Not for the Squeamish: 2009

A Christmas Story

Having the G-man born right before xmas is not what we planned, although at first on paper, it didn't really matter too much. Scott and I haven't done a real xmas celebration in years, choosing to focus on our anniversary that's just a few days later. So it seemed that a birthday on the 20th just gave us something new to enjoy during the traditional holiday season. But kids have a way of changing plans and we realized last year that xmas needs to come back for his sake, complete with tree, decorations, visits to santa, music and more. So now prep work starts really early, as in a span of 11 days we have his birthday, xmas, our anniversary and new year's.

I should tell you that one reason we didn't do a big xmas thing is that we're atheists. Hard to be sometimes in a judeo-christian culture - heavy on the christian - with people proselytizing about "the reason for the season". Although we both really enjoy the message of the holidays, promoting peace, love, charity and goodwill, it seemed a little hypocritical for us to celebrate what was once traditionally a religious event. Of course, that tradition seems to take quite the back-burner now, so fear not those worried that G-man will miss a big part of American childhood, the pageantry is back.

The funny thing is, the universe tried to give us our own reason for the season when he was born. It's something I never would have put together, but my mother pointed it out while we were still searching for his name. Jokingly, she said we should call him Jesus, then proceeded to say why. And so, I bring you the xmas story of the G-man's birth:

When I went into labor, there was no room at the inn. Our pre-registered, pre-toured, pre-everything christian-named St. Luke's hospital was full and we were diverted. To Menorah. That's right, as in hanukkah lights.

Unless the hospital has a helicopter pad with a light on it, I don't think G-man had a special star, but it was a beautiful, cloudless night (the ice storm came as we were taking him home) to guide us on our momentous journey to a place we'd never been to, where we would eventually have to register his birth and our status as a family.

Once there, our Jewish OB delivered the wee one, while our Jewish pediatrician gave him the seal of approval.

Throughout it all, our primary nurse was named...Angel.

And of course, we didn't expect him to come in December, much less before the 25th, so we had no presents on hand for his first holiday. But not to despair, as a wise man in the form of my father arrived on the 24th bearing three gifts - hooded towels, a ball glove and a onesie outfit. I'm pretty sure these are the modern forms of gold, frankincense and myrrh, right?

Now I'm not saying anyone worships him yet, although he is damn cute, or that he'll grow up to inspire stories of peace in his name, but to us he is special and worth celebrating any day of the year.

Mitten War claims first casualty

This morning, a minor skirmish in the daily battle of the Great Mitten War of 2009 turned into a major setback for the offensive forces as a Mommy Mitten went missing in action.

The loss occurred somewhere about 30 minutes into the journey during a failed attempt at a sneak attack when G-man's hands looked like a prime target - cold, exposed and not holding on to a toy. Sadly, said mitten vanished in just a few moments. When the air cleared and the screaming died down, it was nowhere to be found. Not in the stroller, not on the sidewalk, not hidden in a pocket.

Sigh.

So farewell to thee, super soft, super warm, super wonderful left mitten. You will be avenged.

Thoughts on two

Today is the G-man's second birthday! He doesn't seem too fazed by it, but I, for one, am amazed.

Of course, I knew I had to do a posting to mark this momentous occasion. But there's so many directions I can take this and I thought about it this weekend as we celebrated. Should I talk about how it's all gone so fast? How he's changed so much? How I've changed so much? What I'm looking forward to this next year or what I liked best about this past one?

I'd almost settled on a reflection of how I've never been bothered by toys that make noise until we were bombarded with a seemingly endless supply of LOUD sound effects when he opened his many, many noisy gifts. Seriously, he has a puzzle that could make you want to blow your eardrums out. A puzzle. Let's not get started on the tractors, trucks, airplane, magnets and more that make the THX sound test at theatres seem like a whisper. And when the clamor dies down, where to put them all?!

But then, as I was cuddling and rocking him at bedtime, my last thoughts were how lucky he is and how lucky we are.

For two years, he's had plenty of food, toys to educate and entertain, an extensive wardrobe, friends and activities to enjoy, a comfortable, safe environment and an enormous amount of love showered upon him. We, in turn, have had the privilege to provide these without hardship, be with him at the big and little moments in his life and feel love in return.

Sadly, not everyone can say this.

There are children his age that don't have enough of one or more of these, be it love, money or safety. Who aren't rocked to sleep because their parent is at their third job of the day, or they don't have a house of their own or they simply don't have someone that cares to do it.

There are parents that dream of more for their kids - not the dream of upgrading their bedroom to a play suite, but the wish for comfort, security, good health, a full tummy and the opportunity to spend more time with them and see them thrive. For these parents, the challenge of finding space for all of the toys is one they'd gladly take on if it meant having toys for their little ones. Perhaps they wish to be woken in the middle of the night a million times to bring yet another drink of water instead of saying goodnight as they leave a child in a hospital.

With everything going on in our lives, it can be hard to remember that others aren't as fortunate. As G-man's birthday is near xmas, it's a little more on everyone's mind at this time of year, but I'll admit it's a topic that I've thought of many times as I've held him or shopped for him or wondered about his future.

These past two years have been an eye opening experience. While not every moment can be called blissful (hello colic! good morning tantrum! ooh, blowout!), every moment is ours to cherish, share and build upon. I thank the G-man for helping me connect more with myself and my world, and I look forward to what tomorrow brings, as long as we're together.

Sweet melody

One of my fantasies is to be the lead singer in a band. At the very least, maybe a member of a show chorus or have a decent voice in the shower. I don't think any of these will ever be true. But I've loved being a mom, partly because I can sing unabashedly whenever, wherever and not have to worry about what I sound like. If someone at the market hears me, so be it. I don't care what they think and I have license to croon.

Until now.

The G-man used to love it when I sang. He would calm down as a baby, and then as he learned to talk, he'd ask me to sing certain songs. It was wonderful. I don't care if it's the same song over and over and he didn't care if I only knew one verse and it was out of tune. Then one day, he said no.

No sing. NOOOOO! (feet kick, hands thrash)

Now my go-to distraction and my feel-good parts of the day are gone. I knew someday he'd realize mommy can't sing, but I never thought it would be so soon. Does this mean he's a musical genius with a keen ear for melody? Or that my voice can make a toddler, who thinks the sound of a trash truck in reverse is glorious, cringe in despair.

So now I guess my only outlet is serenading the dog and cat, and trust me, I do this already. I can only hope they don't file a petition with the ASPCA over it.

The Great Mitten War of 2009

Lately it's been freaky ass cold here. Mid/late January cold when it's only December. Below zero wind chills and all that jazz.

Still, the dog has to be walked and the G-man isn't old enough to stay home on his own with a cup of cocoa and crossword puzzle yet. So every morning, we pack into the stroller and head out. For these freezing days, he's been squished into a variety of layers, coats, hats, pants, sweaters, then tucked into a few blankets. Which he immediately kicks off.

And there lies the problem.

Turns out, G-man doesn't like blankets. Or hats. Or shoes and socks. And most of all, he hates mittens.

Just mentioning mittens can toss him into a frenzy. I tried to tell him once that they kept his hands toasty. Now he loudly complains, "No toasty! No toasty!" if I even bring them out. I have three different pairs for him and all are met with overt distain.

Every low-temp day is another battle in the mitten war. Let's face it, I need to win. Not for pride, but for his own safety and my sanity. I simply can't let his fingers freeze off. He's going to need them. Actually, he needs them now, he just doesn't realize it.

I'm not an ogre. For trips in the car or going in and out of places, he can be mitten-free. But the walk? That's a long time, made longer when I have to stop every three feet and either replace the mittens on his hands, pick up the mittens, quell the screaming dervish rebelling against the mittens or wait for the dog to find the perfect blade of grass to pee on. There's a reason we need an hour to cover 2.5 miles.

One day, while being annoyed by insomnia, I realized if I walked the dog before G-man woke up, I could avoid the daily drama. So that's how super-pooch and I came to be roaming the streets at 4:00 in the morning. Poor Tino, not only did I wake him up and get him out from under his warm covers, I didn't even offer him mittens.

Lately, we've reached an unsteady compromise: he wails, fights and wriggles for a while, then succumbs to wearing my mittens. Sure, he can still shake them off, but it takes longer. And I have the patience to keep at it. Sometimes I can even distract him for the first few moments and he'll forget he's wearing them. But really, I just need to book it and get this over with, knowing that spring is only three months away.

Happy, healthy, safe and sound

There's a superstition that says when you see that the time on the clock has all the same numbers (2:22, 3:33, 4:44, etc.), you make a wish. I didn't really start doing it until the G-man. Now it's the same every time: that he's happy, healthy, safe and sound.

Why is that my wish? There are so many other things I could wish for; for the world, myself or G-man. But it comes down to those four things. I think it started when I was still pregnant - that was the wish I had for my baby. It covers it all.

Happy

Of course we want our kids to be happy. But I'm not talking about the "got what I wanted" happiness, but true internal joy. I wish for him to be happy with who he is, the kind that is secure in the knowledge that he is loved and he is worth it. It's first because I think it is my overarching wish for him. Even if the other three didn't really materialize the way I think they should, I want him to enjoy his world, whatever that is, and simply know happiness.

