Me: Peanut, please take off your clothes for bath.
…
M: Pea, it’s bath time. Please take off your clothes.
…
M: Peanut. You’re in the bathroom with your clothes on. What’s the deal? I’m asking you patiently. Please take off your clothes.
P: Mommy? You’re boring.
M: You mean it’s boring to hear the same words over and over.
P: Yup.
M: Well, gotta tell you, bud. It’s boring to say something over and over. Tell you what. You listen the first time, and I won’t have to say it again.
P: That’s still boring.
M: Well, you’ve got me there, buddy. Having rules and being clean and getting naked is boring.
P: No it’s not! Watch! Naked is fun.
Category Archives: Child Wrangling
Soothsayer
Parenting dilemma:
We try to be all gentle and attachment parent-y and respectful and non-carrot-and-stick-y here at Chez Naptime, and we’ve found ourselves perched on a parenting dilemma. We don’t do the authoritative parenting thing; it’s really not our way or the highway. We’re here to teach and we’re here to learn. There are some inviolable rules, but most things, when they don’t deal with safety or or treating human beings gently, are open to negotiation. I’ve posted here before about how open we are with language, with profanity, with ideas.
We try to respect our son as a person (no such respect for the soon-to-be child because that bugger will get way more say in our lives than we want, as it is, so for now it just gets giggles for its spleenectomy skills and and is otherwise ignored) and demand the same respect from Peanut. We’re not his servants. We’re people. We respond to polite talk and ignore grouchy talk. We respond to all manner of emotions and honor them without correction, but won’t listen to whining. Cry if you’re sad, ask for a hug if you’re angry, laugh loudly and unabated if you’re happy. Find an alternative to hitting and yelling. And we try to practice what we preach. Try. The yelling part is hard.
Blah blah, blah, Nap, get to the juicy stuff.
Fine. Preschool has been an interesting lesson in other children, a really informative lesson on gentle parenting options (Bev Bos inspired co-op means there are lots of great parents there all the time and I’ve learned from them), and a crash course in crappy child behavior. Several whiners, a few takers, and lots and lots of exclusion and surliness. All age-appropriate, all carefully handled and redirected, all exhausting. Most of which is coming straight home for practice.
So Peanut spent a week or so sticking his tongue out when he was displeased. I didn’t want to make too big a deal out of it (grand scheme of things, a universally recognized sign of displeasure, freaking hilarious, pretty innocuous; but not something I’m gonna put up with long term because I find it offensive and don’t want to be the mom whose kid does that to grandparents.) I mentioned each time that we don’t do that because it’s just not friendly and if you disagree it’s time to use your words. Fine. Tongue is mostly gone.
What we have now is “poopy.” As in “NO! You’re a poopy Mommy!” Or “Get out of here you poopy Daddy!” And my favorite: “Why do we have to have cats? You’re poopy cats and I’m gonna flush you down!”
Now, I don’t care about the scatalogical reference. I’m one of those Moms who plays along when he says he’s making a stew of squirrel eyeballs and whale poop in his pint-sized kitchen. I grab a bowl and pretend eat and tell him how disgusting it is and can we please add worms for texture. I don’t mind honoring his need to tell me off and to distance himself from me when I’m saying something he doesn’t like. he’s allowed to his opinions, even if they’re strong and anti-Mom.
But I don’t particularly like being called poopy. Not in the “I’ve sacrificed everything I am and want to be so I can take care of you, you ingrate, so show some respect” kind of way. Close, though.
I also think I need to manage the beginning of the name-calling phase. Calling people names isn’t nice. It’s hurtful. Poopy is not a big deal, but it’s teaching him about power and language and derision, and I think I need to parent here instead of hoping it goes away if I ignore it.
So, I ran it by my “how would you feel if he did that in front of your sister-in-law” radar, which is a pretty accurate measure of how I judge acceptable versus not acceptable (I can’t use the older generation, because they disagree with just about everything we do, and we don’t particularly agree with their parenting values, either. My s-i-l has a similar parenting philosophy about most issues and a lot more experience, common sense, and patience than I do, so that’s where I go).
