Spaghettios, right?  They are relatively nutritious and probably not habit forming. What harm is there in one can?

Violet refused them. She wouldn't even taste them. I made her sit in her chair for two hours; cold lumpy Os in front of her, because I was determined not to lose face.  When she fell asleep at the table I quietly emptied her bowl into the trash and then woke her up to congratulate her for eating her lunch like a good girl.  Her little face was so relieved and only slightly bewildered.  I'm sure she thought the naughty kitten had come to her rescue, but she wasn't about to let on.  I was embarrassed that I had punished her for what amounted to sound dietary judgment.  It was a banner day.

I'm tired folks. So, very tired.  Ideas?

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Saturday, July 4, 2009

Stupid. On A Number of Levels.

Last night we decided that we really, really needed to see Public Enemies.  Johnny Depp. Christian Bale.  Period costumes.
Sign me up. 

Clearly, I am not a member of the MPAA, but I did view a trailer for the movie and concluded that it was not appropriate for Violet.  The Tale of Desperaux gave her nightmares so I'm guessing machine gun fire and lots of blood would send her to therapy.

Call me a square, but in general I feel that 4 year olds should not be allowed to view R rated movies.  I mean, except for Raging Bull.  All children should see that before heading off to kindergarten.  It's just good sense.

So, anyway... Violet was safely stowed at her Grandmother's and we settled in for our 10 o'clock showing of Public Enemies.  10 minutes before the lights dimmed, a group of comically fashionable young people came into the theater looking for their seats.  The girls were all coiffed with teeny barretted pompadours on top of their heads.  Big purses, tiny jeans, high heels, etc.  It was like an issue of Teen Vogue threw up all over them.  I snickered a bit and then I noticed that they were escorting a girl child of about 3. She was tarted up just like the big girls, complete with dozens of necklaces around her neck, skinny jeans and a tunic style tank top. It was hard to say if she was a child or sibling in this group.  I would like to think that someone got grounded after it was revealed that she took her baby sister to an R rated movie, but I doubt that's the case.

Thankfully, someone wised up about 20 minutes into the film and removed the child from the theater.  She didn't seem to be upset by what she saw, but I'm sure she had some interesting nightmares that night, that is, if anyone bothered to put her to bed at all.



*By the way, we enjoyed the movie, but it was a tad long and not nearly as sexy as I had hoped.
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Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Have you Seen My Muse?

I won't say that I have writer's block, because that would indicate that I am somehow filled with angst over my inability to put words on a page. 

No.  I am totally uninterested. There is no agony.  I am not sitting in my chair attempting to open a vein.  I have been doing other things.  I have been trying not to think about the fact that I still cannot hear properly. I've been sewing and making poopcakes and on Friday we took Violet to the Cincinnati Children's Museum.

The last time we took Violet to the museum, she was about 20 months old and, unbeknowst to us, on the verge of a case of diarrhea worthy of a hospital stay. It was not a good time.

 
March 2007
 
March 2009
This time there was no digestive distress on the horizon and once the field trip apes kids left the building, Violet had a really good time.  The adorable outfit you see here, did not last long. It met with a very soggy fate in the water play area, despite our use of the provided splash jackets. They may as well call them, your-parents-won't-know-how-wet-you-are-until-it's-too-late jackets. 

Thankfully, they had hand dryers.  I am sure that impromptu garment drying is one of the skills that the museum planners intended to teach the kids.

Because I am that kind of mommy, the extra dress I packed for Violet happened to be one she does not care for.  She has staunchly refused to wear it ever since it arrived in it's little plastic UPS envelope. Take that kid! It's naked, or ugly, stripey dress.  
Aaron performed a puppet show for the apathetic teenage parents whose very small child ran around unsupervised while they perfected looking bored.

I had a tiny heart attack as we passed through this room.  
Oh God! It feels like one's on me...is it on me?