Healthy

Truth be told, sometimes I do switch the order with Happy because I selfishly want Healthy first. If he's healthy, that's one thing less to worry about and then I can focus again on happy. But this one is pretty obvious. Other than those, uh, unique people that inflict Munchausen's by Proxy, no one wishes for their loved ones to be sick. While I know G-man is going to come down with his share of obnoxious germs, I wish I could spare him from the smallest cold to a catastrophic illness. Above all, I hope he has a strong immune system and that sickness doesn't rule his life and, you guessed it, make him unhappy.

Safe

Another broad topic that covers the big and the little. I wish for G-man to have a safe environment, from stuff like splinters in his finger to toxins in the air. I want him to feel safe and be safe. I try not to let this turn me into an overprotective parent (in fact, my mother says I act more like I'm on my sixth than my first). I do the "right" things of babyproofing and keep him from running into the street, but I'll admit I let him eat off of the floor and run on concrete. Yet one of my biggest fears is that he'll be in a situation where he's scared and doesn't feel safe...or gets hurt/sick (unhealthy) or is not happy.

Sound

At first, this point wasn't Sound; it was Strong. But when I really thought about it, I realized that while being strong (in character, spirit and maybe physically) can be important, I'd rather he be sound. Sound in mind, sound in body. I hope that he is able to think, learn and do. Knowing who he is, how he can grow and having the ability to achieve his goals can make him safe, keep him healthy and lead to happiness.

So now you know what I really want for xmas...and beyond.

Chugga...chugga...chugga...chugga...

Earlier this year, the G-man had an almost unnatural affection for hoses. If we went anywhere that had a hose, he was hooked. I started compiling photos of him with the hoses about town. He talked about them in the stroller. He thought (and kind of still does) that anything resembling a hose - an electric cord, piece of rope, the phone lines - was a hose. It was cute. Odd, but cute.

Then came the lawn mowers. Oh, to see a lawn getting mowed! Professional crews amazed him. A neighbor doing a trim was fascinating. We scheduled time for scott to mow so G-man could watch. All around the neighborhood he spied mowers, heard mowers, talked about mowers. We ordered him some mower brochures from Honda to "read" and he loved them. He still gets a kick out of the lawn mower but it's nothing to call an intervention on.

After the lawn mowers, I learned he loves tractors. LOVES tractors. Needed to see them on his farm video. Was a bit wary but still mesmerized by them at the pumpkin patches. His nana and pop-pop brought him a bunch of brochures from a John Deer dealer and he perused them at breakfast and then spread them out in the living room for endless entertainment. He delighted in finding tractors in books and on toy displays. I thought this was the beginning of an obsession.

Then came...the trains. The mighty choo-choos. Seemingly overnight, he's gone from a normal toddler to one with TRAIN ON THE BRAIN. Trains are his all-consuming reason for being. I am amazed. I have never seen anything occupy his every thought like this. Such sheer focus would be almost incredible...if only...I didn't find it...a little...annoying.

Ack, did I just say that?! His favorite thing annoys me? How can that be? I revel in every moment of his life, especially the ones that offer such unreserved joy. Finding something to make him smile makes me smile. But sometimes it goes too far.

He drifts off to sleep at night singing about trains. He wakes up talking about them. The train book is on its millionth reading. He constantly asks, "Watch choo-choo?" or "Play choo-choo?" He wants to take a toy train to Gymboree, to the dinner table, to bed. Anything lined up - a row of hedges, the dock bar on my mac, the baggage cart at the airport - draws an exclamation of "CHOO-CHOO!" I have to sing 'I've been working on the railroad' at nap time.

He's so keen on the idea of trains that we gave him the big birthday/xmas gift from my parents last week. A train table! With three trains, loads of track (that regrettably makes sounds), a tunnel and a crane. The first day, he played with it for 10 hours. Ten. A few small breaks for food, nap and bedtime were all that stood between him and a non-stop 24-hour railroad experience.

Since then, he's played with it, well, constantly. It's like G-man crack. I fear he has a true addiction. Nothing is as important as this train set. And before you think, well, you got a break at least while he's occupied, oh no. Not true. Mommy also has to love trains. There is a mommy choo-choo. Usually reserved for the lesser, lower track, but required to be in motion at all times. But motion according to G-man. Move it when he doesn't want you to, nudge it backwards at an inappropriate time or touch his train with it at all and suffer the consequences. The screaming, possibly tearing up of the track consequences. This activity can simultaneously bring out the best and the worst in him.

We've been humoring him, letting him set the rules and pace of the train world. Even encouraging some of the love by showing him train pictures or pointing out when the whistles blow in the distance. Today we took him to Union Station to see the huge model train display, the kid size ride-on train (at $5, it's a rip), and actual trains pulling into/out of the station. How did he thank us? By pitching a fit when it was time to go. Ok, I get it, he is thanking us by showing how much he really enjoyed being there. But is a pleasant little good-bye choo-choo instead of hello tears so much to ask for?

So now what? Do we let him overdose on trains, like when kids try cigarettes and you make them smoke the whole pack, so the mania will die down faster? Or do we enjoy that he has a "thing" that he loves and wants the world to know and see where it goes?

I kind of have my decision. I give him total train freedom but still remind him of other things to do, like his blocks, push toys and aquadoodle (where I am forced to draw many different choo-choos that, frankly, all look the same) to avoid a glassy-eyed coma at the train table. After all, there is a part of him that is not, pardon the pun, on board. I know this because I still have to set the world-record daily for listening to Five Little Monkeys; I spend large portions of my afternoon looking for the right Little People "neigh" to go with a cart; and my lap is often occupied by a wee kiddo with an impressive list of book demands.

For the most part, though, there is a train thundering down the track in my head and I'll just have to ride this one out.

What's next? Please don't let it be crickets.

What was I just talking about?

When I was pregnant, I heard all about "pregnancy brain," the complete inability to remember anything, ever. And yes, it was as if a switch had been turned off inside. Short-term memory was but, well, a memory. At least, I think it was.

You could get away with a lot when you claimed pregnancy brain. Lost keys. Missed appointments. Repeat conversations. It was deemed cute and so were you.

After I had the G-man, my mind didn't miraculously bounce back overnight. I attributed this to sleep deprivation, a laser-focus on keeping him alive and being overwhelmed that the hospital would send someone so obviously ill-equipped for this great responsibility home without so much as 24-hour supervision. We forgot about opening our xmas presents. We almost forgot our anniversary. We barely remembered his name or ours. Clearly, this was not the time to go on Jeopardy.

I assumed that at some point, my mental capacities would return and there would be peace in the land. Or at least eggs in the fridge. Much to my dismay, it's been almost two years and I still feel like my mind is a sieve. Sure, I remember some things, but usually around 3:00 in the morning and by 6:00, they're gone, too. I've realized that this isn't temporary. I'm suffering from Momnesia.

Maybe it's the crapload of new information entering our brains every day from web sites, books and personal conversations. Maybe it's having to think for two. Maybe it's just that the only way we can survive some days is to have a little black hole suck out random thoughts to make room for more. Whatever it is, it's annoying. I would like to know what I came into a room for; whether or not I gave the dog a snack; what Scott's mobile number is; and how to get out of the house without having to go back in three times for something I forgot.

Too much to ask?

I was at a birthday party for one of G-man's friends this afternoon and invited myself into a conversation about this phenomenon. Turns out, I'm not the only one. The mommies in our group feel like we are all entering the early stages of dementia. How will we know if one of us really gets alzheimer's? Chances are, even if we did figure it out, we'd forget.

I try to stay sharp but it's a losing battle. A little ground I can concede, but this is erosion on an epic scale. Sadly, you, my lovely readers, are losing as well. Momnesia sucks the ideas I want to talk about right from my mind. I have composed what I'm sure is Pulitzer-caliber material in my head only to have it shrunk down to a vague thought by the time I get the computer to wake up. I'm not talking about one amazing line I wish I could have shared, but entire topics that have vanished. Even this paragraph was better an hour ago but there was bath time to attend to and it seems my word choices went down the drain as well.

How to battle this no longer cute affliction? I could definitely, uh, wait, um...what the hell was I just saying? Who knows. But there is some cocoa calling my name. Was that it? No. Oh well.

What a difference a day makes

They say toddlers change every day. I've found it to be more like every hour. I'm always seeing the G-man do something new or he's always discovering a great talent (like, picking his nose) for the first time. This weekend was no different, although we did have the experience of his second Halloween.

Facebook used to have a thing about writing 25 surprising items about yourself. I'm going to modify that with 20 things I've learned in the past 24 hours.

1. I will wait in line in the cold for 2.5 hours for G-man to get his H1N1 shot

2. G-man will wait approximately 1.5 minutes before becoming bored in line

3. To some, crackers are more appealing than pizza

4. Toddlers do not like to get into costume

5. G-man likes twizzlers

6. Cute costumes get more loot

7. You can eat a kit-kat without unwrapping it first

8. If you give G-man a lollipop, he will make an epic, sticky mess with it

9. You'll never get a lion costume's mane to look good again after you wash it

10. Do not use your good brush to fluff up the lion's mane

11. If you leave a basket of candy out on the stoop with a sign saying help yourself, all of your candy will quickly be gone

12. You really can eat too much chocolate

13. Toddlers do not care about daylight savings time

14. I make lousy coffee

15. The demand for a waffle is in indirect proportion to how many waffles you have left

16. Sidewalk chalk can be used to color the dog

17. Power Wheels are more fun to push than ride on

18. If there is a puddle available, the G-man or I will sit in it

19. Anything can cause a tantrum

20. Thomas the Tank Engine is truly a terrible show

Now I wonder what I'll learn tomorrow?

