Author Archives: Naptimewriting

It’s all about balance, I guess. Maybe.

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So first week of school for Peanut, predictably, meant first week of the worst freaking tantrums since the dawn of time. (Not seriously. He’s a low tantrum dude. But on *his* Richter scale, this weekend was off the f–ing charts.)

We had him screaming in the supermarket, knocking down boxes of Top Ramen. We had him running full tilt through the freezer aisle and opening every door, just before I caught him and flung him over my shoulder kicking and screaming to make a speedy exit. We had him whining and sobbing and yelling at us, really yelling, with every single Lego piece that did not obey the laws of physics and geometry on whatever planet this non-Euclidean, non-Newtonian kid lives on. We had a day, basically, of “I will help you when you can treat me respectfully, but I will not stay in the same room with that voice,” all day, both days. And we had him yelling at my sweet little 94-year-old grandmother, on my birthday, that she was not allowed to talk to me, only *he* can talk to me.

Clean up! Aisle Six! Some lady is sobbing about something or other, and her puddle of tears is activating the Top Ramen secret flavor packets.

I knew we’d pay dearly for the first week of preschool. I know it’s a lot of change and his world is upside down (shut up, Drs. Sears, he’s in a co-op where I’m there and everything is all child-directed, for a grand total of three hours a day thrice a week, so don’t tell me from upside down world until you’ve lived with a highly spirited intense opinionated way-too-smart kid for three and a half years, and then I’ll show you upside down world) so he needs an emotional outlet. But must *I* be the outlet? Holy Freaking Meltdown of the Social Order, Batman, we need a tranquilizer dart from Babies R Us.

Upside of the whole insane weekend of terror, though? My mom watched the new person formerly known as Peanut for an evening in which Spouse and I saw a real, actual film on a screen and had a real, actual meal at a quiet restaurant. As in feature film rated something I didn’t have to check because who cares? and menu without crayons.

More important, uproariously funny Clooney and MacGregor flick at which the rest of the audience politely tittered and I laughed so hard and so loudly that people glared at me. Dumbest movie I’ve seen in years and absolutely pants-wettingly funny. See it. The Men Who Stare at Goats. I think. I don’t care. The title’s not important. When you see it, email me about the “what are the quotes for?” line. And the sparkle eyes scene. It’ll make me wet more pants. And I only have, like, two pair that fit right now, so what a laundry honor that will be.

And even more important, we found a fabulous restaurant I’ve never tried, in whose menu I was very pleased, and with whose policy of offering wine by the bottle, glass, or 2 ounce taste I was thrilled. Because a “taste” of wine is totally under the radar of *every* hyper-vigilant American obstetrician I’ve ever met or read. No, not a sip, and not a glass. A technical, measured, duly noted on the receipt, “taste.” Spicy syrah. Lovely. From what I tasted.

Did I mention George Clooney and Ewan MacGregor? Nobody laughed but me. And you know how much i don’t care that other people on the planet are too dumb to get good jokes?

Today was not much easier with Peanut, but he slept a full nap and I had a huge pot of homemade chili at my elbow as I thought about and refused to the the 20 really pressing things on my to-do list. And instead started a new book that pleases me GREATLY.

And you know what? Volcanic bullshit from my kid on a day where I get a few hours with Spouse, and whiny exhausting understandable but unbearable nonsense from my kid on a day where I have freshly made chili and a new book is totally a good weekend. Because his bullshit is, as of today, no longer going to be my bullshit. It will be my atmosphere and my backdrop and my full time g.d. job, but I’m gonna do my best not to breathe it in and let it rattle me. Cuz, dammit, I have George Clooney and chili and twelve choices of bruschetta and Ewan MacGregor and a new book, y’all.

Ewan MacGregor.

Rookie move

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Peanut loves the bath, but some days is feeling obstinate. Shocking, I know, given his age and his temperament. So I broke out the classic fail-safe last night for the first time this year: “choose your bath color tonight.” A little cake gel colorant dissolved in a coffee cup and poured ceremoniously into the tub, and we had a whine- and struggle-free purple bath.

battle-free technique no. 1

Battle-free technique number one

Nor, this particular evening did Peanut want to brush his teeth. We proffered the toothbrush that blinks. To no avail. Offered a choice of toothpastes and the option to self brush first or after parental brushing. Nothing. We suggested an upside down brushing (dangling toddlers works for anything but three year olds are *so* over that technique) but he declined. We settled for the threat, our last resort: no teeth, no stories. If you say yes stories, you say yes teeth. Your choice. We have no stake in the answer.

