I have to confess: Somehow TV and computer have taken over our household. It was fine when Alex was playing the occasional Playhouse Disney game online; they’re educational, I rationalized, and they keep him occupied for extended periods while I cook or clean or catch up with my backlogged DVR. And when he discovered SpongeBob I was just glad that we were moving out of the realm of The Wonder Pets and branching off from superheroes, whose prolific appeal, frankly, baffles me. But now technological entertainment is king. Last night he requested a rain check on playing Chutes and Ladders with his oh-so-fun mommy in favor of trying to beat the “hammer brothers” on one of the countless old-school Nintendo games Steven has downloaded to our desktop (thank God for the laptop). In the mornings I’m lucky if he tears his eyes away from Bob’s adventures in Bikini Bottom long enough to make eye contact when he mumbles a perfunctory goodbye. (I used to get a big hug and a kiss to keep in my heart so that I would have it all day long in case I missed him. By used to, I mean a couple of weeks ago, before SpongeBob in conjunction with Mario and Megaman stole my baby.)
This morning I got tired of reminding him to eat his breakfast as he sat with his tray in front of him, staring slack-jawed at the TV. Five or six times I told him. “Eat, Alex. Don’t just watch.” He would pick up the spoon, put it in the bowl, scoop up some cereal, and freeze there like he’d forgotten how to complete the maneuver. Now, I’m proof positive that it doesn’t take a whole lot of effort to shovel food into one’s mouth while watching TV. Unless you happen to be watching Lost, which requires every single functioning brain cell you’ve got, plus a few borrowed ones from your viewing partner.
So, this morning, I threw down the breakfast-time gauntlet. I turned off the television. I know! It resulted in a display of horror and disbelief that in turn resulted in an overturned juice box and the need for a change of pants. But he finished his breakfast at the table, which is probably where I went wrong in the first place, letting the occasional meal drift away from there for the sake of convenience and/or bouts of lazy parenting. But we had an actual conversation—him between bites of Cheerios—about our plans for the day. And when I left he gave me one of those keepsake kisses.
When we get home today I plan to thwart the relentless pull of Road Rash and Donkey Kong (yes, Steven’s all about the classics) by whisking Alex off to the library. There’s a Franklin book about the dangers of playing too many computer games that is calling our name.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
A dream is a dream...
Things move faster after the 20-week mark. Here I am at 24, the long-awaited glucose test in the offing at my next regular appointment and six whole weeks since we found out we’re growing us a she-baby. Re: that glucose test ... I’ve been told there are now flavor options. I’m going to choose based on which one might be the least offensive on its way back up. Lemon-lime, I’m told. And, by a nurse with wide-eyed earnestness: Stay away from the cola-flavored one. You don’t have to tell me twice.
The weird pregnancy dreams have hit hard lately. I was waiting—I remembered them, vivid and startling and technicolored, from my first pregnancy and have actually been looking forward to the nightly entertainment. (Broken only by the bladder-determined intermissions; there are now always at least three trips to the bathroom between 10 p.m. and 5 a.m.) Last night I dreamed that we lost the chainsaw we’d planned on using for our home Cesarean section. We were really very upset by the missing chainsaw/surgical implement. And so we ended up at the hospital against our collective will, and suddenly I was stuck in an elevator with a former boss of mine and SHE was going to deliver the baby. I kicked her in the nose. On purpose. And God help me, it felt good. (If you’re reading this and are a former boss of mine, it’s not you, I almost promise.)
I’ve also had several dreams in which I am wandering half-clothed or inappropriately so (i.e. wearing the threadbare, too-short, polka-dotted nightshirt Steven "lovingly" refers to as my hospital gown) in public places: my old office building, a ritzy hotel, some sort of museum. I’m lost, more often than not, or at least confused about why I’m heading wherever I’m heading. Sometimes there is a baby to find. Once, I acknowledged to a passerby who asked the whereabouts of my baby that she was at home being looked after by her 5-year-old brother. Yikes!
Steven and I did once leave Alex in the car, but only for a few steps before we caught ourselves, mind you, and he was such a new development—surely other people occasionally forget they suddenly have babies. I don’t worry about that so much, this time. And whether or not the dreams mean anything, they are fun. I’m a fan of a good nightmare. I blame early exposure (and instant attachment) to Stephen King. So I’ll enjoy them, until and if I have that one where my teeth fall out of my mouth. That one creeps me out but good.