20 (billion) questions

Sometimes I wonder if the G-man thinks he's on Jeopardy. Or if we know how to form a sentence that isn't a question. Or if we really don't know which car is red. Because, on average, we ask him for a staggering amount of information in a day.

Is it too much? Is he on overload? Can I really not stop asking questions, even in this post?!

In an effort to be a "good" parent, I try to make his day a learning experience. Everything can be educational. Serve him lunch and ask him to find something round, or something orange or sign for what he wants. Read a book and quiz him on what the cow says, where the bus is or what is [that]. (Answers: moo; at the top of the page; and beach.)

But really, instead of helping the G-man, this quiz show could be putting so much pressure on him that he feels he can't enjoy himself. Perhaps I'm still a little hung up on doing the stay at home thing, thinking that he is missing some vital pieces of education by not being in day care all week. They are studying - albeit loosely - a letter of the week or a color of the day or have a nook with amazing interactive toys and puzzles I could never dream of finding. We, on the other hand, are studying...um...how many times a week I can serve him avocado (it's green! it's bumpy! it's soft!) before he totally rebels.

At this point, I don't know if I can stop myself. There are so many things to show him, tell him, teach him. If I'm not engaging him, could his mind turn to mush? I don't want him to feel like he has to perform all the time, but when I think of it, he is put to the test on a continuous basis. Even a simple visit from a friend - Can you say hi? Where is Michelle's nose? What does a dinosaur sound like? - turns into the Spanish Inquisition.

Tomorrow I will try to keep it in check, but I guess all of this leads to the big question: Is our children learning?

There's no such thing as a quick errand

My mission: go to Barnes & Noble and purchase some flash cards for the G-man.

Expected time of said mission: 10 minutes

Actual time of mission: 1 hour, 13 minutes

That wouldn't be unusual if it was just me. After all, time to spend in a bookstore is one of life's delights. Time spent there with a toddler is one of Dante's circles of hell.

Ok, ok, it didn't have to be. The main error, the focal point of my entire problem, my achilles heel: I didn't bring a stroller. Why would I? Sure, we might have to park a block or two away but he can walk. I have in my mind that the cards are on the first floor, somewhat near the register. In and out in a few fluid motions.

Ah universe, you always have a few tricks up your sleeve.

For starters, I quickly found out that Can walk and Will walk are two entirely separate notions. He demanded I carry him. Kind of good b/c there was traffic but I think a strong grip on his hand could have handled it. To make it worse, I had to bring his winter coat. It was too cold to go even a short distance outside without it. At least, that's what the DCFS would have said. Both of our coats are kind of slippery and while he wanted to be held, he did not want to be still. With diaper bag and baby both slipping from my shoulder, we made it inside.

Hot! It's hot in here! Shed the jackets. Keep the bag. Keep the kid. Uh, no wait, there's not enough arm space for all of that. Lose the kid, he's ready to walk now. Make that run. Oh dear, I forgot how many things there are within his reach. Leaving a trail of destruction, he examines calendars, opens books, removes an entire section of greeting cards and collects treasures to take around with him. Frantically scurrying behind, I try to simultaneously keep a close eye on him, clean up the mess and look for the damn flash cards. If I can just find them, we are good to go.

Scratch that. I can't do it all at once. Taking even one eye off of him to find the cards is asking for trouble. Finally scoop him up and ask the information desk where they are. Coats are sliding, bag is getting heavier, G-man may be upside down. Oh, I should ask the kids section on the third floor. The third floor?! Are you kidding me? I understand exiling us, but you should just put some sort of transport tube in the doorway to effortlessly suck us up there immediately upon entering.

Haul everyone/everything to the escalator. G-man is intrigued and holds fairly still in my arms. We reach the top and nirvana, the children's area! He instantly spies a display of tractor and train books. Pages are flying but he's in one spot by my foot and I can resume my neck-craning to find the best spot to locate the flash cards.

Freakin' impossible. Thankfully, an employee sees my distress and lets me know where to find what I need. Great, but how to get him away from the books he's already so into? Easy, she says, there's a train table right near the flash card shelf. With a too-high voice and sugary promises of train ecstasy, I manage to get him within sight of the table. Smiles for all. He takes the bait, the cards are literally right next to the play area and divine luck has placed a chair there for me to sit in.

Coats fall to the floor. Bag is flung. Soon-to-be-ours flash cards are in my lap. G-man is enthralled with the train set.

We'll just pass some time here. After all, he deserves a little fun and we have nothing like this at home. A few minutes and we'll be out the door.

A few minutes more. He's really happy.

And more...I'm comfy.

And more...

Uh, we really have to go now. Lunch time and all. Surely if I explain that he got a lot of play time and we are going home, he'll just come along.

Not gonna' happen. Major meltdown. Worst mama in the world for tearing him away from the set. No wonder we are on the third floor. Screams of no and toy-time tears. I have to peel him off and lift him out. But uh, now I have coats in hand, diaper bag, whirling dervish toddler and the boxes of flash cards to carry. Did not think this through.

As fast as my harried self can travel, we make it down the escalators and to the...line at the register. I can't hold it all any longer. He's down. He's off. He's dismantling a halloween display.

It's finally our turn and I approach with the last bit of patience I have. I'll need it as I have to figure out how to complete the transaction while he takes off the coat I just put on, they ask for my gift card, another card for the difference and my ID. Do I want to join their club? Do I look like I want to do anything besides get the hell out of there?

Time to repeat the sherpa impression back to the car. Don't even think about putting up a fight on the car seat. We're outta' here buster.

Mission accomplished.

And really, he LOVES the flash cards. Totally worth it.

How do you solve a problem like a toddler?

The G-man is 22 months old. The terrible twos are approaching. I can hear them sneaking up on us, complete with "Jaws" music playing in the background. Da-dum......da-dum......da-dum...da-dum...da-dum-da-dum-da-dum-da-dum, eek!

I've read the books, watched Supernanny, clicked the links on the daily toddler emails, talked to friends and what have I achieved? A boy that hits when he's frustrated, thinks it's funny to be in time-out, acts as though I'm speaking in a pitch only dolphins can hear when talking to him and has no problem turning into a thrashing maniac in 0.2 seconds.

The hitting, that sucks, for two reasons. First, he's hitting. Duh. Not nice. He hits me, his papa, the dog, cat and playmates. But only around us. For daycare/PDO he's an angel. Uh huh, go figure. The second reason is that I have to work harder. Now it's not just enough for me to keep an eye on him at play group or Gymboree; I have to be vigilant about watching that little arm go up and try to stop it before it comes down. Then I have to pull him aside, mention how it's unacceptable, try to get him to apologize and wonder what the magic words are to stop him from doing it again. Really puts a dent in our day...and my chatting with other mommies.

As for time-out, I think I just need to work a little harder on that. Maybe I'm rushing his release (I know he's not there for a minute like he should be, and soon it will have to be two minutes). Maybe the attention of me putting him there is what he wants anyway. No, he really wanted the stroller from Sophie. That's why he hit her. Right?

I will say that if it's an object involved, like throwing his train, one warning and taking the toy away seems to work. Doesn't prevent it from happening again yet but maybe it will in time. He may not be to the understanding consequence stage of maturity. At least it shows him I mean what I say and I don't give it back for a while.

And then there's the tantrums. The constant threat that strikes terror into any parent's heart. A sight and sound display that even Helen Keller would wince at.

They actually don't bother me at home. (My god, is this my new normal?) I do feel bad when I've inadvertently done something to set him off and he's upset. Like moving his fork or breathing. At those times, he simply needs a safe environment and some private time to calm down. If he's on the floor, I just step over him and move on. It eventually ends.

In public, though, that's tough. I have to take into consideration other people that really may not have ventured outside their homes just to experience this. Letting him wail it out isn't really an option but I'll admit, I did it anyway at Target this week. For many, many aisles, he screamed, screeched and squirmed in the cart. We got 'the look' from shoppers and the 'may we help you find something (so you can get out of our store)' from staff. It may not be good parenting or good shopping etiquette, but desperate times call for pretending you don't hear it measures.

Our days are already filling up with other toddler warning signs: the same song in the car over and over and over again. And then again some more. Defcon 4 if his milk is in the wrong cup. Chernobyl over putting a shirt on. An attachment to a magazine page. The same word/thought expressed a million times in a row.

Those of you past this stage with your kiddos are probably thinking how much more is to come and chuckling to yourselves. And those of you that haven't reached it yet are probably thinking it won't happen to you. I'm guessing it's actually a unique experience for all of us. Here's to the ride.

Hooray for play group

Before I had the G-man, the thought of play groups, play dates and other kid activity things caused me to shudder. But he's supposed to do things like that to get used to other kids, and for his sake, I sucked up my reservations (visions of minivans, soccer mom chit-chat and endless, boring small talk) and started his social calendar.