Grumblingly whiningly sold. Clean teeth and the never-yet-missed two stories.

There must be a better way.

So I thought of you. I’m offering up this post for those of you who are struggling with or masters of issues of any kind…let’s do a greatest hits of how to get around our children’s behavior. The colored bath and the upside down teeth brushing are my favorites at home. In public, a special purse toy that only comes out when I need five minutes of quiet work for us. Haircuts and hair tangles, in our house, get homemade yogurt popsicles in the tub. And veggie avoidance that goes on too long get broiled (425 degree, olive oil and salt) veggies delivered fresh from the oven to a Peanut in the tub. Because my kid thinks eating in the bath is the height of decadence. Whatever, dude, every other kid gets good bribes, like candy, but you don’t need to know that.

And for doctor’s visits, which none of us fear but I know some families do, are scheduled later the same week as one of my doctor’s visits, so he can see everything happen to me first.

What do you do for the reluctant toothbrusher? What is your magic, fail-safe, works every time trick for some issue your kid wants to get around? What issue do you desperately need advice on? Feel free to post anonymously. Just make up a fake email account from yahoo or hotmail and ask or answer as you see fit.

Preschool debut

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Ah, Peanut had a classic, classic first day at the co-op. Major resistance getting out the door. Don’t want to eat, don’t want to dress, don’t want to go. But, little man, I know we’ve only been over this ten thousand times, so I’ll patiently explain as though it’s the first conversation we’ve ever had, that this is a school where you do self-directed play and I’ll be there the whole time if you want me. And you’ve been there three times already for tours and orientation and such and never wanted to leave. Remember? You like this place. And I’m not leaving you there alone.

Oh. Okay.

He was a bit shy when he was in the morning circle, but the very minute we broke into the huge indoor and outdoor play spaces for the daily two-hour free-for-all playtime, he made a bee line for the child who told everyone about his new top that glows when you spin it, and asked the boy if he could try it. Awesome guts, Peanut. I like that. I don’t have that, and I won’t praise it ‘cuz we’re into that whole “narrate it but don’t judge anything they do” parenting style, but I totally dig it.

He tolerated the hyper-whiny kid, he defended his territory when bigger kids wanted to play with his puzzle, he took it well when the older kids wouldn’t let him play in their fort, he successfully diapered three baby dolls by himself in the loft (from which he banned me because I’m too big), sewed four buttons on his quilt piece, ate his tuition’s worth of popcorn at the snack kitchen, read several books with me and then with his freshly nappied dolls, and build some awesome marble roller coasters.

I love watching him from a distance as though I don’t know him. He’s perfect in every way.

Especially compared to *that* kid. And *that other* kid. Thank you, E. and I. and the others of your size and approximate age who wanted to play with him and invited him into your reindeer games. You’re lovely humans.

At song time Peanut was the first to answer at each turn how many monkeys were left jumping on the bed after their ill-advised mother ignoring. And when we celebrated one five-year-old’s birthday, he told me with no hesitation that the donut hole he tried was yucky and I *had* to eat his. He pushed a little shopping cart full of basketballs for more than 30 minutes straight, running in circles until he was flush and exhausted. And five steps out of the gate after it was all done, he completely lost his ability to be a grownup.

So we went home and he threw tantrums and I offered food and he refused to wash his hands and I offered nap and he started to slam the door but collapsed into a heap at my feet and needed a long cuddle to regain any semblance of reason. And we ate and slept and he told me after nap that he would really like me to stay in my room for a while while he played quietly by himself.

“It’s all just too much, Mom. I just need my house back.”

Oh, little guy, I hear ya. Good thing I get to put you to bed soon, because I feel exactly the same.

He was brilliant, school is going to be brilliant, and being allowed to read Mill on the Floss for half an hour while my small creature plays with his dolls alone is totally worth parenting dozens of ne’er-do-wells every Friday, my day to participate at our supportive, respectful, non-authoritarian, play-based, hippie co-op.

Yay, little dude and yay mama.