This play space was designed for kids 8 and older, so Mommy and Daddy had to take turns chaperoning Violet through the tree innards. Notice, that we each delighted in photographing the others ass. And no, I do not have a stain on my butt. It's a patch, because I am way too classy to walk around with a swatch of my panties on display.

 The pictures don't do justice to how high Violet got in the netting. We were tired, so we made it clear that rescue was not an option and when she went in anyway I started scouting for responsible looking 8 year olds who might be able to go in after her. It took a LONG time for her to come back down, but she made on her own. 

I came down this slide approximately 1700 times and Aaron photographed them all.  However, there are none of Violet exiting the slide because she didn't make old lady noises warning the photographer of her approach.
*For the record, I'd like to state that one of the reasons I had a child was so that I could play like this without being stared at. We did this once when we were first married and people gave us the stink eye, as if we were just waiting for the right moment to make off with their kids. Of course, I did stare hungrily at the babies when I was trying to conceive, but I never seriously considered kidnapping. Okay, maybe once, but that kid was REAL pretty. 
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Monday, January 19, 2009

19/365

When sorting through the mismatched pile of magnetic poetry you find lurking on top of the refrigerator, you will suddenly remember that your husband gifted you with the Erotic collection. This will necessitate combing through each and every magnet before passing on the irresistibly tiny words to your 3 year old child.  After awhile all the words will begin to look / sound suspiciously lurid. 

 

Does MONKEY really mean PENIS?

Why are there so many TICKLE pieces?


Does ROCKET really mean PENIS?

APPARATUS!!?? 


Does FRIEND really mean PENIS?




I eliminated all of the words that I might find myself unable to define without sweating. So, along with throb  and orgasm, I also tossed out God and worship. 


*I know you can see the word breast there in the cast off pile. I am not afraid of the word breast, but I could not conceive of any story or poem that Violet might legitimately create that would include the word breast.


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Sunday, November 23, 2008

Heathen Lab O' Science

In the 4+ years since I conceived the beautiful and talented Miss Violet, I have conducted a number of informal scientific experiments and studies. They are too numerous to name in total, but I've compiled the data on some of my most interesting findings.

  1. The probability of crippling morning sickness striking immediately after buying more groceries than you have ever purchased before is 100%. The probability that a pregnant lady will vomit every time she opens her refrigerator/ rotten food containment unit, also 100%.
  2. Do real expectant mothers fit into the cute hip-hugger style maternity jeans that they sell at Old Navy, Motherhood, etc? The answer is no, not even a little bit. In fact, the only people buying these pants must be sorority girls who want to secretly allow room for their burgeoning beer guts.
  3. How long can a new Mommy go without pooping before she must schlep her entire squalling, covered in breast milk family back to the hospital? 7 days. At 7 days postpartum, 9 months of backed up excrement will cause Mommy to believe she is tragically on the verge of dying from a botched c-section. The nurses try not to giggle as they hand the uber-constipated mother a bottle of liquid industrial laxative.
  4. How many espresso brownies does it take to make nursing mother and child so crazed and spastic that Daddy suspects they've been poisoned by rogue neighborhood meth cooks? I don't really know the answer to that one. I was unable to count after the fourth or fifth brownie.
  5. Will a child remember music they were exposed to in the womb? Yes. Shamefully, my daughter stands at attention whenever she hears the theme from Friends.
  6. How much exposure to Disney media does it take to brainwash a small child? A single viewing of Cinderella will cause irreversible damage to the Princess Resistance Cortex.
  7. How many pairs of dry panties must accompany a potty training child on any outing longer than 45 minutes? The equation is simple: Add up the number of panties that can reasonably be carried in a purse and add one more.
What pseudo-scientific discoveries have you made as a parent? Stay tuned for my next long-term study. The distracting, sedative effects of Ambien commercials on small children...
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Saturday, November 22, 2008

Random Objet d'art

Let me explain.