And did he appreciate it? He couldn't have cared less. But me, oh my! What a revelation to find the amazing parents that have become my friends. I have to admit, I've gotten way more out of these relationships than he has so far.

So, my fellow play group mommies, thank you for:

1. allowing me to attempt to kill you every week with my baking (non)skills

2. watching my child at the last minute so I can attend a meeting, take the dog to the vet or make a phone call

3. understanding when I'm insanely late for our fun

4. letting G-man mooch your snacks and steal your child's drink

5. not flinching when a banana is mashed into your floor by my kiddo

6. not mentioning when I show up in something that's obviously not clean

7. ditto for when G-man does the same

8. letting me throw G-man's dookie diapers in your trash even when they need a hazmat symbol

9. allowing us to borrow your toys when a grand meltdown is imminent if we don't get to take them home

10. not kicking me out when we severely overstay our welcome after play group is over so I can talk to an adult

11. continuing to invite me to lunch even when you know I'll say no (new budget!)

12. pretending my dog did not just eat your child's snack

You ladies, friends and just-like-family have been an amazing source of inspiration, support and enjoyment. We have many different opinions on child-rearing, politics, entertainment and activities yet we've all come together to form amazing bonds based on the love of our children, but built with the respect and kindness we all share.

I don't know about that whole It Takes a Village thing, but at the least, it takes a play group.

Lost in translation

G-man is starting to get into the groove of this whole talking thing. Ok, maybe talking isn't quite the word, more like, uh, randomly uttering things that seem to have some meaning, especially to him. I've been told by our Parents as Teachers person that if he uses the same sounds consistently for an object/idea, it counts as a word. Still, this can be a little confusing if you don't know his language. So here is a handy G-man to Mommy dictionary:

ge-ge (with hard G): kitty

ma-mow: lawn mower

drawn out O: hose

nyum-nyum: ice cream

pa-pua: pumpkin

bac-whee: vacuum

nay: horse

dakter: tractor

wreee-ooo: fire engine

rooooommmm: broom

da-dayr: hair dryer

bou-ber: blueberry

riiide: i want you to push me on a toy

dirdy: trash

wrhee-wrhee: race car

kaka: avocado

du-ree: turtle

e-yi-yi: sing or play Old MacDonald

ba-boo: caterpillar (no idea why)

roc-whee: rocking horse, rocking chair, rocking toy, etc.

bo-bo: 1. police car (our fault, we call it the po-po); 2. we have no idea but he uses it a lot outside

daddy: the catch-all for everything that doesn't have a word yet

no: no; yes; maybe; stop touching that; you should touch that; i like to hear my voice; the dog is near me; the cat is over there; I'm hungry; wait, no I'm not; I'm awake

I'm writing this while he's sleeping, so I'm sure I'm missing many, many "the general population has no idea what you are talking about" words. Maybe I'll add more tomorrow. What have you heard him say that leaves you perplexed?

Oh mamas!

For the most part, whether you work outside the home or stay in with the wee ones, the mothers do more - if not most - of the job when it comes to raising children. This isn't a slight to the dads who do a lot, and there are many of you out there (G-man's own included). Simply how the majority of our culture rolls.

So it's no surprise that just like the ladies rockin' the kid-free lifestyle, moms need a little fun on their own, without the kids in tow. This could be to the grocery store at night, a coffee shop on a weekend or just sitting on the front stoop during naptime. But to truly be free of it all, you gotta' groove it with the other mamas.

I've recently had the pleasure of two such outings. One was a playgroup mamas night at a bar where we enjoyed yummy cocktails and treated ourselves to a manicure. As all our kids are around the same age, it was great to talk about them but not have to actually watch them at the same time. Most of our lovelies were home asleep in their fortresses guarded by daddy so it's not like we were scoring extra "no toddlers allowed" time, but we were enjoying it out of the house. We put on makeup! We wore jewelry! We looked hot.

The second such sans G-man adventure was this weekend. A group of my friends decided that we needed to go camping. Just adults. Just girls. For those of you that I haven't met, camping is not something you associate with me. In fact, you may think that my fear of bugs, fire and a little chill in the air makes me the antithesis of camping. And you'd be right. But I sucked it up and went anyway.

Now despite my earlier statement of how time away is necessary, I very rarely do it. I'm a bit of homebody. I don't think I really went out to enjoy myself much at all during G-man's first year. Even the monthly book club meetings that are always enjoyable are something I dread when it comes time to leave the house. I feel like I should stay home with my boys. I want to stay home with my boys.

Ladycamp required a night away. Not to mention some serious day time away, too. Did I need my girl gab so much that I would agree to that, and the added pressure of camping? Yikes. What do you do when you camp? What would I do?

Turns out, we did whatever we wanted! Between the four of us, we had seven children, ranging from 20 months to 8 years old. That meant some serious pent up energy coupled with outrageous exhaustion. We drank, ate, lounged and talked. Boy, did we talk! Topics covered included in-laws, child safety, dunkin' donuts, shaving, nostalgic toys, birth control, ideal family size, childhood stories and way more. Some we probably shouldn't repeat.

We stayed up so past our bedtimes, looked at stars, laughed our asses off. The whole time, we never forgot our kids; they were a great subject of conversation. We were still someone's mommy but we were our own person, too. There were spiders, coyotes (very far off), chilly weather and food on sticks. It was great.

So here's to you, the brave, pioneering members of Ladycamp '09, who survived 21 hours without our sweet children and with nothing but a french press and specialty coffee; a yurt equipped with A/C, heat, floors, beds, windows, combination-lock door, deck, ceiling fan and skylight; camp chairs with cupholders; clean, heated restrooms; mobile phone service; and s'mores as far as the eye could see. Can't wait 'til 2010!

A-B-C-D-E-F-G-H1N1

When dropping G-man off at Parent's Day Out this week, there was a notice on the door that a child in the Monday session had been diagnosed with strep throat. The message contained what to watch for in your own child and when to call the doctor.

Ooh, germs.

A friend of mine is pregnant with #2. Her child plays in our groups all the time but doesn't go to any formal facility (school daycare, gym child care, PDO, etc.). She's scheduled to start a little 2-hour-a-week church daycare but now may not because of what she could pick up and bring home.

Sneaky germs.

Our Gymboree location has a lengthy handout on 2009's Contagion of the Year, the H1N1 flu virus. (Congrats, by the way, to ol' Swiney for this distinction. The media thanks you for something to fill the airwaves while we parents always enjoy new things to worry about.) The information details signs, symptoms and prevention tips.

Mean germs.

I get it. There is a ton of stuff out there just waiting to get into G-man and wreak some havoc. It's not like I'm throwing used needles at him, but I do find it hard to control the situation, short of keeping him home and in a bubble all day.

Let's face it, most of the prevention techniques are common sense: cover your nose and mouth when coughing or sneezing, wash your hands, don't share drinks or utensils. But have you ever tried to do that with an early toddler?

G-man and his friends specialize in finding filthy things and swapping whatever they've got. They pick up things from the ground and put them in their mouths. They stick their fingers in god knows what and then immediately grab another kid's hand/head/lunch. All sippy cups are community sippy cups. I pack snacks based on what other kids like because I know that's who will eat them, while the G-man mooches something else (possibly from the floor under a chair or shoe). Any play date is a study in fluids - bodily and otherwise - mingling in perfect harmony. But at this age, what do we do?

Oh sure, at any given moment one of us mommies is helpfully telling her child, "No, that's not your drink. Where's your drink? Put that one down." Meanwhile, the child in question has already sneezed on this cup, dropped it on the dirt, seen another toddler (still not the original owner) pick it up and take a drink and moved on to yet another beverage that doesn't belong to them.

They simply don't get it. And why should they? We are all in the Let's Share! phase of parental encouragement. G-man is told to share a toy, wait his turn, play nicely with others all the time. We're teaching them to give freely and not fuss when something they want is out of their grasp for while. They are just now starting to understand this and then we want to throw a wrinkle in the plan? An exclusion? That's tough to digest.

And let's not forget that we under-2 parents have a roadblock to our prevention and care as well: we don't have complete communication yet. Until we get some more skills how am I supposed to know if G-man's throat hurts? Or if he has a headache? Or if his runny nose is the start of something big? Without being able to read all of the signs, we have only a limited idea of when to keep them home and when to turn them loose. Some err on the side of caution, some practically choose to send their kiddos out hoping we don't notice the chicken pox. There is a happy medium, but it's a moving target and we have really bad aim. Being able to ask, "Does your tummy hurt?" and get a real answer is something I'm totally excited about. Guessing is exhausting.

Until then, we'll all amble about rather cluelessly, hoping the community food, drink and grime is building strong immune systems for when the big one really does happen.

Parent's Day In

Dear G-man,

First off, let me tell you how proud I am of how easily you have adapted back into the weekly routine of going to Parent's Day Out. Your utter indifference on the fact I am leaving you for a few hours simply means I'm raising an independent boy. As you wriggle from my arms, your race to explore the toys stacked so neatly on the shelves for later shows your inquisitive mind. And your disdain for the offerings of security items, like your sippy cup and lawnmower card, proves how confident you are with yourself while the dismissive wave good-bye means that you trust I'm coming back.