Marriage of heaven and hell

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Know my idea of heaven? Being away from home, in either urban or rural setting, where my time is entirely my own and the only bottom I wipe is my own. Where I see friends of all sorts for eating and meandering and simply talking, all of which occurs without interruption except by consenting, pleasant adults. In this heaven there is no acting as full time Superego for my Id escapee; no addressing anybody’s sleeping, cleaning, reading, or playing needs but my own. There is intellectual stimulation and quiet in equal measure. There are deep breaths and completed thoughts completely bereft of whining, hitting, screeching, demanding, and throwing. In this heaven there is no Candyland.

Well, erumpent Id with messy bottom and multivalent sleep, cleanliness, reading, and play needs: I get all that heaven and more in one week. Hope the anticipation bodes well for your caretaking for the next seven days.

Hey, that’s not spam!

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I think the WordPressspam filter might be biased against open dialogue and thoughtful comments. Because here are some of the things it caught today:

sKxthonjfwudyu, [url=http://mrexnftgfbqt.com/]mrexnftgfbqt[/url], [link=http://unfchazxfjub.gov/]unfchazxfjub[/link], http://pqekmqataalu.gov/
I think the spam filter might just be a prescriptivist linguist to single out this one, right? It’s just expressing the commenter’s heartfelt, if a bit non-English, feelings.

And, clearly, the spam filter doesn’t know about my multiple personality disorder, nor that my friends call me “dude” and “fella” and “bro” because it also split this comment away from the post for which the ideas are designed:
hi there dudes
my mother recently ran into an online store. the store is selling wide range of discounted label clothes. the shop is selling the items with almost 65% savings. my daughter really needs to get a pair before the get away but not sure that order will be brought in right on time. I am planning to order those prada shoes but not sure yet.
just urged to share with you bros.
thnx fellas.

And what kind of jingoistic, anti-capitalist spam filter can ignore the power of this:
I stand here today humbled by the task before dufus komas, grateful for the trust you have bestowed, mindful of the sacrifices borne by our cheap dufus komas. I thank President dufus power leveling for his service to buy dufus komas, as well as the generosity and cooperation he has shown throughout this transition.

It’s just the spam filter’s power structures and inherent prejudices trying to silence the voices of the powerless. Fight the spam filter.

And to you, gentle spambots, keep those nonsensical spam comments coming! You’re not wasting my time or limited brain space or anything by deluging my tiny little blog with crap. Really.

Back in the day

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My mother tells very amusing anecdotes about my childhood, especially the bits about my precocious use of language. My favorite are the loud questions in the frozen food section of a South Dakota grocery store: “Mommy, does Jesus have a penis?” Intense thumb sucking while affirmative answer is processed. “Mommy, does Santa Claus have a penis?” That settles it. Had to cover any potential special cases to the general rule. You know.

One of her favorite stories is from just after Brother and my first briefing about reproductive biology, wherein I holler from the backyard, “Mommy, Brother is kicking me in the uterus. Make him stop!”

Well, now that someone actually is kicking me in the uterus, frequently, at totally unexpected moments, that shrill complaint seems…well…hilarious. Thinking of calling her today with this pronouncement:

Mooooooooom, someone is kicking me in my uterus. But it’s kind of cute, so don’t make it stop!

A warbly note

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Look, blog, all I’m saying is that you’re pressure I don’t need.

I simply can’t be marginally interesting even half the time, let alone daily.

I’m busy with filling out papers and running all over town for physican’s reports and getting freaking painful PPD injections so I can hang at the preschool with my kid until he gets used to things; I have to polish a 25 page article then cut it to a 15-minute talk (good luck with that one, Captain Garrulous); I have to take a 32-page schlock-fest and make into a 40-page example of my best erudition and then into an awesome 25-page article; I have to plan holiday crapola and travel whosiewhatsis; and I have to figure out how to replace at least half of Peanut’s Halloween stash, because today it was simply magnetic, and the kid will notice. He pours out the whole stash on my bed every morning at dawn, with “mommy, you don’t have to get up, but can you help me pick my candy for today” because I stupidly put a two-piece a day limit and now he’s having this crappy candy for breakfast every day and will be until January. At least. Unless he notices the dearth of nougaty and caramely pieces (kind of sounds like an order of nuns) and calls me out, in which case there’s gonna be a serious meeting about how I’m the Mommy and if I’m gonna blog, I need to mainline sugar, else have nothing to say.

Or at least nothing to say so quickly. Or without proofreading.

Praise be cheeses

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Oh, readers, the heavens are on my side today.