The weird pregnancy dreams have hit hard lately. I was waiting—I remembered them, vivid and startling and technicolored, from my first pregnancy and have actually been looking forward to the nightly entertainment. (Broken only by the bladder-determined intermissions; there are now always at least three trips to the bathroom between 10 p.m. and 5 a.m.) Last night I dreamed that we lost the chainsaw we’d planned on using for our home Cesarean section. We were really very upset by the missing chainsaw/surgical implement. And so we ended up at the hospital against our collective will, and suddenly I was stuck in an elevator with a former boss of mine and SHE was going to deliver the baby. I kicked her in the nose. On purpose. And God help me, it felt good. (If you’re reading this and are a former boss of mine, it’s not you, I almost promise.)
I’ve also had several dreams in which I am wandering half-clothed or inappropriately so (i.e. wearing the threadbare, too-short, polka-dotted nightshirt Steven "lovingly" refers to as my hospital gown) in public places: my old office building, a ritzy hotel, some sort of museum. I’m lost, more often than not, or at least confused about why I’m heading wherever I’m heading. Sometimes there is a baby to find. Once, I acknowledged to a passerby who asked the whereabouts of my baby that she was at home being looked after by her 5-year-old brother. Yikes!
Steven and I did once leave Alex in the car, but only for a few steps before we caught ourselves, mind you, and he was such a new development—surely other people occasionally forget they suddenly have babies. I don’t worry about that so much, this time. And whether or not the dreams mean anything, they are fun. I’m a fan of a good nightmare. I blame early exposure (and instant attachment) to Stephen King. So I’ll enjoy them, until and if I have that one where my teeth fall out of my mouth. That one creeps me out but good.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Boys vs. girls
It’s happening already, that inevitable boy/girl division that I’d somehow thought the enlightened 2005 birth set would rise above. I saw it in action at a bowling birthday party this weekend. Five girls bowled in one lane, five boys in the other. All five girls lost interest in the game at some point and defected, choosing instead to hold hands in a giggling chain and weave haphazardly among tables and people and other obstacles. The same one stepped on my foot four times. I overlooked it because she’s been one of my favorites since Alex’s crew was in the baby room (a chubby girl with rosy, freckled cheeks and curly red hair—and her name is Sunny, come ON, how cute is that?). Seemingly ignorant of the girls’ apathy about the competition, the boys continued to work together to beat them. It was a valiant effort, I’ll have to say, and admirable that they really didn’t care, after a while, about whose turn it was or whether or not their meandering communal 7-pounder managed to find its target (thank God for bumpers).
They’re not so far gone that they’re not still friends, thank goodness. That would break my heart. I watched Alex try to encourage sweet shy Anna to bowl even though her big teary terrified eyes and her death grip on her mother said that she had no intention of being convinced. I watched the five girls form a circle around the birthday boy and take turns hugging him. (I’m pretty sure he only pretended to be put out.) And on the way out with little Ruby and her mom, Alex said, “Great job bowling, Ruby!” and she giggled and if I didn’t know better I’d say she actually blushed. (This is the one whose mother told me that she recently said, “That boy Alex in my class, sometimes he looks at me. And I like it!” and then ran away in embarrassment.)
Yikes, they’re growing up fast. There’s some bitter in the sweet, but it makes me proud to see my boy’s good-hearted nature in action. I love that he thanked the birthday boy’s mother for inviting him without my reminding him, and that he told his friends “Good job” after every turn, even if he kept returning to me and telling me how harrrrrrrrd it was to wait for his own. I love that when we were leaving and he said, “Boys are tougher than girls” and I explained to him exactly why that is fallacious logic, he relented and told me that people are “the same tough. Even though sometimes boys are ... taller.”
Lastly and randomly, I love this snippet from Ms. Donna’s 4K last Friday, just because it makes me snort:
Alex: “Lucy spent a long time making her picture beautiful, and then Patton came over and told her it looked damn.”
Me: “He said what?”
Alex: “He said ... He said it didn’t look beautiful.”
Me: “No, it’s ok, what did you say he said?”
Alex: “He used a grown-up word.”
Me: “He said it looked...”
Alex, solemnly: “He said it looked damn.”
They’re not so far gone that they’re not still friends, thank goodness. That would break my heart. I watched Alex try to encourage sweet shy Anna to bowl even though her big teary terrified eyes and her death grip on her mother said that she had no intention of being convinced. I watched the five girls form a circle around the birthday boy and take turns hugging him. (I’m pretty sure he only pretended to be put out.) And on the way out with little Ruby and her mom, Alex said, “Great job bowling, Ruby!” and she giggled and if I didn’t know better I’d say she actually blushed. (This is the one whose mother told me that she recently said, “That boy Alex in my class, sometimes he looks at me. And I like it!” and then ran away in embarrassment.)