Bravo.

I really am thrilled that you are so happy there and I trust the fine teachers to provide a safe, fun environment.

But guess what? While I miss you, I may love Parent's Day Out even more than you do!

Ever wonder what I do for those six fleeting hours?

8:40 am - leave parking lot and drive home with the windows down and the radio up

8:50 am - arrive home, check my email, recklessly leaving the door open to the non-babyproofed office

8:55 am - retrieve the hidden animal crackers, tuck in to handfuls and surf the web

9:05 am - take a shower, a loooooong shower, complete with leg shaving and full rinse and towel off

9:20 am - turn tv on while getting dressed, do not learn anything about sign language or farm animals

10:00 am - 12:00 pm - attend meeting for work in clean clothes, do not wipe anyone else's nose

12:15 pm - arrive home, do not lock screen door behind me, keep baby gate open

12:30 pm - more animal crackers

12:40 pm - start making tonight's dinner, leave cabinets wide open for my convenience

12:50 pm - eat brownie batter out of the bowl, leave oven unlocked

12:52 pm - open fridge without having to shield the juice inside

1:00 pm - finally clean the breakfast dishes and tidy up the kitchen without anyone attached to my leg

1:05 pm - walk by open basement door, don't close it

1:30 pm - clean my bathroom, including replacing the toilet paper someone unrolled yesterday

1:50 pm - embark on a search for my comb after you so nicely put it away somewhere it a few weeks ago

2:00 pm - abandon search for comb, put hair in pony tail again

2:02 pm - settle down for some quick reading

2:12 pm - close the gate, check the cabinets, shut the basement door, lock the stove, pick up small items

2:15 pm - leave to pick you up, can't wait to see your smiling face!

Looking forward to next Wednesday.

Love, mommy

Time out

To what I'm sure has been a tremendous tribulation to my 2 or so regular readers, I've been a blogging slacker for a little bit. It's not that I haven't had time or access to my computer. It's simply that I've had nothing to say.

What?! It's the apocalypse! Never am I at a loss for words. Ask anyone that has ever tried to have a two-way conversation with me only to discover I'm doing both parts.

Lately though, I've just been enjoying the G-man. I realized that sometimes I'm so caught up in documenting every moment of his life that maybe I'm missing some of the insider info that goes along with it. Instead of getting an idea for a post and developing that in the running commentary that's in my head (where I've also been interviewed by Jon Stewart on The Daily Show to rave reviews, although sadly I now forget the topic...), I'm just continuing to watch him do his thing. G-man, not Jon Stewart.

I saw a tip for mamapedia bloggers that need a jump start on new post ideas - go to the site, see what people are saying and asking and write about that. Great idea if you really just like to blog and need a launching point. Really great you're paid by the post or have some sort of OCD complex about not having one every few days. But the point of this blog is to write about my life with the G-man and what we go through together. And right now, we're going through some calm. No snarky comments about the library moms. No deep thoughts on why he has to sprinkle his milk throughout the house. For that matter, no soul-searching questions about why sippy cups aren't exactly leak-proof, either.

The other day, I hosted an impromptu play group with 8 kids and 5 mommies. Toys everywhere! Kids amok! Lunch burning on the stove! And yet, I didn't take any photos. So many opportunities and the camera stayed, well, wherever it is that it goes when not in my hands. Elephant graveyard? Hard to say.

So instead of whipping out my paparazzi credentials, I enjoyed the moments with him. I was in them, unlike all the photos I take of his events, achievements and every day life.

For a little while, I haven't thought of how an activity could make a story, what someone else would think of what happened today, and how the family should see him in this new shirt. It's just me and the G-man. Sweet.

Those three little words

"I hate you."

No, I haven't heard it yet, but I know I will. Maybe G-man will wait until he's four or maybe I'll be stung much sooner than that. But I'm pretty sure every kid says it...and for that moment, every kid means it.

Why?

Because for a while, he's just not going to get it. He's not going to fully understand how much we love him and all the things we do for him. Even though he seems to think the world truly revolves around him, he doesn't know what that is. So when I inevitably do something to betray him, like deny him a toy, discipline him for a behavior or simply cut his sandwich in the wrong shape, he'll think I don't love him and he won't love me back.

And sadly, part of that is going to come because he won't remember this time of his journey, when we are practically allowing everything in our lives to stand still for the chance to be with this amazing firstborn love.

When he hurls the toddler/child/pre-teen/etc insults at me proclaiming the injustices of his world, I'll be able to take it, for luckily, I will remember these moments. I can say to myself, "sure, now he's being a jackass in the airport, but oh, when he was 20 months and made the sign for airplane the first time, my heart grew yet another size." And we'll both survive.

He won't have this to fall back on. He won't ever realize that his parents go into his room together every night before going upstairs and just marvel at this wonder in the crib, checking the air temperature, stroking his head, and remarking to each other how much we love him. G-man will see photos of all of the adventures we take - the visits to the zoo, children's farmstead, beach, parks, pools, festivals - but only from those images will he maybe know that he laughed on a swing, ate ice cream in the shade, played joyfully with sand.

I can hope that these experiences are building a foundation for him, one where his subconscious feeds a message of security, trust and love. But his conscious self won't truly know or understand the details until he's much older and even then, he might ignore those truths. In the heat of the moment, and he will be living in the moment for quite sometime, he'll pass on these vague stirrings and go straight for the throat.

And despite how much I may want to sell him at that point, of course I'll respond with the other three little words, Shut Your Mouth. No, no, seriously, I'll tell one of us or both of us, I Love You. It's my greatest defense.

My baby is cuter than your baby

Now that I've sufficiently pissed you off, there's more.

Read the title out loud. That's right, my baby is cuter than your baby. My kid is cuter than your kid. See, when you say it, it's your (my) baby. Because what parent doesn't think their little one is the cutest thing...EVER?

We've all seen babies who could have used a little, uh, more time in the looks line. Yet, their parents don't know that. They know their wee kiddo is beautiful. Awesome. So freakin' cute it hurts.

Sometimes, I get so tired of the moms on message boards who seem to comment on articles just to brag about their wunderkid. She's walking at 3 months! He's only one, but reading at a 5th-grade level! I am so overwhelmed by the twins getting early admission to Harvard in-utero! While only a few annoying moms post about amazing, measure-able achievements, all of us can take heart in the subjective knowledge of having the cutest thing to ever be on the planet.

I think it would be really interesting to see what G-man looks like to someone who is not so close to him. Like maybe I could sneak up on him one day and catch a moment off-guard where I don't think as his mother but as an objective stranger. Is it possible? I often look at photos of myself and think, seriously? That's what I look like? Kind of like hearing your voice on an answering machine. But I feel I won't ever be able to take off my sweetie-colored glasses when I see my own li'l guy.

I can't believe that after 20 months I am still overcome with how cute I think he is. No matter what he's doing, be it riding a toy, running around naked, covering himself in donut or only walking around the front yard, I want to capture every second and pore over each shot for the source of his perfection.

Funny how this weird vision/realization only occurs with our babies. Love-blindness doesn't transcend anything else. We all know who has the hot husband. Which friend is the most fabulous. Who's bringing a date that makes yours fade into the background.

Yet, we don't care. We chose our closest people and love them for their flaws and the one that we don't pick, that the universe simply grants to our care, is the one that we are destined to photograph their every move, burp, smile and pout.

And let's face it, G-man is damn cute.

It's the most wonderful time of the day

'Twas the hour of naptime and all through the land,

every creature was stirring; things were quite out of hand.

The baby who should have been snug in his crib,

was telling his toys tales of things that he did.

The puppy who usually snoozed with all might,

was stalking the cat food when I went out of sight.

Cat One was just bitching 'bout this and 'bout that,

while who was that scratching? Yes, it's #2 cat!

The floor, it needs mopping; there's dishes to scrub,

and I'd like some free moments to tackle that tub.

After walking this morning I still need a shower,

but time is getting away, chipping into my hour.

Tummy rubs for the pup and he's now drifting off,

and some pats for the cats prove they aren't all that tough.

But what to do with the kiddo who's eyes are all red,

but simply won't get on board with the idea of bed?

The music is playing, the ocean sounds roar,

the blinds are shut tight, just like his door.

Together we rock, shushing softly and deep,

by jove, his eyes close! I think he's asleep.

The danger zone

I never fully appreciated our baby-proofed house until we went on vacation. Don't get me wrong, our house isn't perfect but we can let him out of our sight for 20 seconds and feel fairly confident that all is well. And if he does get into something, hey, it's our stuff. If he breaks it, we'll deal.

Not so on this trip.

From the moment we stepped into my pop-pop's house in West Chester, the game was on. When did he get so quick? So curious? So adept at opening drawers/cabinets/doors/etc?

We couldn't blink without losing him or discovering something off-limits that was now in his clutches. He followed me into the kitchen, I turned around to put our bag on the table, turned back and voilá! He's got Comet cleanser in his hand from under the sink. Sneeze and he's pulling a cord from under a table. Bend over to pick up a cracker and look at that, he's on his way out across the yard.

If only one of us was around, it was impossible to do anything. How can I make him breakfast if he's in and out of the house, browsing the pantry, discovering the trash can or heading for that crystal bowl? We had to shadow him constantly and boy, was that hard.