Peanut is being adorable.
Snickers, the baby, is being silly.
Long walk resulted in a happy child. Continuation of long walk resulted in errands being completed. Further continuation of long walk resulted in an hour of self-entertained playground operations and a coffee milkshake for me. Continuation of long walk resulted in observation of road work AND a tractor climb for Peanut. Yay water district workers.

Exceedingly long walk rendered me unable to rant at the lazy postal worker or the crappy drivers. And made me even more obsequious in my friendly waves to drivers who stop for us at crosswalks. You people rock.

Peanut has decided he loves spinach. Three meals a day he has raw spinach, with varying dipping sauces. I don’t recognize this kid, but he’ll be strong to the finich.

And Houston, we have preschool.

Paperwork underway, we may begin as early as next week.

Universe, shut the heck up! You’re more awesome than the quantum physicists had me believe!

Holy cow

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Please don’t tell anyone who is more than 5 months pregnant, nor my two dear, sweet friends who carried and delivered twins that I said this, but great galloping ghosts, I don’t remember having a 5 month old fetus feeling so damned BIG. I swear I’m more uncomfortable now than I was at 8 months last time. As I said, though, don’t tell anyone whose uterus is, or has been, bigger than a cantaloupe. A really, really, big cantaloupe.

While we’re on that, why do they measure pregnancy milestones in fruit and vegetables? For heaven’s sake, telling me something is as long as a banana or a carrot is just plain stupid. Come with me to the store, you lameass lazy writers, and show me which banana. Do you mean that baby carrot or one of the eight thousand other sizes carrots come in? Why not tell me that my 9 inch fetus is about the length of 9 consecutive big lines on a ruler? Idiots.

The Brits understand. When I sought websites in proper English, hoping they might in terms other than produce, I found their measurements are way more reassuring. 360g?! Holy crow, that’s enormous, right?. 360 of anything is big. No wonder I feel like I swallowed a soccer ball. And 27cm? That’s…ah, hell, I wish we had converted to metric so I’d have some damned idea how long that is, but it sounds just huge.

But then, the Brits said this: “You’re probably feeling quite comfortable these days. This, in fact, may be the most enjoyable time in your pregnancy. ” Ah, man, f— you! Is this going to be the f— you trimester? Cuz I thought that was the 19 weeks of incessantly barfing and exhaustion. No? This is the f— you trimester? I’m not sure. I kind of remember the next one being the exact opposite of a picnic, but what do I know? I had forgotten about feeling that I could never, ever eat again after one almond.

Maybe it’s the eyebrows little Fetalanine just grew, or something, but I am just not large enough to accommodate any more growth.

Or explain jokes about phenylalanine. If you don’t get them, ask the Brits. They explain everything so well.

Fragile X

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Time ran a piece last year on a wonderful, loving family pulled even closer together by Fragile X syndrome. The article is interesting in part because it shows how one astute physician can notice a pattern and push genetic disease research forward by huge leaps.

There’s a lot of recent information on this disease, and the research into Fragile X is at the forefront of our understanding of autism. Carriers of the genetic difference are also subject to a host of medical issues that trouble families who don’t even know they carry the gene.

Look into it. Get involved. Support research.

Super Happy Halloween

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P: Happy Halloween!
Stranger with candy: Oh, what a great costume. Choose a piece of candy.
P: Can I have two?
Swc: Sure!
M: [silently] damn you, neighbor!
P: Thanks! Happy Halloween!
Swc: Bye.
P: Hope you have fun. Bye. I love you!

Just about died with joy at every single house. Cutest of all cute peas, he wanted to go up to the house by himself. He pushed the button, knocked twice, and stepped back, like each door were an elevator. He only told two people he loved them, because that last line is what he says to Dad every morning when he leaves and to anyone who calls and wants to talk to him on the phone.

So it was an awesome night. Much fun. One boy in spider jammies, vampire vest, mardi gras necklace, stuffed ghost tucked into vest, cowboy hat, and construction goggles.

Small beef: Neighbors, please, could *one* of you give out toys or play-dough or crayons or something instead of candy. Come on. One house with a dentist and toothbrush, maybe? One spider ring or yo-yo or plastic skeleton? Please?