And my sil radar is befuddled. I don’t know what she would do. She might laugh (though she’s one of those awesome parents who’s smart enough to turn away or leave the room before laughing so the behavior could hypothetically be corrected at some point). She might casually say there are better ways to tell Mom no and let’s try some. She might ignore it. She wouldn’t yell or punish him, which some of the parents who I respect would. I don’t judge that impulse. I just don’t want to pick this, Battle No. 367 of today’s 928 battles for time out or yelling or general stakes-raising.
So I don’t know. Do I ignore being poopy? For, let’s be honest, I’m a grouchy pregnant woman facing her last few weeks of productivity with a list of things to finish a mile long, and am quite often a scatalogical word that he doesn’t even know yet, but that might correspond with “poopy.” Do I use “poopy” as a springboard for discussing how to talk to people and how to disagree in ways that wins friends and influences people? Do I let it run its course without the reinforcement of attention? Do I send him to Grumpa’s house for the beginning of his medieval training in “back in my day”? (Yup. Just called Grumpa several names, but in a way that seems simply delightful. See how much I have to teach a child? I can’t let “poopy” go without teaching Peanut to push real buttons, right?)
I know I don’t want to cut him off and make him think it’s not okay to disagree with me. I want to honor the independence without approving the fecality of this recent phase. I want to stop overthinking the small stuff but want to catch the big stuff early when it’s manageable.
Suggestions?
Holy handful, batboy!
Oh, boy, do we have a handful and a half living in our house.
Thankfully, the past few weeks have been quite enjoyable. Sure, we’ve had age-appropriate struggles and nonsense and frustrations, but totally in proportion to what normal children dish out. Nothing like the batshit insane we often endure (barely) here at Chez Nap (see for instance the popular posts that involve my child being a bit off-the-charts in general), or that they have handled for many more moons over at Bad Mommy Moments.
This weekend, when gently instructing Peanut on the reasons we do not jump on the furniture in our house, he told me, “Don’t worry about me, Mommy. Just worry about yourself.” I usually give a gentle but firm lecture about respect and ways that we talk to other people before leaving the room to laugh my ass off, but I didn’t make it. I burst out giggling, and then called Spouse over for a conference. I had heard those words before. Directly out of my alleged partner’s mouth. So that Peanut announcement, though saucy, was not entirely his fault.
Today, though, while we were climbing at best of the neighborhood’s awesome rock parks, he told me, “Look, Mom, I’m almost four and that’s older than you, so just climb your rock and let me do my day.”
Um….so torn…want you to grow up. Dig the independence. Absolutely groove on you pushing back. But dude? That rock is several stories high, and covered in moss and rain. Also? I’d leave you here in a heartbeat after a comment like that if I hadn’t already invested quite a bit of care and hypervigilance and patience and reason and what was left of my sanity over the past few years. If you didn’t have so damned much Mama Equity in you, you’d be on your own.
So instead I played along. “Well, yes, almost-four is older than almost-forty, so you’d better go to college and get a job and find an affordable house and get a mortgage and pay your way, because otherwise, I’m gonna be the boss for a few more years.”
His answer? Predictably: “Just worry about yourself, Mom. Don’t worry about me.” Would that such a thing were possible, dude. Before we left for the rock park, I was thinking “four down, twenty to go.” But we all know I won’t stop worrying (or butting in) after another 20 years. Sweat equity, patience capital, and sanity stakeholding and all.
Valentine love
You know how sappy I am? Those to whom I send huge gobs of Valentine love this year are the select awesome and thoughtful people who sent my son a Valentine. He got five or six this year, and he’s over-the-moon thrilled. If they had *any* idea what getting a glittery card in the mail meant to him, I know they’d be pretty proud of how happy they made a wonderful little person.
What sweet, thoughtful people. Thanks, family and friends. It doesn’t take much, and you are so freaking cool to have thought of this.
Happy VD to all, and to all a good night.
The results are in…
I’ve taken every online quiz to determine, through the magic of the Internet, the gender of this baby.
Old wives’ tales and superstitions, which are always 100% medically, historically, and computationally accurate, can be compiled with simple software prestidigitations. Of course how your uterus looks is determined by the baby’s gender. How could it not be?