It didn't get any better during our stay in New Jersey, even though we managed to bring a few safety items. We successfully kept him out of the bathrooms, laundry room and in our bedroom with doorknob covers. Two strategically placed cabinet locks sheltered the most harmful items in the kitchen. But that still left so much exposed.

Pots and pans, fine. Banging them on a ceramic floor? Not so much. The allure of the stairs was like crack to him. He couldn't resist unplugging things all over the house. More trash digging. We had to move things out of cabinets, hide things behind pillows. I'm sure my uncle is still wondering where the remote went.

It was such a relief to get home, walk into one room and let him stay in another. Granted, we still have to watch him closely, especially if it gets quiet, but those few seconds of freedom are priceless.

The vomit bag

A couple of days ago I posted about my search for the perfect diaper bag on our trip. Little did I realize that no bag would be so appreciated as that what's become known as The Vomit Bag.

Already a little ominous sounding, no?

I should tell you that one of the reasons I was having trouble searching for a bag was that I haul around a ton of stuff. At any given time, I have back-up clothes for the G-man and myself, sippy cups, snacks, first-aid kit, hand sanitizer, tissues, pacifiers, at least 3 diapers, wipes, a sweater for cold stores and restaurants, sunscreen, bug spray, my SIGG bottle, a dirty duds baggie and now a plastic dinosaur that he likes. I envy the moms that can actually use those cute clutches that just hold a diaper and a few wipes. I pack more than a circus. My best friend pointed out that I resemble a nomad. Even one of my play groups is surprised I still carry it all, no matter if it's a trip to the park or the two blocks from my house to Gymboree. Scott sometimes dares fate and leaves for the store with G-man and nothing else. Wow.

So yes, I am that mom. Always prepared.

Really, it's easy. I use the same bag all the time, it's stocked with essentials and all I have to do on a daily basis is switch out the backup outfits, freshen drinks and check the snacks.

But on this trip, I had three bags. And they all had a different purpose. So multiple times a day, I made my life harder by dumping things out and repacking another bag for another activity.

On this particular night, it looked like it might rain so in switching bags from the one we took to the beach to the one we thought should hit the boardwalk, I added rain coats and umbrellas to the stash. Seemed pretty full, must have everything.

We arrived in Ocean City a little ahead of dinner time, parked about 4 blocks away and popped G-man into the backpack carrier for what would be a great night. His first time to see the rides, taste some goodies and experience this odd brand of New Jersey summer nightlife.

As we stepped on to the boardwalk, something splashed my shoe. Great, I thought, I already had a drink spilled on me. A few steps later and that's when it dawned on me...it wasn't a drink, it was vomit. G-man, perched on my back, was throwing up. A lot. Still. People were starting to stare. Seagulls gathered.

We got him out as fast as we could but the damage was done. Upchuck all over him (a never-before worn shirt, I might add). His pants, his hair, his whole self. Plus, the carrier was instantly transformed into something from a horror movie. And me? Not much better I must say.

Ok, just get us to a bathroom and we'll clean up and change. What? No backup clothes? For either of us?! Holy shit. I forgot them. This bag only managed to stuff itself with the raincoats, some chapstick, a few wipes, one lonely diaper, a water cup and my sunglasses.

Ugh.

We reeked. This was not good. We had to buy new clothes on the boardwalk. G-man ended up with a souvenir shirt more suitable for a 4-year-old but it was the smallest thing we could find and some sweatpants dredged up in the back of another store. I did luck out with an overpriced Phillies tee that I changed into in the dressing room as soon as I saw it. When the clerk asked me to take it off so she could remove the sensors, I said no way. I held my disgusting shirt in my hand and told her I was not putting it back on and to complete my purchase with me in the new shirt.

Then she brought it out - the large Jilly's Reusable Bag (as it says in bold letters on the side). She offered it to me along with another little bag to put my gross shirt in. Oh, thank you. Because I hadn't thought about where we were going to put the damaged goods for the rest of the evening.

I raced out of there, took G-man to the nearest bathroom 3 long, smelly blocks away, and we changed him and cleaned him up the best we could. The carrier, his clothes and my clothes went into the Jilly's bag. We zipped it shut and except for a not-so-fresh odor still in his hair, we seemed like a normal family again.

So normal that we went to dinner. We'd been on the boardwalk almost an hour and had yet to do anything but gross ourselves out. A little food could be good. G-man was happier in his new outfit. He eagerly reached for some milk. Ate a few bites of fries. And oh my god, he's throwing up again! The table, his new clothes, Scott's pants.

Time to cut our losses. I'm not buying him another new outfit. And obviously, he's not up to much. While Scott cleaned him up, I got our food to go. The little man came back out in his raincoat and diaper. It was all we had left.

This next set of dirty clothes went into the bag and we realized, it's stuffed. With vomit-covered items. If anyone were to unzip it or how funny would this be? steal it from us, wouldn't they be surprised? But thank you, thank you, thank you, salesperson for giving it to us. I honestly don't know how we would have schlepped all that back to the car. I kind of think we wouldn't have, paying a visit to a trash can instead. But with The Vomit Bag at our side, we proudly left the boardwalk, shoved it in the trunk and easily dumped the contents into the wash as soon as we got home.

G-man's first visit to the OC boardwalk may not have gone as planned, but it was truly an evening we won't forget. After all, the bag is in our room to remind us.

Fly guy

It's official; we all survived the flights for vacation. However, that doesn't mean everything went as planned, just that there were few casualties.

In the days leading up to take-off, I was consumed with how the first flight would go. So much so that I think I forgot about the actual vacation and focused all of my attention on what to do with the G-man for 2.5 hours in an enclosed space. I mean, c'mon, the kid has at best a 15-second attention span. That meant I had to have a lot of tricks up my sleeve to keep a full 5 minutes peaceful and hope that he didn't notice we were going into repeats after that.

Our bags were stocked. I mean, STOCKED. One bag devoted entirely to snacks. This kid had a full buffet at his disposal - snack bags, puddings, juice, milk, breakfast bars, an apple, granola bars, applesauce. Everything short of an omelet it seemed. And we still bought him a water bottle and a bagel in the waiting area. Thank goodness the TSA pretty much lets a toddler bring anything they want to on to a plane. Smart people.

Another bag was pegged entertainment. Books, stuffed animal, DVD player, an arsenal of DVDs, magnadoodle, enough stickers to completely cover a flight attendant, play-doh, color wonder paper, markers and stamps. Everyone said, oh, you must have a DVD player. That alone will save you! You don't even need anything else. Guess what? No go. We turned it on and the reaction was lukewarm at best. Turns out, G-man could care less. We desperately signaled for his attention to Cars and The Cat in the Hat. Our fail-safe, well, failed.

The last bag held our extras. Extra clothes for everyone (besides the ones already packed in the other two), extra sippy cups, extra food, extra stickers, more diapers, enough wipes to clean up after a zoo. We've heard the horror stories of being stuck on the tarmac for hours or re-routed to sweden. We're taking no chances.

And yet, the first flight was pretty ok. Despite the lack of interest in watching TV, he did really enjoy the stickers. He played with the markers and stamps (and only lost one under the seat). He was certainly antsy, but then again, so were we. No one likes being in a small space for so long. When he fussed a bit, it was ok. And when he decided to spend 10 minutes simply crawling back and forth on us, stretching out and climbing up to see over the seat, we took it in stride. The tray table amused him and he even ate some snacks without too much of a mess. All in all, a success.

So we were a bit cocky on the flight back.

We confidently boarded, armed again with our powerful weapons of loaded bags. He was even a little tired so this might go even better. Other babies found laps on the plane and as one started to wail, Scott and I looked at each other with that "thank goodness it's not our kid" gaze. This aircraft was a little roomier, G-man had just had lunch, things were looking up.

A little sticker play, some stuffed animal hugs, stern warnings from mommy and daddy on kicking the seat in front of him and lo and behold, he's asleep. Awesome. Maybe we can read our books, too.

The pilot made an announcement. He stirred. The flight attendant repeated the announcement. And the beast was awake.

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH, AAAAAAAAAAAAH, AAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

At the top of his lungs. For what seemed like a really long time. Writhing in our arms. Pissed at being awake. Pissed at still being in the air. Thrashing, screaming, wailing, calming down only to reload. The seatbelt sign was on so no way to walk him around. It continued. We fought the monster. Here, take anything, take everything! A lollipop! A marker! Our thumbs! A drink! Nothing worked.

This went on for a while. And through it all, whenever he was quieter, another baby would start up to fill the void. Everyone on that plane deserved a medal, some earplugs and a stiff drink.

We finally landed, he perked up and we did the reverse walk of shame: sitting in our seats as passengers went by, some stopping to tell us they'd been there, it wasn't all that bad, don't worry about it. I swear, that made it worse.

So to you, fellow travelers, I apologize. Especially to those in seats 5A and 5C who endured the kicking, and to all of those that didn't have the sense to bring earphones and a fifth of vodka when there was a baby on the plane.

A quest

Before leaving on our trip, I wanted a new diaper bag. Don't get me wrong, I adore the one I have (thank you stephanie!), but it doesn't have a zipper and I needed something that would close. Seemed like an easy request.

