Not for the Squeamish: June 2009

The kissing bandit

G-man is kissable.

Oh sure, you're thinking that applies to all little kids. You probably know kids, maybe even one of yours, that you find yourself drawn to smooch. But this is really, really kissable.

Seriously, I'm an addict. I can't stop kissing him! I don't think I give his skin time to shed on its own; I'm kissing off layers all day. I'm surprised he's not constantly pruney from all the wet smackers.

No matter what, if I'm near him, I kiss him. Scoop him up for a diaper change? Kiss. Down from the high chair? Kiss. In the car? Kiss. Out of the car? Kiss. Passing by? Kiss.

And don't get me started on if I'm actually holding him for any length of time. I must hold the world record for number of little smooches planted on a face/head/arms/whatever in a minute. I simply cannot help it. Even if I'm mad at him, I want to kiss him. I crave it. I love it. I love him.

It's not how he smells. He can be covered in yogurt (which I despise) and I have to do it. It's not how he looks. He can be having a not-as-cute moment and yet I'm helpless to the allure. It's not how he's behaving. I find myself puckering up even as I go to discipline him.

When I go in to check on him before I pop off to bed, I'm overcome with how much I want to kiss him and, for once, I can't. Because I can't reach him that far down in the crib! I have to settle for some lean-over-the-side-rail love pats, but oh, I want to pick him up and put my lips on his soft, pudgy cheeks. Over and over.

What is this all about?

I have some familiarity with it on a less manic level. One of the cats is kissable. For some reason, he snuggles up and I have to cover him with smooches. The other cat is no less loved, but just doesn't have that pucker up savoir faire. And the dog? 100% pet-able.

But the G-man is KISSABLE. Irresistibly kissable. One day, he will duck from the incoming swoop of a mommy kiss but for now, I'm taking advantage as much as I can.

Next on my list of world records? How many times a day I can tell him I love him. I'm pretty sure I'm close to that one, too.

Wrestlemania

He scampers to the mat, and looks back at his opponent, laughter in his eyes. She lunges and he deftly moves to avoid her grasp, crawling away on all fours. But wait! She's got him by the ankles, dragging him back to the center of the action. He wriggles and manages to free himself, delivering a blow to the chest as he rolls over. And yet, she pins him to the mat with her elbow and desperately tries to control his lower body. It's a blur of flailing legs, tousled hair and frantic hands. Finally, one of them emerges victorious! Round one is over.

WWF? WWE? No, it's The Toddler vs. Super Mom in the daily rematch of Diaper Time.

The first change of the morning actually went like that today. While I had prepared to do it on his changing table, he pushed out of my arms once naked and darted to the yoga mat in the living room. There, he sat down as if he had decided this would be a much better place for such actions to occur. Ok by me. If he wants to pick a place to make it better for him, I'm fine. But no, it was a challenge. As soon as I got close, game on.

What the hell? Why does G-man put up such a fight? Seriously, if he'd just sit still, it would go a lot faster. After all, I always win. It's pretty non-negotiable.

I was reading about this on mamapedia recently. While it's nice to know I'm not alone, I feel like I've already tried so many of the suggestions to no avail.

I have tried to make things more interesting and/or pleasant for him. Special toys on the table (sometimes even the real phone!), a pillow for his head, silly songs and games. How about different locations? The floor of his room, the bed in my room, while he looks out the window, even on the sofa. Different positions? Standing up, on his tummy, as he tries to walk away.

My li'l man's naked butt has really been around. Where has G-man done the diaper dance? In his infant carrier on the desk of a car salesperson; the floor of an Indian restaurant; in his stroller at the park (and among other places); under the canopy at the pool; in the beach cabana; on a blanket in the backyard; and on a countertop at Scott's office.

Yet even with distractions of sights, sounds and environment, no matter what, most of the transformations from wet & dirty to dry & clean result in screaming, thrashing and general unpleasantness.

I feel like duct taping his entire body down just to get things done.

One the bright side, I know that eventually, he'll outgrow it. Either he'll move on to resisting me on potty training (great) or just realize that having the diaper changed isn't as bad as sitting around in the damp and/or yuck.

Until then, G-man, you think you can outlast me, but unless I proclaim official naked time, that diaper is going on, buster.

Take me out to the ball game

>> Thursday, June 11, 2009 – I

I'll admit, I've had some pretty good ideas in my short time as a mom. But sometimes I ask myself, "what were you thinking?" and today was one of those times. Why? I'm in charge of planning play group activities for the month and decided we should all go to a minor league baseball game.

Pros: kids under 2 are free (GA seats for adults are only $6); there's a large grassy area on the outfield berm for blankets and running around; there's a playground just off the grass seating; little kids can bring in their own food and drink; it's a day game; parking is free.

Cons: all of our kids are under 18 months, just learning their independence; none of them understand the concept of "stand still"; they don't grasp what it means when the swings are full of other kids; it rained.

These are general things that applied to all of us. But of course, the G-man has to go above and beyond. While some duos in our group finished their day on a high note, I was ready to sneak my child onto one of the gazillions of day care buses in the parking lot and then run away.