And the results?
Quiz #1 60% chance for a boy
Quiz #2 too early to tell. try back later (um, people, any later and it will be easier to look in the kid’s diaper)
Quiz #3 60% chance for a girl
Quiz #4 57% chance for a girl
Quiz #5 62% chance for a boy
Quiz # 6 It’s a girl
Quiz #7 It’s a boy
Seriously, Internet coders, you’ve just wasted seventeen minutes of my time. Now, please, come up with a better quiz. Or at least one that takes longer. I have stuff to do and need to procrastinate.
Do I crave orange juice? That’s the best you can do? Here’s my official, fool-proof guaranteed to be accurate pregnancy quiz.
1. Are you experiencing a)uncontrollable rage or b)a new inner peace?
2. Were you a)wildly sick the first trimester or b)felt fine?
3. Are you a)dreaming sweet thoughts of baby or b)terrified out of your gourd about the future?
Tally the number of As and the number of Bs. If you have more As you have a 50% chance of having a boy and if you have more Bs you have a 50% chance of having a girl. If you answered every question “some of both” you have my sympathies, because you’re clearly insane probably having a baby soon.
Guaranteed.
Paul Simon agrees with us
Appropos of yesterday’s post, Peanut today put in a Paul Simon CD to which I sang along. With gusto.
“Well that was your mother
And that was your father
Before you wuz born, dude
When life was great.
Now you are the burden
Of my generation
I sure do love you
Let’s get that straight.”
Oh, my dear Mr. Simon. Why did I not *hear* you before?
Et toi!
Still ambivalent after all these years
Simon and Garfunkel sang that, didn’t they? Before the crazy version, there was being stuck between a rock and a sheer-faced cliff? Thought so.
Since the inception of this blog, I have wrestled publicly with the dilemma that I love my child and rather dislike parenting. Love, love, love the kid. Don’t get me wrong or send angry emails. Love the child. Dislike the job. It’s not a popular riff, and it’s not often said, so I feel like I’m talking to a (rather horrified) brick wall when I explain to people who ask, that I’m experiencing a range of emotions about being a breeder (ooops, there’s my problem right there, because Americans know the correct answers are “Fine” to “How are you?” and “It’s the best thing I’ve ever done” to “How do you like being a Mom?” regardless of how you feel. But I always forget that social rule and actually hear, process, and answer questions as they’re posed. Silly, poorly socialized me.)
So when someone the other day asked if I was excited about the new baby, my initial response was typical for me, caught between the headlights of social expectations and my still unabashed tendency toward truth:
Blink. Blink. Blink.
Don’t make me say the obvious: of course…yes and no…sort of…I think so…absolutely…blink blink blink. Here’s the thing, at least for me. The dive into parenthood, at least the first time, is like asking a solitary, heliophilic (lover of sunshine, not bleeder, though that might work, too), claustrophic acrophobe (nasty fear of heights…bear with me) to live the remainder of their life as a bat.
YES, there are beautiful sights to take in while you’re flying. Glorious smells and sounds and vistas unknown to humans. At…uhem…night. In the sky. Kind of high. Admittedly, there is awesome fruit to be had. A thousand times, yes, I love mangoes. Back at home, though, my small, cramped cave is filled with lots of smelly others who insist I hang upside down from the ceiling and avoid the sun. So admitting having mixed feelings seems less revolutionary than honest and, well, mandatory.
The whole foreign country/alien planet thing I’ve heard from other moms about the upending shock of plunging from independence and coherence into the unblinking and rapid-fire world of parenting implies that the surroundings have changed. Nay. Same place. I’m just living upside down. At night. By new rules with new people whom I simply don’t get. Their way is totally right for them, and it makes sense, and it’s quite lovely. But it’s godawful uncomfortable for me.
And the thought of doing it again really, really soon means less shock and more…upside down, claustrophobic, ceiling-clinging, guano-filled days. I know where to find the fun, but I don’t know how to escape when the not-so-fun threatens to overwhelm. Because you know what? (And I risk being a bit overdramatic here, but I defy you to prove me wrong….) there is no escape.