The grocery store is full of random products that are seemingly endorsed by Dora the Explorer. Although, I no longer along Dora to be shown in MY home, Violet watches her EVERY time she goes to Grandma's house. Therefore, Violet can spot Dora on a single serving size can of niblet corn at 50 paces. I pride myself on never giving in to the terrorist demands of my small child at the grocery store, but I do occasionally like to mix things up and grant a well spoken request. "Please, Mama! Dora!" So, I bought the Dora glue, not just because she said please (with one E), but because glue is a practical purchase in a crafty household and it was cheap. Now, how did the glue end up stranded on my bathroom shelf? When I bring home toiletries from the grocery store, I leave them all in one bag and take them upstairs the next time I go. The glue got mixed up in that bag and when I unpacked the toothpaste and shampoo, the glue tumbled out into the waiting arms of my over eager tot. Placing the glue on my shelf was the only way to prevent Violet from painting herself with Fiesta Glue. It was a good decision. Dora has been waiting patiently ever since.

Don't worry Dora. Any day now necessity will rescue you from your dusty exile.
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Monday, November 10, 2008

Krazy Kelly's Childcare

My friend Monica has two lovely children that attend a YMCA Daycare. Twice a year, the daycare has an inservice day for employees and the kids need a place to go. Seeing as the bulk of my daughter's wardrobe comes second hand from Monica's kids, I graciously agree to babysit. It's good for me and for Violet to experience the disorder and periodic misery of a house full of kids. I see it as a booster shot for our Heathen Family one child policy. Just as I am beginning to get gooey while passing newborn sleepers in the supermarket, Kyra and Zander come to spend the day and cure me of my insanity. The day is made all the harder by that fact that I love these kids like I love my own and the day would go much smoother if I had the capacity for cold detachment. Really, worrying about their safety in my 110 year old house, with the wicked steps and the dirty kitchen floor is exhausting. Zander is 20 months old and teething and so everything that Violet plays with is potentially deadly, not to mention the dog food and the cat food and the petrified hunk of Play-Doh that I've already pulled out of his mouth today. Violet does not normally nap, so she had to be forceably removed from the playroom, so that Kyra and Zander could get some rest. Those kids are up at dawn and don't get home until after dark, so they NEED a nap. Violet spent nap time watching a movie in my bed after she screamed for a little bit about being separated from her sleepy soul mate.  Now, everyone is stuffed full of applesauce and peanut butter and the afternoon has wound down to a comfortable din. We are all waiting for Mommy...

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Saturday, November 1, 2008

The Exquisite Minutia of Stuffed Animal Management

In the wee, small, dark hours of this morning I awoke to the sound of Violet complaining, loudly, in her room. She wasn't crying, just bitching. When I got to her bed, she was sitting up and staring intently at the pink, plaid pattern on her flannel sheets. Vi pointed at the design as if to say, "Why plaid Mommy?"

Me: What is it?
Violet: whining
Me: I don't speak whine.
Violet: exaggerated whining
Me: Use your words.
Violet: wounded animal sounds
I gave up trying to plumb the depths of her mind for evidence of plaid fears and took her to use the potty. The change in scenery usually shakes her from her weird dreams, so she can get back to sleep. Of course, removing her from bed means that I will have to endure the torturous rearrangement of the babies. Violet must have Knuffle Bunny (you know Mo Willems, right?), Baby Rojo and Honey Bear all in her arms. All of their faces must be visually accessible and even with Violet's head. No one is permitted to do this for her. Violet must arrange the menagerie herself and then she directs the placement of the blankets over herself and the trio of lovies. There is a bizarre precision involved here that only my OCD husband can appreciate or understand. When I am tired and suffering from insomnia (as I have been lately), the fuse on my Mommy Bomb is very short. Violet's malcontent act is very hard for me to handle without resorting to clenching my jaw and saying the mean things that my cave woman brain pushes to the surface in the eerie glow of an Ikea nightlight ( a light that simultaneously frightens and comforts my persnickity child).  I managed to hold it together this morning, largely by imagining the blog post I could write. Words, are my salvation...
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Monday, September 22, 2008

Does this Sweater Go With My Dora Panties?