As a little background, before G-man I rarely carried a purse and certainly didn't buy them for myself - my friend always knows when I need a new one and surprises me with the next model. Needless to say, I've never purchased a diaper bag. I have three - my go-to bag that was made for me as a gift, a free backpack from the maternity center and a bag from Similac they gave me at the hospital. The backpack is losing its charm as the velcro at the top no longer wants to hold and the Similac bag is a bit small for hauling around multiple sippy cups, wardrobe changes, band-aids and whatnot.

My needs were simple - large enough for all of our stuff on the plane, easy to close but still easily accessible, pockets for organization and maybe even one that looks good. A visit to diaperbags.com quickly showed that this was not going to be an enjoyable experience. A quick purchase turned into a time-sucking, money-stealing quest. Only the search for the holy grail has taken longer and produced more false hope and frustration.

Turns out, my original diaper bag is perfect, except for the zipper. It's got everything I want and need and no other one was coming close. I found good size, but no pockets. Tons of pockets, but not big enough. Great bag except for the hard to get into main compartment. Looks good online but so different in person. Ideal in almost everything but the straps are terrible. And of course, the realization that I truly did not understand what the measurements would look like when one got here.

I purchased bags that I have to return. I borrowed bags that I ended up not using. I traded a bag on the playground - dumping our items out and swapping on the spot - and it still didn't quite work. I visited stores I didn't even know sold diaper bags. I polled friends for advice. Something was fundamentally wrong with all of them (the bags, not the friends).

And then, I found it. A Vera Bradley that isn't even a diaper bag, but was perfect nonetheless. Pockets, a zipper, soft sides, good straps, washable. I owe so much to the nice ladies that helped me and listened to what I was trying to achieve, realizing that maybe a diaper bag wasn't the answer, but a good bag was. I love it. It did everything I dreamed of on the plane and beyond.

As for the others, well, turns out no matter how big a bag I got, I still needed more for the trip so a backpack from JuJuBe now replaces my old one (so cool, with tons of compartments and insulated bottle pockets on each side and it's black so Scott can carry it) and a pretty shoulder bag from Fleurville rounds out my collection.

Yes, yes, that's three bags for the trip. As carry-ons. And trust me, they all got used. By the end of the return flight, I'm sure the other passengers were wishing we'd had a fourth - perhaps one big enough for the G-man during his monstrous scream-fest. Maybe I'll start planning that for next year now.

Hey, I'm talking to you here

As a follow-up to my post begging for a word, some verbal communication beyond grunts, whines and cries, I will announce we have...a few word-like utterances! Hooray.

G-man's favorite is "uh-oh" (yes, this counts as a word, don't rain on my parade). He says it. A lot. And much like his signing of "all-done" he's not quite sure how to use it properly and what it really means. There are days when he just walks around saying it for no reason I can figure out, calling it from the stroller, staring into his cabinet.

Sometimes I think he says it because he likes hearing the sound or he knows it will get a reaction from me. Because let's face it, I want to know what uh-oh is all about.

So far, it's meant: I accidentally dropped my cup; I purposely threw my cup; I stepped on the dog; the dog stepped on the cat; mommy dropped something; the phone rang; my pacifier is under the chair; I am decorating the floor with crayons; parts of the grocery list are in my mouth; the remote is in the dog's water bowl; and his new move, I've unfastened the chest clip on my car seat (an uh-oh that means I have to pull over).

He also just started saying "more". We missed this grand entrance as the babysitter had to tell us he said it to her one day. Of course, he could have been saying it to us first and we just didn't get it. For all I know, he's dictated a pulitzer-caliber book and I've nodded and agreed to get him some milk. But now that I know the word more is in the rotation, I listen for it. And oh, it's cute. Like when he asks for more kisses. No way I'm not agreeing to that! Even if he is stalling at nap time.

That's the problem I'm already seeing even with such a limited vocabulary: I melt sometimes at what he's saying. Bedtime could take two days if it means he's still asking for more hugs. I will jump like a bunny for an entire afternoon if he smiles and asks. And how can I punish him for intentionally dumping yogurt on the floor if he looks at me with beseeching eyes and says uh-oh?

He's also getting the da-da thing down pretty well. Oh sure, he still says it when he sees a bug, a ball or a trash truck. But he also says it on purpose when he sees Scott or even some daddy things. Many a morning has been spent with G-man dragging one of papa's shoes around calling for da-da so Scott can come put it on. (Sad, really, as papa is at work.) When we get home in the afternoons he runs to the house calling for da-da. Freakin' adorable.

I feel like I've accomplished something on this one. For a long time, I've been saying papa/da-da over and over when it comes to anything involving daddy and he's finally caught on. Kudos for persistence! On his part, papa has been telling G-man to say mama but dada kept coming out instead. And I kept telling him it's ok if li'l man doesn't say it. I know I'm his mommy. Hopefully G-man knows it, too. I don't have to hear it.

And then, he said it. Mama. How wrong was I? Yes, I had to hear it! My insides turned to a puddle in an instant. Now every time I hear it, I want to tell him he can have anything he wants. I will do anything he wants. I will perform like Pavlov's dogs just for the chance to hear it again. Truly inspiring parenting, huh? So much for discipline and restraint! Yes, yes, yes, just say mama and the world is yours.

Um, he does have to say it to me, though. I'm a little less pliable when he's talking to his diaper bag.

"Flight to Philly narrowly avoids disaster as toddler incapacitates crew in freak beverage cart accident. Film at 11."

We might be moving soon to Philadelphia. New job? New house? Nope. G-man's first flight. If the trip doesn't work out, I'm canceling the return tickets and sending for our things.

Now I know I'm not the first to travel with a 19-month-old. I bet there are toddlers out there that already know how to engage the emergency exit chutes and mothers that don't even book their seats in the same row, and not just to pretend they don't know the creature with dookie in its pants.

I should confess that I personally am terrified of flying. This doesn't really help the task I'll soon be facing. How can I properly freak out if I have to worry about him throwing up in my hand? Oh sure, the distraction may be just what I need to get over my fear of air travel but it would only be replaced with the fear of more vomit in my hand every time a seat belt clicks. It's a no win situation.

So now I have a few weeks left to poll everyone on the planet about what to take, where to pack it and how to keep him on my lap for 2.5 hours without anyone going ballistic. I should probably start composing my apology notes now to our fellow passengers, flight attendants and the TSA. Coffee, tea or milk? We'll take the Valium.

No kids; pets OK

Before I had the G-man, I had a long list of places that children were banned from. Top of that list were restaurants. Well, I burned that bridge pretty quickly as my longing to get out of the house and have someone else cook and clean up overtook my previous annoyance at anyone under 21 dining within a three-mile radius of me.

The same goes for baseball games, the pharmacy waiting area and Nordstrom's lounge. Hey, a girl's gotta' get out sometime and the world can handle a little bit of toddler grossness, er, goodness.

But, I still have certain events and situations that require some double-checking with my internal compass on what's appropriate for his attendance.

To preface, this has nothing to do with censoring him from an experience. Honestly, with the exception of visiting a meth lab, there isn't too much I think he should be kept away or protected from seeing in life. My decisions are really about the impact his presence will have on other people.

What brings this to my mind? Why, the first item on the list - visitations and funerals. Unfortunately, we've had a few of these lately and as a result, he's had a few babysitters. Much to the dismay of people in Scott's family that have not met G-man (otherwise known as 99% of them), we didn't bring him with us because he had no business being there. How can you properly mourn someone or show respect to the family when you are loudly prying a funeral arrangement out of a freakishly strong hand? This isn't the right time to squeal with delight as he finds his nose or show a grieved widow how he can twirl until he's dizzy.

Second on the list is weddings. This is actually a split-decision. Small children should not be at the ceremony, but are fine at the reception. Why the double-standard? The ceremony is about the couple; all eyes should be on them, not on how many fingers G-man has up his nose. But at the reception, unless you are one of the newlyweds, they are kind of secondary to the food and fun. Let the kids dance, hide under the tables and above all, eat cake.

Where does this put graduations? Bring on the toddlers. No one, not even the graduates, are paying attention to this ceremony. With the exception of the 15 seconds it takes your loved one to walk across the stage, there is no reason to put all of your energy into staring at the back of their head.

I'm sure there are more situations I'll encounter as the months roll on. Sometimes he'll be part of the show and other times he'll enjoy ruling the house with lenient babysitters. And I'm sure I'll make the wrong decision a few of those times. When that happens, I can only hope the fallout doesn't become a hit on youtube.

An open note to the library

Dear public library,

I love that you have a children's section. I love that you have a family restroom in the children's section. However, I do not love the type of handle/lock on that bathroom door!

Am I just a stickler for design? A door handle crackpot? No, just a mom who tried to pee with a toddler running loose in the bathroom.

For the record, he was loose because the straps on the wall seat are broken. Now yes, I should have anticipated this and hauled the stroller in, blocking young patrons' view at story time, running over hands and contraband crackers, but alas, he can walk and I think it's nice to let him.

However, in this case, being able to walk was a negative.