Cowboy spider vampire necklace extravaganza

Happy Halloween

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P: [standing in doorway with blank look]
M: What do you say?
P: [whispers] Happy Halloween
M: [loudly, beaming] Yes, Happy Halloween.
P: [now ready for a full discussion with candy-wielding stranger] And Happy Mommy and Daddy Home Day. And Grandma’s coming, too.
Candy Stranger: Here you go. Happy Halloween.
P: Thank you.
M: Great job, bug.
P: Why they no say you welcome? Are they not nice?

sigh.

Happy Candy Day, everyone!

[cackling]

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Elizabeth over at Bleakonomy amused me with this article about Disney admitting the Baby Einstein products are not educational, and may actually harm children’s development.

Get your refund information here. Unless your kid *is* a genius. In that case, enjoy your Disney and ignore me, because I’d be arguing that Jr.’s mental bandwidth is due to your stellar parenting and excellent genes not some lame gimick. Silly me.

Heck, let your kids play with or watch whatever you choose. But for heaven’s sake, let’s someone please tell those people who really believe that they will change their child’s life with a DVD that it’s marketing, not science.

And consider a pop on over to the Campaign for a Commerical-Free Childhood, where they support my refusal to show my kid anything that makes him want characters on his Band-Aids, shoes, or underpants. Why? Cuz I ain’t advertising their bullshit products on my kid. That’s why.

(Yup, Peanut is still getting movie day every Wed for one hour. Too late, AAP, you said age one when he was born and we held out that long. For a year (from age 1 to 2) he only got half an hour—once a week—and it was all Signing Time, which I personally found hugely educational and useful to his vocabulary, his signing, and his fascination with other children. He didn’t get any TV before age one, barring accidental restaurant exposure to organized sports (blech) and one afternoon when he napped in the same room that we watched the first half of Brokeback Mountain. Now *that*’s educational.)

Night conversations

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My poor little dude, my exasperating little dude, my sweet little dude is a little ball of intensity. He’s never done well with the whole winding down during sleep, and our family has always been vistied by frequent wakings and nightmares and lots of needs during the hours for which I plan to be blissfully neglectful. But we’re hardcore believers in gentle parenting and attachment parenting and nighttime parenting and generally thoughtful parenting, so we let him handle what he can and help him with the rest.

At about two and a half he slept through the night a few times. At three, a few more. Now, at three and a half he sleeps through the night reliably most nights.

But I don’t. Because this little ball of stress, this empathetic barometer of all that is going on in his world, still has vivid dreams, though we’ve never even talked about that word. And he now, instead of waking up crying and scared, yells back in his sleep.

Full sentences.

Sometimes scary. But often hilarious.

Funny even though they wake me up during hours for which I had a lot of ignoring him planned.

Recent examples, all of which seem to occur between 2am and 3:45am:

“No. No! No! I want to choose!”

“Hey! Four blackberries!”

“I don’t want to. No! You take a bath!”

“No. No. NO! There are no alligators, Frog.”

You tell ’em, buddy.

I’m sorry….what?

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Today’s wtf files:

Microwave instructions on instant pudding. Because there *needs* to be an option between 5 minutes of stovetop and buying premade pudding. [Yes, dammit, it’s organic and low sugar. Sue me.]

At least one father at every single playground I’ve been to in the past six months: texting or playing games on phone or having really insipid phone conversation while kids try desperately to get his attention. Dude. Do you see *any* of the moms doing that bullshit? And when there are other dads, it’s still only one guy. Loser.

Fifteen of the twenty products rated “must have” in some lame-o mainstream parenting magazine at the doc’s office are either toxic or useless. And these people are raising the assholes our kids will go to school with.

Why do people tell me to watch MadMen and not Weeds? I freaking love that show and don’t get the same nausea after an episode or two that followed Betty Draper’s existential spiral.

The Bay Bridge is falling down. And people are complaining about the traffic instead of remembering 20 years ago when we counted every second, hoping they’d find someone alive in the Cypress and thanked heaven only one person died on the Bridge. But by all means, whine about your commute.

My kid has gained three pounds this month and I can’t freaking lift him up. He’s always been a timid eater, and he’s now scarfing down adult portions and taking seconds and eating veggies and taking two hour dinners. Who is this guy?

Preschool still has no space for us. This kid is going to be in college before I get him the hell away from me for a couple of hours a week. In fact, he told me he wants to go to college right now because he wants to be an ultrasound technician so he can push all the buttons. Fine by me, dude.

A street sweeping ticket is $48?! For what? I’ll get out a push broom and clear the tiny bit of stuff from under my car. Don’t you people have better ways to raise money?