[Maybe that’s why our culture makes such a big deal about bats. It’s not the three out of, like 400 species of otherwise frugivorous bats who drink blood. It’s the fact that we know, deep down, that I’m totally awesome at similies and metaphors, and that a lot of us are living, at once by choice and against our will, in caves filled with other upside down mammals.]
So I’m learning and I’m flying and I’m having copious amounts of fun. But home isn’t home…it’s claustrophobic and smelly. And going outside is different and new and overwhelming. That sense of displacement, of not just where did I go? but where did the world go? is a little disconcerting.
Once or twice. AND twice.
Consider that next time I just stare at you and blink blink. Blink.
Blink.
Sick babes
Oh, poor little Peanut. Poor, poor little guy. Couple of days of fever, couple of drippy nose days, now a cough and copious vomit. Poor, poor guy.
{Pssst. Over here. I know this is a terrible thing to say, but what a relief it is when this child is sick. Thankfully, illness is rare for him. We’re lucky. I don’t want to underestimate how lucky we are to have a healthy child. But with a child who has enough energy to power the Eastern Seaboard, who has strong opinions, is persistent and intense and verbal and really more than I can handle, nothing says “relaxing day” like a fever or puking. I basically get a day off to adore him with a rare minimum of effort. Sick days (as long as I’m not sick, too) are days off, parenting-wise. I’m loving and wonderful and he’s grateful and cuddly. And quiet. He’s quiet, people! LOVE it. But I can’t say that out loud. It would be wrong to say that out loud.}
I hope he feels better soon. Poor guy.
Bad, bad, bad
I knew this would happen, and I knew it would happen once Peanut got to school. He now knows the word “bad.”
We avoided that word for the first four years of his life, because he doesn’t need it. There are few really “bad” things in this world, and those are so off-the-charts horrible that he doesn’t need to know about them. We’ll spare the discussions about terrorism, homicide, and even theft and greed until later. Most people are basically good, but some can make better choices. When we say it that way, everyone has a chance, you know? Someone at school who has a grumpy day and takes toys or hits needs to know there are better ways to be angry. But she’s not bad. Most cats expressing themselves with feces are frustrated and need understanding and training. They are not bad. Their actions are frustrating and disgusting and won’t be tolerated, but the cat, himself, is not bad. In our house, fruit rots; it’s not bad. We feel ill or crummy; not bad. I’m not saying that this approach is right; I’m just explaining why it was weird to hear my child use the word “bad.”
Just as I tried hard to teach P that I love him and I don’t like hitting, so he knew that the person and the action are not the same thing, we tried to teach him that some things were good choices and some were not good choices. We never needed the word “bad” and we liked it that way.
So when he came home last week and asked what “bad” meant, I said it can mean a lot of things; where did he hear it and I could tell him what the person meant. “Big bad wolf tried to get in some pig houses.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, I know that story, and I guess, in that case, they mean bad because the wolf ruins the pig houses and scares them and doesn’t listen to their words. So in that case, bad is kind of like ‘not being nice’.”
So, predictably, for the next few days, he tried out his new condemnation on a variety of subjects. The cat is bad, Mom is bad, Dad is bad, this macaroni is bad…I’m going out of my mind. Because I want to let him try it, and not call attention to it for all the reasons parents *know* not to call attention to behaviors they don’t like, but that word KILLS me. It’s like a 1950s black and white world where we judge people and count them out because of one poor choice.
Spouse and I don’t say “good boy” because it makes him seek praise for any action, laudable or otherwise. Labeling a child good makes them second guess their every move to see if someone else will tell them they are good, instead of finding their own sense of self worth and justice. And being a “good boy” or a “bad boy” implies a permanence. There are no all good or all bad children. There are people who need better parenting and time to learn and help finding better choices. Even those people don’t have “bad” parents. They have parents who don’t know better or who don’t try hard enough.
Anyway. I’m miffed about the “bad.” Other parents freak when their kid comes home spewing four-letter words and I’m thrown at just three.
Arsenic and old babies
Peanut: I’m eating the apple and the seeds.
Me: I wouldn’t eat the seeds if I were you, P.
P: Why?
M: Because they concentrate arsenic, a yucky chemical that can hurt your body. Eating one seed won’t matter, but don’t try to eat them, please.