When my sister's kids were visiting this summer, I discovered just how easy going I am. My 13 year old niece had a suitcase full of perfectly coordinated outfits. They were all purchased from the same pre-teen fashion store and looked as if they had been taken directly off the mannequins in the window. This is NOT how I grew up and I was taken aback by my sister's willingness to fund this kind of excess. I mean the kid had 7 different colored tank tops with 7 matching pairs of bermuda shorts. When I was 13, all of my summer clothes were cut-off school clothes.

As it turns out, Breanna's taste in expensive clothes is only part of the story. While getting ready to leave one afternoon, Bre asked me sincerely if her clothes had to match. After a little digging, I found out that my sister exerts a fanatical amount of control over her daughter's wardrobe. My brother-in-law does not permit Bre to cut her hair and she is constantly being nagged at to brush the hair that she would rather cut short. This is in direct opposition to my parenting style. It felt like a punch in the gut to know that my sweet, beautiful niece is being subjected to this kind of pointless tyranny. I immediately offered to get her a haircut and to take the heat for it. Bre demurred, fearing that her parents would get into a fight over it. So, I took her thrifting instead and let her spend her own money on whatever she wanted. Let's just say, her brainwashing has been thorough and her purchases were barely recognizable as second hand. The whole experience made me realize that I not only tolerate my child's taste in clothing and accessories, but I also encourage her to wear strange things sometimes. I have allowed her to wear a fairy costume to dinner at the Cheesecake Factory. In the winter when she wants to keep wearing her summer dresses, I layer pajamas under them. I draw the line at dirty and/or torn clothing and I try to make sure that all of Violet's clothes fit properly, but that's about it. Aaron tried and failed to implement a playground uniform of long blue jeans (to prevent scrapes) and now let's Violet do who own thing. We add socks and panties and tights when necessary. I guess if I bought all of Violet's clothes new and they all had matching pieces, I might be inclined to direct her more. When someone gives us a gift of clothing, I do make sure that it gets worn properly (for show) at least once, but I just think that's polite.

Life is so much more interesting and fun when I get to walk around with this kid, instead of a Baby Gap model.

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Does your kid's fashion sense lean toward the absurd? Write about it for the PBN and Polly Pocket Pop N' Swap week-long Blog Blast. You could win a $250 Visa gift card!
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Friday, September 12, 2008

I Dare You to Put an Hourly Wage on Mothering!

Money is a funny subject with the Heathen Family. It's funny because if we didn't laugh about it, the subject would suck away our joy like a ... a giant joy sucking vacuum. Our family is constantly on the precipice of financial ruin. Is funny, no? The fact is, we choose to live this way, sort of. I could get a job and work part-time, shuffling Violet from Grandma to TeeTee when Aaron wasn't home, but then I would be sad. I mean, I would need to be medicated. When I do the math on what I might expect to receive in the way of hourly compensation, I become indignant. My time is worth way more than $10 an hour (what my last job payed). I can accomplish all of the following in a really productive 60 minutes:
1. Do a load of laundry.
2. Make a meal.
3. Read 5-10 picture books.
4. Wipe things/ people repeatedly.

That list does not look like $10 to me. It cannot be valued. It is priceless. I am priceless. Of course, I can also accomplish nearly nothing tangible in a less productive 60 minutes:
1. Cuddle with Violet.
2. Stare into space.
3. Pinch various parts of Violet's adorable anatomy (they don't allow that in daycare I hear)
4. Blog

There is some really complicated philosophical math going on here, but in a nutshell:
I am worth more at home than I am at work.