Yikes, they’re growing up fast. There’s some bitter in the sweet, but it makes me proud to see my boy’s good-hearted nature in action. I love that he thanked the birthday boy’s mother for inviting him without my reminding him, and that he told his friends “Good job” after every turn, even if he kept returning to me and telling me how harrrrrrrrd it was to wait for his own. I love that when we were leaving and he said, “Boys are tougher than girls” and I explained to him exactly why that is fallacious logic, he relented and told me that people are “the same tough. Even though sometimes boys are ... taller.”
Lastly and randomly, I love this snippet from Ms. Donna’s 4K last Friday, just because it makes me snort:
Alex: “Lucy spent a long time making her picture beautiful, and then Patton came over and told her it looked damn.”
Me: “He said what?”
Alex: “He said ... He said it didn’t look beautiful.”
Me: “No, it’s ok, what did you say he said?”
Alex: “He used a grown-up word.”
Me: “He said it looked...”
Alex, solemnly: “He said it looked damn.”
Friday, February 19, 2010
My kid, the cutter
Alex is on his way to becoming that kid who, in elementary school, cut off the tip of his nose with scissors and damned generations to follow in the VH school system to using nothing but the blunt-nosed kind forevermore. It sounds like an urban legend, but I swear, it happened! Right? The part about the nose tip falling into a pile of dried beans the class was using for math purposes is still up for debate.
Alex’s nose is intact, thank God, and he didn’t do any real damage, but yesterday he came home flaunting an accident report pinned to his school bag and a Band-Aid on his thumb. “We were using plastic knives to spread marshmallow cream onto apple slices” the note read (and here I’ll add an editorial ‘ew’). “Alex cut his finger while ‘sawing’ on his apple with the plastic knife.” Translation from the soft-centered language spoken by sweet 4K teachers the world over: “Your kid was using his plastic knife for unsanctioned purposes. Don’t blame us.” I asked him why he was sawing on the apple instead of spreading (ew) marshmallow cream. He looked at me like I’m quite dense. “There was peel on the apple. I couldn’t eat that!”
It wasn’t long after when I noticed a perfectly straight-edged hole in one of the knees of his jeans. The third time I said “Alex, did you cut that with scissors?” I got a reluctant but earnest “Well yes I did, but I don’t know why I would've done something like that!” This makes me wonder about the brand new pair of khakis that came home recently with a gaping hole in BOTH knees, and while he insists (vehemently) that he most certainly did not take scissors to those pants, and in fact finds the very idea quite offensive—I have to wonder.
If he doesn’t start making better choices when it comes to common utility tools, he’ll eventually be the 40-year-old man who cuts his steak with a rubber-coated spoon and clips coupons with his teeth.
Baby Girl is doing great. Strong and loud heartbeat of 157 bpm, measuring right on track, not yet forcing my blood pressure into the danger zone the way Fetal Alex did. I’ve gained quite a bit less weight than I'd imagined, considering my newfound appreciation for Snickers ice cream bars and Limited Edition Publix Premium Strawberry Shortcake ice cream. And hot biscuits with I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter and strawberry jam. Mmm...
Alex’s nose is intact, thank God, and he didn’t do any real damage, but yesterday he came home flaunting an accident report pinned to his school bag and a Band-Aid on his thumb. “We were using plastic knives to spread marshmallow cream onto apple slices” the note read (and here I’ll add an editorial ‘ew’). “Alex cut his finger while ‘sawing’ on his apple with the plastic knife.” Translation from the soft-centered language spoken by sweet 4K teachers the world over: “Your kid was using his plastic knife for unsanctioned purposes. Don’t blame us.” I asked him why he was sawing on the apple instead of spreading (ew) marshmallow cream. He looked at me like I’m quite dense. “There was peel on the apple. I couldn’t eat that!”
It wasn’t long after when I noticed a perfectly straight-edged hole in one of the knees of his jeans. The third time I said “Alex, did you cut that with scissors?” I got a reluctant but earnest “Well yes I did, but I don’t know why I would've done something like that!” This makes me wonder about the brand new pair of khakis that came home recently with a gaping hole in BOTH knees, and while he insists (vehemently) that he most certainly did not take scissors to those pants, and in fact finds the very idea quite offensive—I have to wonder.
If he doesn’t start making better choices when it comes to common utility tools, he’ll eventually be the 40-year-old man who cuts his steak with a rubber-coated spoon and clips coupons with his teeth.
Baby Girl is doing great. Strong and loud heartbeat of 157 bpm, measuring right on track, not yet forcing my blood pressure into the danger zone the way Fetal Alex did. I’ve gained quite a bit less weight than I'd imagined, considering my newfound appreciation for Snickers ice cream bars and Limited Edition Publix Premium Strawberry Shortcake ice cream. And hot biscuits with I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter and strawberry jam. Mmm...