P: Why?
M: Not good for your body.
P: [pause] Maybe we could name the baby Arsenic.
M: It’s a nice word, isn’t it?
P: Yeah. Can we name the baby that?
M: Probably not, P, because I want to name the baby something nice, not something that will hurt people.
P: Why?
M: Well, when the baby is little, we don’t want people to worry that it might hurt them, and when its big we don’t want people to worry that it might hurt them. Arsenic can hurt you, so nice word but not a great name.
P: Can we name the baby Hitting?
M: That’s a little more direct than arsenic, but no.
P: Why?
M: Nice names, not hurting names.
P: Maybe we could name the baby Pretend Hitting.
M: Maybe.
Wit’s end
Well, we’re on Day Four of absolutely unacceptable behavior at Chez Nap. In the past six days we’ve had four days of unbelievable, out of control, unreasonable, tantrum and violent outburst horseshit. And I’m running out of ideas for not beating my kid.
This morning Peanut played by himself for about 20 minutes, then asked for help making a fort. I tried several different ways of helping and each time he screamed at me that I was doing it wrong. So I offered to sit back and watch, and he agreed but told me to leave the room. When I sat in the next room and watched, he yelled at me to come play with him. I told him if he could speak nicely to me, I would play with him, but that I wouldn’t respond to yelling. He asked nicely. He pretended to fix his bike, and asked me to join him. Every tool I touched, every bicycle part I looked at, he screamed that I was doing it wrong. Mind you, we never tell him there is such thing as wrong. Everybody does things differently. Everybody has different ideas. Blah blah kumbaya.
So after being yelled at three times I told him I was going to go read in another room. He sobbed he needed me. I told him I’d try one more time but if he told me I was doing it wrong or if he yelled, I was leaving. Tried. Yelled at me to stop doing what I was trying. Left.
Now he was screaming, sobbing. Not having any of this, I calmly told him I would respond to nice requests for play but i don’t play with people who yell at me: not at home, not at work, not with my friends, not with my family. He screamed at me to go out in the pouring rain and 50mph winds to get him a cookie. Amazingly, I didn’t laugh. I’m open to having a cookie with breakfast, and we have two varieties in the house. But I’m not leaving in this weather to get you a different cookie. (I held back the “You freaking maniac weird-ass hostage taker.”)
He lost it. Screaming, throwing. I calmly said I didn’t tolerate this and would be in my room when he was ready to talk calmly. He threw child-sized furniture at my closed door. (No joke. Wish it was. Little chair, little step stool, little doll bed.) I was tempted to open the door and correct that behavior, but I knew I’d manhandle the little f—er and am trying really hard to model better anger choices. Like hiding in my room taking deep breaths.
When he calmed down I came out to talk. And he hit me. I used my words and he hit me again.
So I dissembled the fort. I kept responding calmly that we don’t treat people this way. That angry is okay and that hitting is not okay. That angry feels like too much but that cuddles or talking or breathing help. He hit me with his stuffed monkey and I put the monkey in timeout. And he lost it even more. I restrained him in my lap while he raged, but he sunk into a slump of sobbing after a few seconds. He cried in my lap for probably ten minutes.
After the bodysnatchers replaced the angry shell of jerk they had filled with nonsense and crazymaking with my son, I fed him, I talked to him, I played with him. And when the whole series started again an hour later, I just picked him up, kicking and screaming, and put him in the car. Because if we stayed home I would have beat him. We drove around for half an hour. And when he said he was ready to find new ways to be angry, I took him home. We ate lunch, we played Candyland, and we napped.
And I’m telling you, readers, I will not take another day like this.
This is not about me not entertaining him enough…there is a tidy house with a new project and lots of old, well loved toys available every morning. I help when asked, stay away when asked, and offer suggestions when asked. And if he’s at a loss, I initiate something fun and invite him to join me.
I’m doing my part. Now what the hell do I do with him?
Seriously. What do I do? What are the patient, gentle, respectful options? I will not be an emotional martyr in my own house.
Every evening at dinner we go around the table and ask each other: What made you feel happy today? When did you feel sad? Frustrated? Angry? Surprised? Excited?