I don't want to toot my own horn, but I make all the fun possible in this house. Sure, Aaron makes the money to buy groceries and pay bills and purchase the occasional plaything, but I'm the one who plays, dances, cooks, cleans, kisses, reads, wipes, blah, blah, blah. If I had a job, we might have a little more money, but we would have no time for all of the things that we enjoy most as a family. So, what am I teaching my child about high finance? Nothing. Violet is the one doing all the teaching right now. She's the one who showed us that money is absolutely meaningless in the grand scheme of things. Time is what matters. Violet can love an expensive toy for a day or two, but she'll spend her whole childhood enjoying the time she has with us (and a cardboard box or two). As for practical learning about the use and management of money? Violet and I will learn about that together, starting with her piggy bank (and a little professional guidance)and we'll fill Daddy in on our progress along the way.

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The Parent Bloggers Network and Capital One are sponsoring a contest on teaching kids about money. It got me thinking about my own lack of sophistication in the economic arts and how that might ultimately affect my child.

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Friday, February 15, 2008

Potty Training: The Final Phase

My child possesses a deep well of capabilities that she will only dip into when I am not looking. We embarked on our potty training journey purely out of boredom. The stakes were pretty low and I decided that I was just going to take the easy way out and remove the clothing most likely to get wet. For a week or so it seemed as if she would never be able to wear pants again. No matter, we had no place to go. I stopped micromanaging pit stops once it became clear that she could manage on her own, sans pants. Alas, we could not in good conscience allow her to go pantsless in public, so the diapers came out for a trip to the bookstore. Our local bookstore does not possess a changing table in either bathroom, despite the fact that the facilities are literally located in the children's department. This is a situation that has long vexed me and I was not thrilled at the prospect of stripping my "big girl" down in the middle of the store like we did when she was a "baby", so I decided to put her on the toilet in the store. A shaft a light shone down on her little head and an audible stream of pee descended into the bowl. Previous attempts at this were traumatic at best. It was as if she simply threw a switch in her head and was potty trained. Oh, we had a few accidents after that, caused by my nagging. I was not yet ready to believe that she and her bladder were synchronized. My nagging only led to rebellious, wait-until-the-last-possible-second behavior. My foible was proven to me when we left Violet with her Grandma for the evening and came back to discover that there had been no drama, no wet pants and no nagging. In the meantime, Violet was waking up dry every morning thanks to my "no liquids after 6 PM" rule. This change in routine was actually more devastating to her than the loss of Mama Milk. She must have been consuming one and a half cups of water during the course of the night. It was a real duh moment for me. Anyway, she was dry at night, she was willing to urinate in public restrooms and much to my surprise she was able to dress and undress herself. I swear she took at an imaginary correspondence course on how to dress, because she went from crying over putting on socks to emerging from her bedroom fully dressed in less than a day. I tentatively began leaving her pajama bottoms on in the morning. I figured an accident would signal the time to change into real clothes for the day. I wore my pajamas in solidarity. After a few days of never getting properly dressed, I was a little embarrassed (the UPS man had witnessed my shame two days in a row) and decided Violet could move on to my homemade training pants. I had spent a few hours taking all of those stupid little diaper covers that come with infant dresses and sewing contoured, hemp diaper doublers into the crotches. I mean, it was a stroke of frugal genius. I am convinced that this bothersome preparation is what put my child over the edge. She wore the carefully crafted panties twice and I was forced to admit that she was already trained. The learning process that had terrified me for months was over before I even had a chance to dig my trench and prepare for the Freudian cannon fire. The whole thing took less than three weeks. I feel like I have a new toy. I want to go around and introduce myself as the woman who did the impossible, but I would be lying. Violet trained herself. Once she got a taste of life outside the puffy, soggy cloth diaper she was trapped in, there was no going back. Now her perfectly proportioned heinie is unencumbered and on display in all of her stretchy little pants. The one draw back that she may not have anticipated was the loss of protective padding. When she falls down now her tail bone absorbs the full shock of the blow. It's a lesson for the ages. The bigger we get, the harder we fall.

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Sunday, January 27, 2008

Normal?