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Food for Thought
How the Octopus Got Eight Hands
by Alexander Kirk Bosche
This is how the octopus got eight hands. It wished in the magic sea for eight hands because it found a lot of beautiful things. Then it picked up all the beautiful stuff and then they carried them to build their house, and the star was to poke the hole.
The End.
by Alexander Kirk Bosche
This is how the octopus got eight hands. It wished in the magic sea for eight hands because it found a lot of beautiful things. Then it picked up all the beautiful stuff and then they carried them to build their house, and the star was to poke the hole.
The End.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Passing the time
Girlchild is moving around a lot these days, but the bumps still aren't strong enough to feel from the outside. Plus, she seems to stop whenever a hand is put over the source of her poking. Stubborn like her brother? And maybe her mama—I hear nasty rumors sometimes that I'm pig-headed. I hope Alex gets to feel her soon; he's been claiming since she was about the size of a peanut that he can feel her head when he touches my tummy. I never had the heart to tell him no, my dear, that's just Mommy's gut. The movements are so reassuring, though, and that's what I remember from before. Having that frequent, multiple-times-daily physical reassurance that she's OK in there helps me in my efforts to make my old frenemy Anxiety shut it, already.
Steven put up the crib this weekend, of his own accord and without my having to lift a finger. And he kept the cursing to a bare minimum, even though there was an impromptu trip to Lowe's in the middle of the project and the drawer that's supposed to slide into the bottom of the frame flat refuses to be slid. If baby came home tomorrow we'd be 74% ready for her, at least physically. Which means that, roughly twenty-seven years from now, when I finally give birth, we should be all set.
So now begins the interminable wait. The long stretch of no concrete milestones, with the finish line still too far distant to make out without binoculars. We are over the hump though, more than halfway there, and I still get to sleep a lot. A lot a lot. I guess now there's nothing to do but enjoy my sleep and my Only and my spit-up-free existence, to occasionally panic when all's too still for too long in my belly, to play the eating-for-two card, to bask in the rosy, rewritten memories of what having a newborn is really like. And occasionally to get all mushy when I encounter a rack of tiny, flowered sundresses, knowing full well that anything but sleepers and onesies is impractical in the beginning but not caring one iota. This is fantasy time. Gimme it.
I adore my husband, but I do hope he'll refrain from making this creepy face this time. Note the frozen semblance of what might be a smile in some improbable parallel universe, with the underlying visible effort to avoid puking on my head. (It's shocking, when there's suddenly a baby in the room.)
Steven put up the crib this weekend, of his own accord and without my having to lift a finger. And he kept the cursing to a bare minimum, even though there was an impromptu trip to Lowe's in the middle of the project and the drawer that's supposed to slide into the bottom of the frame flat refuses to be slid. If baby came home tomorrow we'd be 74% ready for her, at least physically. Which means that, roughly twenty-seven years from now, when I finally give birth, we should be all set.
So now begins the interminable wait. The long stretch of no concrete milestones, with the finish line still too far distant to make out without binoculars. We are over the hump though, more than halfway there, and I still get to sleep a lot. A lot a lot. I guess now there's nothing to do but enjoy my sleep and my Only and my spit-up-free existence, to occasionally panic when all's too still for too long in my belly, to play the eating-for-two card, to bask in the rosy, rewritten memories of what having a newborn is really like. And occasionally to get all mushy when I encounter a rack of tiny, flowered sundresses, knowing full well that anything but sleepers and onesies is impractical in the beginning but not caring one iota. This is fantasy time. Gimme it.
I adore my husband, but I do hope he'll refrain from making this creepy face this time. Note the frozen semblance of what might be a smile in some improbable parallel universe, with the underlying visible effort to avoid puking on my head. (It's shocking, when there's suddenly a baby in the room.)
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Motherhood should grade on a curve.
I suppose it’s natural, if neurotic, as a mother, to watch other mothers and do a quick mental assessment of how you hold up. It’s born of insecurity, that tendency, and at least for me was a way to make sure that, while I wasn’t doing everything perfectly, at least I wasn’t the mom who forgot her kid’s coat in sub-60 temps. Ok, fine, I was her once, but in my defense, it was way colder at the pumpkin patch than it was when we left the house and if you stayed in direct sunlight it was almost possible not to shiver. And, if I'm going to be confessional: I’m the one who forgot to replace his summer backup clothes at daycare with winter ones, who perpetually neglected to bring snacks along on day trips to the zoo, who quite frequently imposed the five-second rule of food on the floor. Sometimes I forgot to replenish his daytime diaper stash, and he’d come home in a borrowed Disney Princess Huggie. Once, when he was just sitting up, he toppled off my bed because I was too busy making a video of him sitting up on my bed to catch him. I know I’ve mentioned on here the baby powder incident. 