And when Peanut asked me tonight what made me happy I burst into tears.
Take this job and shove it
This morning, as Peanut screamed an ranted that on movie day we *do not* have breakfast before movies and we might as well put him in an orphanage if we were going to be so cruel as to make and eat french toast on a holiday morning of family togetherness because ksdfjberijdfvbkja!! (I didn’t understand the last part, either) I told Spouse that *none* of my previous bosses acted this way. The guy I thought misunderstood my role in the company? Never screamed and danced the jig of impotent anger. And he gives a lot to charity. The corporate drones who stacked atop each other to Fortune 100 cloud-top perches never raged in my face while I tried to pee. The woman who ran a great company and gave me more respect, autonomy, and credit than I deserved never tried to bite me while repeatedly shrieking my name. And the other bosses, at companies large and small, generally had flaws that were within the bounds of propriety, reason, and social acceptance. Even if I didn’t appreciate it at the time.
I think it might be time for a job outside the home. The things I do best—writing, editing, and researching—are ideally done, for me, independently from home. But my home ain’t what it used to be and there’s no way to expect that I can gather together my shredded dignity, sanity, and intelligence to freelance while this monster and his soon-to-be-omnipresent sibling live here.
No doubt that, in a tough economy, many firms are clamoring to hire women who are 7 months pregnant. Right?
Babies are cute and cuddly…
…but they grow up.
Awoke yesterday morning to a small child climbing onto our bed. Cowboy hat, cat mask, and Mardis Gras beads which he was swinging over his head and cracking like a whip. I greeted him sweetly as I got smacked with beads and mentioned that necklaces are for wearing, not hitting. He said, “But that’s what I’m trying to do. I’m in the mood to hurt somebody.”
He’s nothing if not self aware.
It got much, much worse from there. I offered to take him to a playground to get out his energy (at 7am. Because I know how these days go.) He refused and tried to antagonize me by throwing clean laundry from the basket onto me. I refused to take the bait and offered to brush his teeth for breakfast. He took of his socks, threw them, then SCREAMED “Go get my socks!”
Um, no.
For the next 30 minutes, he kicked and sobbed and screamed at the top of his lungs that I should get his socks. I calmly replied, each time, that he took off his socks, he threw them, and he could get them if he wanted. After he screamed even more loudly, I left the room, explaining that I don’t stay in the same room as people who act this way, but that I’d be happy to play with him or talk to him when he’s calmed down. He slammed doors and began to throw books. I escorted him out of my room and told him he could not be in my room if he was unable to control his anger. I told him asking for a hug was a great way to help get some calm when your anger feels like too much. He hugged me and clawed at my back. I stood up and told him I wouldn’t hug someone who tried to hurt me. He asked for another hug. I squatted to give him one and he pulled my hair with his teeth.
This went on and on and on for almost an hour, with me calmly removing myself and him escalating. I had more patience in reserve because the day before I had screamed at him when he bit me, and had grabbed him so hard (to tell him that hurting people when you’re angry is not okay), that Spouse noticed abrasions under Peanut’s armpits at bathtime. Carrying luggage on your shoulder through the whole Denver airport kind of broken capillary marks. Peanut said they didn’t hurt, and there were no bruises, but I was horrified and mortified and guilt ridden. So the next morning my remorse allowed one full hour of bullshit to get only calm, measured, parental responses. Because I’d rather teach him that freaking out doesn’t have any benefit, and that controlling anger is a useful skill. But I’m a terrible role model. Awful. Horrible. Trying to reform. Feeling penitent when small person has trouble with anger because he has two quick-tempered, often angry parents. Who have vowed never to hit or hurt him for all the reasons that wielding violence and fear do not work. One of whom just totally failed.
And then he stopped. After an hour of shouting at me and holding me emotional hostage he asked, “‘if I get my socks would you please put them on?”
Yes, I will.
“Thanks. Can I please have a blanket so I can lie down on the couch? I’m exhausted.”
Ya think?