The first two years of my life with a child have been punctuated by moments in which I suddenly feel “normal” again. I don’t know what that really means. Some days I think it means that I can wear blue jeans without feeling suffocated and other days it means that I am willing to leave Violet with someone else and go on a date with my husband. On bad days the "normal" bar is lowered to simply getting dressed. Then one morning I woke up with this on the tip of my tongue:

“With the birth of a child you will watch life as you know it catch fire and burn to the ground and before you’ve had a chance to mourn, something so unspeakably beautiful and indescribably profound and challenging rises up from the ashes. It makes your past appear to be nothing more than a charmingly empty curiosity.”

I use quotes because this thought sprang from my mind so completely and effortlessly that I am not quite certain it is my own. Maybe I read it or heard and didn’t process the information until I started to dream. Regardless, it is the truth. There is no return to “normal” and that's okay. Really. Yeah, I look at pictures of my skinnier, freer self and sigh sometimes, but I wouldn’t go back. There is absolutely nothing more spectacular than watching my little sponge absorb the world.  I am so much more aware of this life and what it means to be a good human because I am no longer focused on sculpting myself. I have better things to do now. My free moments are more productive. The scarcity of Me time makes it precious. My view has changed so dramatically now that I can’t even imagine what it would be like to once again fuss about being in fashion or having a trendy hair cut. Parenthood has liberated me in more ways than it has restricted me. I don't miss the trappings of life before children, but I would regret forever missing the tiny, cumulative steps that my daughter takes every day on her way to adulthood.



Normal is totally overrated.

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Wednesday, May 3, 2006

I Feel Like the Other Woman

Violet has never been bottle fed. In fact, she refused to use a bottle when I briefly returned to work. She wants milk in the original packaging or not at all! Recently we have been trying out sippy cups. She eats solid food now and she likes to drink water. We have always encouraged self-feeding, so a sippy cup was a natural alternative to whole cups of water being dumped on everything. On a recent trip to Target I picked up a few cheap cups. Violet grapped hold of one and made the purchase inevitable by totally destroying the packaging and leaving teeth marks on the spout. She refused to let go of the cup. I walked around the store while she clutched the handle in her tiny fist. It was love at first sight. This struck me as odd because we already had a cup and she wasn't terrible interested in it. So, I bought three cups (.99 each). I quickly discovered that her attraction had nothing to do with water. These cups are physically impossible to drink from with the valve in place. It was like trying to suck liquid out of a rock. Still, her obsession was evident. We took a walk and she held the cup like a treasured lovey. Even asleep in the stroller, her hand never let go of this stupid piece of plastic. Yesterday, we bought a Nuby cup. It doesn't have a valve, but manages to be spill proof with a silicone spout. It sort of works like a beach ball valve. You have to bite it to open the hole. Now, there was a cup and it easily released water. Violet just about lost her mind. Suddenly, my totally breastfed baby was hugging this sippy cup as if it were her milk bottle. It was as if she had always used a bottle! I felt cheated on. It was like she was rejecting my nipple for a newer, more pliable one. It was a nipple she could chew on without anyone complaining! When I realized that Violet would rather sit and caress her new sippy cup than practice standing, I knew it was time to intervene. The sippy cup only makes appearances at mealtimes now. I am not ready to be replaced yet.

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Thursday, April 13, 2006

Uncle

Okay. I admit it. I'm bored. I have this beautiful, charming daughter and I'm bored. I wanted to be this Mommy-person who thrilled at every movement and sound and sometimes it is really hard to conjure up the enthusiasm. All she wants to do is stand. Okay, so what? Well, Violet will not crawl. This is a problem. She wants to move. She wants to stand. She cannot do it alone. So, I crouch beside her dutifully all day and offer my fingers. Sometimes, she sways or holds on with one hand. Most of the time she just stands, reveling in her accomplishment. It's great! Really, the first 400 times I was overjoyed. Now, I wish she would crawl or something... It's my own fault really, apparently fewer and fewer babies crawl in a "traditional" manner anymore-- because we have all been frightened into putting them on their backs to sleep. It turns out that babies don't feel the need to go onto their bellies if they aren't going to sleep there. We think we're solving problems and we just create more.

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