For some reason, you've selected a latch handle for the inside of the stall door. Sure, it's easy for little kids to open on their own. Too easy. He's only 19 months, barely grasps the concept and he solved that mystery in a few short moments. While I thank you for this chance for him to use his real-world skills, what really bothers me is the lock on that door.

The issue? When the handle turns, the lock releases!

Oh, and I don't know if you have you noticed, but the toilet is not only directly in front of the door, it's about a football field length away from it. Do you know what happens when a curious toddler, or just one desperate to escape, turns the handle when mommy is, uh, busy? Yeah, no one has fun.

What should have been a 30-second routine play turned into a 3-minute event plus mad dash x3 in an effort to preserve my dignity and finally pee.

So, to recap: love the idea, hate the execution.

- G-man's mom

Dream on

G-man won't sleep.

Wait, that's not quite true. He does actually sleep. Although he has previously tried to set the record for number of hours without a little shut-eye, he does rest.

I should say, G-man won't sleep without us.

Just a few weeks ago I was thinking how we no longer have to go through an intricate song and dance to get him down for bedtime. No more endless rocking. No more standing in front of his crib, swinging/swaying with him. No more sneaking him out to the sofa to lay down with him. No more back rubs, pleas for sleepy time or selling our souls to have him not wake up the moment a molecule touches the crib mattress.

And then, it was over. I must have jinxed it.

The rocking is back. The wailing as soon as we try to put him down is back. The waking as we try to leave his room is back. More surprising, he no longer can sleep through the night or take himself back to dreamland.

There are a few things we could blame. For one, those pesky molars are still making their way in. I'd be pretty peeved if my mouth hurt a lot, too. Also, maybe he's closer to talking. The books say reaching a milestone could disrupt sleep. How turning into chatty cathy would do this, I don't know. But I didn't write the books.

Personally, I think it's part teeth, part separation anxiety. We just had our Parents As Teachers visit and she agreed this is a time where he could once again turn into cling fresh. We've been doing a lot, in new situations, that I know makes him a little nervous at first. He also has a better understanding of who we are and that we still exist when we leave so he wants to be with us. Oddly enough, he does go to bed well for baby sitters. So my assumption that he wants us feels like it's on track.

At first, this all seems so frustrating. But then I started thinking about it. Despite the fact that we don't do everything right - sometimes it seems we do everything wrong - the G-man still loves us. When he wants comfort, he turns to mommy and papa. As I attempt to put him down and he clutches me like a baby monkey, instead of getting exasperated, I should be flattered. He loves me. He wants to stay with me.

Awww.

However, I do like sleep, too, so thank goodness for weekends when we can all nap in shifts!

Believe it or not, I'm living on air

A belgian waffle. Blueberry applesauce. Cantaloupe. A crispy rice treat.

That's what the dog ate for breakfast.

I'm a vegetarian. Scott's an omnivore. And the G-man? He's on the oxygen diet, seemingly eating nothing but air.

Whereas other children his age are gorging themselves on snacks, lining up for chips, begging for fruit, grabbing desserts and stuffing their faces with sandwiches, he is happily sharing any food substance with all takers. Yep, he's a giver. And it drives us batty.

A veggie straw is interesting only in its ability to be crunched under a shoe. A fig cookie is just asking to be squished in little fingers. A mouthful of peas is amazing while being chewed, but after the novelty of that wears off, each pea is pulled back out for all to see.

A nibble here, a bite there and ta da! He's done. And that's with the food he likes. Oh sure, this is what toddlers are supposed to do: eat like a whale one day and a bird the next. But he hasn't had his share of tummy-filling days yet, just the light pecking ones. Every day is a testament to how something can survive on just a few hundred calories, most of them from his morning and evening soymilk.

Aside from the early bottle months, he has never told me when he is hungry. Perhaps he never is? Is G-man's body so efficient it makes the most on just a few bites a week, some of them never even swallowed?

He's thriving. Except for the talking, he's hitting all his milestones. He's happy, active and sleeps well at night. He's even growing. He just is not interested in eating.

Um, I love eating! How can he not? I know picky. I am one of the choosiest eaters on the planet. But still, I'm hungry. And if I find something I like, it's my personal mission to eat as much of it as I can. Go ahead, offer me a food I enjoy. I won't let you down; I won't turn it down.

It's hard to know what bothers me most. Is it the simply the fact that I don't think he has healthy eating habits and he's already underweight with no baby fat? Is that I spend time making meals only to see them fed to the pets? Is it the constant cleaning of the floors, walls, chairs, cabinets, dog, whatever is in throwing range? Or is it the amount of food and money that's wasted each meal and snack? I'm guessing it's all of them together forming a perfect storm of mealtime struggles.

The doctor doesn't seem really worried. And for the most part, I try to roll with the flow and tell myself his body knows what it needs. As you can see, I have a lot of questions about this but I feel better knowing that posts on babycenter and mamapedia are filled with parents fielding these same issues and generally, none of their kids have anything wrong with them.

Still, we have an appointment with a nutritionist at the children's hospital this month. I would love for her to tell me it's all my fault: I'm not presenting the food the right way, not timing it correctly, not saying and doing the correct things while he's (not) eating. Deep down, though, I don't think this is going to happen. Maybe it's a sensory perception thing, maybe it's a tiny tummy or maybe it's just that he doing great and I should be happy he's not on the road to obesity yet.

In the meantime, I'm going to hit a watermelon like there's no tomorrow.

One kid, a zillion names

G-man

GiGi

G-money

G-monkey

G-love

Jeepers

Boo-Boo

Boo Bear

Boo Bunny

BooBooLicious

Monkey

Munchkin

Fussy McGillicuddy

Cranky McGillicuddy

Mr. Stinkypants

Mr. Happypants

Nakee Butt

Booger Butt

Sillers

Silly Willy

Shmoopie

Punkin

Baby

Cutie-Pie

Sweetie-Pie

Stinker

Super Duper G-man

A question in the baby books: Does your child turn towards you if you say his name?

An answer from me: Sometimes.

Can you blame him? We use so many nicknames he probably doesn't even really know what his real name is! We're lucky if he responds to even a few of them. Why can't we just use the one on his birth certificate? I have no idea. Nicknames are a natural. When we chose his name (after a LOOONG debate in the hospital), we immediately thought of the possible alternates and some contenders dropped out of the race based on their secondary issues.

For example, he was close to being an Anthony. We already have Thomas, Timothy and Tino in the house. Could a Tony really stand out?

Did the elegant Vincent, a tribute to my great-grandmother Vicenzenia, lose its charm as a Vinny, conjuring up images of a sleeveless white undershirt?

Would any Dominic, other than DiMaggio, make an MLB club? And could it be the Yankees?

When I think of how we agonized over his first name, and how much we use nicknames instead - that often have nothing to do with it - I wonder what all the fuss was about.

We went into the hospital with two long lists - boy names and girl names. At least it was cut in half once we had our baby boy. But narrowing it down from there was quite difficult. Who was this kid? Who would he become? We held him up to nurses and asked them to find his name on our list. We stared at him trying to find a clue. We looked to make sure he didn't have a label somewhere like a stuffed animal Hi! My name is Francis! (By the way, that would have been really convenient.) We practiced calling him anything. Back to the list. Crossing things off. Reconsidering long ago additions. Rethinking each syllable, each letter. More staring. More nurse polling. The doctor voted for Robert, but that was his name and not even on our list. We heard the pros and cons of names other people liked. At one point, the birth certificate nazi told us we had until noon on our third day to pick something or she'd file as Baby Boy and we'd have to pony up $40 to the state to change it later. Great, a deadline and the threat of this costing even more. We didn't need that kind of pressure.

C'mon baby, tell us who you are! The clock is ticking, the form is waiting, your parents are just as curious to know.

In the end, we had our wonderful top five. And then that slowly dwindled until, poof! it went away completely. We ended up with a sleeper name, one we had never really given serious consideration to. But there it was, on the list. We looked at him, we looked at the name. If he hadn't been that baby, in those circumstances, we wouldn't have given it a second glance. But lo and behold, a name! Quick, right it down! Tell someone and make it official! Now run home - don't forget the baby - and wonder if you made the right choice.

Of course, we love it. It suits him. And now that I'm moving into that tried and true mom usage of sternly calling out the full name - first and middle - when he's up to trouble, it's definitely perfect.

Not for the Squeamish

A Christmas Story

Mitten War claims first casualty

Thoughts on two

Sweet melody

The Great Mitten War of 2009

Happy, healthy, safe and sound

Chugga...chugga...chugga...chugga...

What was I just talking about?

What a difference a day makes

20 (billion) questions

There's no such thing as a quick errand

How do you solve a problem like a toddler?

Hooray for play group

Lost in translation

Oh mamas!

A-B-C-D-E-F-G-H1N1

Parent's Day In

Time out

Those three little words

My baby is cuter than your baby

It's the most wonderful time of the day

The danger zone

The vomit bag

Fly guy

A quest

Hey, I'm talking to you here

"Flight to Philly narrowly avoids disaster as toddler incapacitates crew in freak beverage cart accident. Film at 11."

No kids; pets OK

An open note to the library

Dream on

Believe it or not, I'm living on air

One kid, a zillion names

click early, click often: baby needs new shoes

Past posts and whatnot

Groovy Blogs I Like

who is this chickie?

People who, for some reason, like me

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