And after Spouse got back from his morning track meet I left the house for the rest of the day. I had several projects to finish this weekend, including a reread of a book I’m editing, and I just couldn’t bear another day of anger and screaming and nonsense. It felt so good to sit in the car reading, to wander a grocery store slowly and without having to explain/correct/process/direct anybody else, it overwhelmed me. Why do I never get any time to think or be alone?
This…THIS…is what happens after I get a week of really impressive fun and tolerable behavior from my intense, persistent, sensitive, shy, empathic, high energy kid. An hour of screaming and biting and hitting. Most days are a mix of wonderful and terrible. If I get more than one day of wonderful, I pay in spades. [All the people who are impressed with his behavior on trips? THIS is what we get when we arrive home and he needs to decompress from all that “being good” (which we never label or praise it but which members of a different generation can’t seem to resist endlessly extolling).]
Gee, after mornings like that, why do I seem so scared to have two?
This week in mass confusion
Peanut: Mommy, I’m making duds. Do you know what a “dud” is?
Me: Something that doesn’t work?
P: No. Something that works really well. Not “dud.” “Duds.”
later…
P: Mommy, do you know what “mashed” means?
M: Smushed?
P: No. Something that is really working. Mashed. Really working well.
later…
P: I’m doing a mash.
M: Oh. Does that still mean you’re doing something well?
P: Yup. It’s so mashed it’s not going to be terribled.
Oh my heavens, I think my many careers in words and wordsmithing might be over. Clearly I don’t understand words as well as I think I do.
Been around the block
So as Baby 2 looms large in our thoughts for the next few weeks, I’ve been taking stock of our old baby gear, and deciding what needs an upgrade and what we missed the first time. Here are a few things I learned after doing the minimalist, all-you-need-are-cloth-diapers-and-boobs route with Peanut.
Keep in mind, this is not a complete list, and is only what I have learned from obsessing over every piece of advice I’ve been given over the past five years. Your results may vary.
A baby will grow up to resent you if you don’t have a wipes warmer.
Hand-me-down clothes probably pose a choking hazard. Probably.
If you get wooden, Waldorf toys, your child will go through a really nasty, anti-social period somewhere between ages 2 and 45.
If you have plastic, battery-powered toys, your baby will never learn anything. Ever.
People you don’t know will make sure to tell you how terrible it is to have your child in a stroller, so get a sling.
Strangers will approach you just to criticize your parenting if you wear your child in a sling, so buy a stroller.
Your child will never develop proper self esteem if you don’t have a book custom printed with their name as the title character.
Babies who don’t have a swing and a bouncy seat and a crib music box will cry and cry and cry the first three months.
People in the supermarket will look at you as though you have seven heads if you don’t have a ruffled car seat cover for your child.
People in the supermarket will look at you as though you have eight heads if you do.
Get shoes on your baby immediately after birth, or your child will never learn to walk.
You must teach your child at least one foreign language before it turns one, or you can forget about college.
You will regret, for the rest of your life, not having a pacifier leash.
Your child will be emotionally damaged, forever, if you use a pacifier.
The more expensive the stroller is, the better it is.
If you eschew bibs and just wash the baby’s dirty clothes, the Department of Child Protective Services will come calling.
If you don’t get a video baby monitor, you must not love your child.
You are cheating your child if you do not use the right baby soap, lotion, and shampoo. Every day. Because babies are *that* dirty.
Your baby will eventually need therapy if its sheets don’t match the comforter that you have to keep folded in the closet because comforters are a SIDS risk.
You child will never make friends if you make your own baby food.
You child will reach puberty at age 6 if you use store-bought baby food.
Doesn’t matter what approach you use to potty learning. Without a singing toilet, no child ever gets out of diapers.
This list, by the way, has been brought to you by the number 2, the letter Y, and the American Council on You Name the Life Event and I’ll Show You the Obscenely Long Shopping List of Must-Haves.
(Seriously, if you post a comment that all babies need is a safe place to sleep either with a sober grownup or by themselves; something to wear; a pair of functioning breasts or some non-melamine replacement; and a loving family, I will hunt you down and force-feed you rancid hemp protein. Mostly because we tried that stuff once and now just let it take up space in the guilt cupboard of healthy-food-that-tastes-nasty. Yeesh, it’s gross.)
NaptimeWriting 