A friend of mine recently told me about her daughter’s similar adventures with an economy-size tub of Vaseline that she got her hands on after climbing out of her crib at a shockingly early age. Once out and thoroughly greased up, baby decided to try getting back into the crib, which proved impossible because she was too slippery. My friend felt guilty for not knowing her kid was capable of such mayhem; I felt stupid for not closing the baby powder. It’s a comedy of errors, this parenthood thing, and I finally understand that even the ones who make it look effortless (I’m lookin’ at YOU, Cathy) struggle sometimes. Cuz ain’t none of us perfect.
Hopefully the second time around I’ll get less caught up in those involuntary comparisons. I will try, as they used to remind us during tests in school, to keep my eyes on my own work. Maybe this time I’ll be the mom with one of those magically bottomless diaper bags that can produce a wet wipe in five seconds flat, or crayons and coloring pages for restaurant entertainment, or a spillproof cup of Goldfish or Cheerios at just the right moment during a long errand run. I’ll have Band-Aids and hand sanitizer on my person at all times, several changes of season-appropriate clothes, and spare pacifiers in every corner because I swear to God those things have legs.
More likely I’ll forget a lot of stuff, a lot of the time. I’ll leave the baby powder container open because of sleep deprivation or laziness. At least once during her life I’m bound to dress her in direct opposition to the weather. I will—because sometimes it’s just funny—at some point laugh when she trips over air and slides down the hall on her knees, or walks into a wall because she's in that bizarre toddler fog and they're straight-up blind in those moments. And she’ll be ok. Just like Alex has always been ok, just like we are all ok, more or less, despite (or because of) parents who are human and as such make all kinds of mistakes along the way. Kids really are elastic, in mind, body, and spirit.
I also realize, sort of against my will, that these are the easy mistakes. For Alex, tweenhood, teen years, and beyond are right around the corner, harboring all kinds of as-yet-untold horrors. I'm bound to long for the days when my biggest missteps were forgetting to pack a snack or to remind him to brush his teeth. Golden simplicity. These are the days that one day will be the good old days.
Alex, you are my heart. I apologize in advance for all the screwing up I’ve yet to do.
A friend of mine recently told me about her daughter’s similar adventures with an economy-size tub of Vaseline that she got her hands on after climbing out of her crib at a shockingly early age. Once out and thoroughly greased up, baby decided to try getting back into the crib, which proved impossible because she was too slippery. My friend felt guilty for not knowing her kid was capable of such mayhem; I felt stupid for not closing the baby powder. It’s a comedy of errors, this parenthood thing, and I finally understand that even the ones who make it look effortless (I’m lookin’ at YOU, Cathy) struggle sometimes. Cuz ain’t none of us perfect.Hopefully the second time around I’ll get less caught up in those involuntary comparisons. I will try, as they used to remind us during tests in school, to keep my eyes on my own work. Maybe this time I’ll be the mom with one of those magically bottomless diaper bags that can produce a wet wipe in five seconds flat, or crayons and coloring pages for restaurant entertainment, or a spillproof cup of Goldfish or Cheerios at just the right moment during a long errand run. I’ll have Band-Aids and hand sanitizer on my person at all times, several changes of season-appropriate clothes, and spare pacifiers in every corner because I swear to God those things have legs.
More likely I’ll forget a lot of stuff, a lot of the time. I’ll leave the baby powder container open because of sleep deprivation or laziness. At least once during her life I’m bound to dress her in direct opposition to the weather. I will—because sometimes it’s just funny—at some point laugh when she trips over air and slides down the hall on her knees, or walks into a wall because she's in that bizarre toddler fog and they're straight-up blind in those moments. And she’ll be ok. Just like Alex has always been ok, just like we are all ok, more or less, despite (or because of) parents who are human and as such make all kinds of mistakes along the way. Kids really are elastic, in mind, body, and spirit.
I also realize, sort of against my will, that these are the easy mistakes. For Alex, tweenhood, teen years, and beyond are right around the corner, harboring all kinds of as-yet-untold horrors. I'm bound to long for the days when my biggest missteps were forgetting to pack a snack or to remind him to brush his teeth. Golden simplicity. These are the days that one day will be the good old days.
Alex, you are my heart. I apologize in advance for all the screwing up I’ve yet to do.
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