Part of it was lack of planning on my end. I've only been to major league games, the kind where strollers are heavily frowned upon so I didn't bring one. Big mistake. After all, I had to lug a gigantic diaper bag with extra clothes, his lunch and snacks and enough sundries to open my own convenience store, plus a bag with blankets stuffed, crammed inside and another blanket/tarp to hopefully serve as a waterproof barrier on the grass. Oh, and the boy. Which frankly, I wasn't really counting on.

G-man likes to walk free. He seems to revel in a stroll. So I thought I'd just have him walk beside me as I did an impression of a pack mule. Before you freak out, I wasn't going to let him wander willy-nilly; I have a baby leash! Hey, don't judge me. It's cute, with a monkey backpack. So I pictured him toddling next to me, but attached to me, so we'd safely and easily reach our destination.

Oh, I am funny.

It so didn't happen that way. As soon as we were out of the car, I popped the monkey on him, plopped him on to the ground so I could get our bags and witnessed the first tantrum of this outing. He threw himself into a puddle at the indignity of being asked to walk himself. It's been 25 seconds, he's already dirty, wants to be picked up and I wore my new white shirt. Another moment of poor planning.

But really, is it so bad for your child to want to be held? Not at all. Of course I picked him up and secretly relished the feeling of him clinging to me, while simultaneously wondering how someone who weighs so little could seem so heavy. Pack mule plus one, we ventured towards the ball park.

I should have been tipped me off that this would literally be no picnic.

Once in the ballpark, the no-walking rule was lifted as he took off upon being released from my arms like a wind-up spring car. Unfortunately, I was trying to set up our blankets with the other mommies and chasing him certainly slowed me down in making camp.

But does he run for the playground, with swings, a slide and a paid chaperone to help supervise? Hell no. He finds the concrete steps (which he only thinks he can navigate); tries to unplug the inflatable bounce house; goes behind the batting cages; attempts to empty other fans' strollers. Any effort on my part to get him to sit down for just a moment was met with staunch resistance.

I tried to get him to eat anything, just a freakin' bite!, for lunch but he was too distracted. While our fellow playmates munched on their goodies - one even eating nicely off of a plate; whoa - G-man promptly fed his portion of chick'n to the ants, discovered he could dump his snacks on the ground and stomp them with his feet, emptied his juice box on his shoes, and ran from the cookie I offered like it was poison. They made an announcement about real fruit smoothies and off we dashed to get him one. He took 10 sips, realized the straw came out with smoothie clinging to it and proceeded to try to empty the cup on the ground to play in the mess. I threw it away. Bye-bye $4.

Meanwhile, I'm starving but there is no way I can get some food, much less eat it, without having a place to strap him in to. I need two hands for this day. Hell, I really needed three.

I spent much of my day scooping him up and trying to redirect him, most of it to no avail. I ended up having to carry him away from things, only to have him take off again. With every lift and carry, he got heavier.

At the first sprinkle of rain, I'd had it. All I needed to do was change his diaper and we'd be on our way. He's starting to get really tired, you could tell. The others in our group had a similar 'run for the exit' look on their faces. Mother Nature gazed upon us, saw the desperation creeping in as we set into action to pack, and took pity upon us. Nope, not really! Instead, she sent a downpour.

We scrambled for shelter, grabbing our items and piling them on anything/anyone we could find. Now I just need to finish packing so we could zoom out as soon as the deluge let up. G-man had other ideas. The rain called to him and he went to it, disappearing several times so that I had to stop what I was doing and take off after him. Oh NOW he wants the playground! Awesome. What should have taken only a few moments was a 15-minute ordeal just to put things back into their bags.

The monkey leash came back out and he acted like a cat - as soon as I put it on him he dropped to the ground and wouldn't move. At least he's in one place.

Damp and muddy, we head for the restroom for a quick diaper change. At last, he's walking nicely beside me with the monkey on. Once inside the family bathroom, I let him hold the leash end while I get his supplies out. He's happy, he likes it, he drops it in the drain. Yuck. Wet monkey leash.

Finally, we are done and walking towards the exit. We go slowly, both tired but both trying to make the most of our outing. I notice the game for what seems like the first time and see that we are behind 3-0 in the eighth. And we're playing a team from Fargo. I didn't even know that.

Will I do it again? Um...maybe. Now that I know what I can bring and what he'll be attracted to, I might try again. Despite not getting his way and having what probably looked like a pretty harried mom all day, I think G-man had fun. And that's the only game that counts.

Black and blue and red all over

Lest you think I'm the only one getting pummeled in this relationship, I should point out that I do have to tend to a variety of bumps and boo-boos on the little man. Whatever he doles out to me he seems to repeat on himself even more.

At the moment, his legs look like they had a close encounter with a cheese grater. There's the healing scrape on his knee from falling in the park. Another from sliding down concrete steps at a baby shower last week. A bunch of fresh spots on his knees and feet - of all places - after a harsh lesson in running around the pool yesterday. Plus the random scratches from twigs and limbs as he brushes by them during his explorations outside.

His hands sport another encounter with the claw end of a cat. His fingers have teeth marks for when he can't find my shoulder and needs to chew something.

There's a bruise from god knows what on his upper thigh but I'm inclined to think it's the result of the daily thrashing on the changing table. (That thing really needs padded edges.)

His back is healing after he managed to get himself wedged in between our bed and the night stand. A lesson he still has not learned as he continues to squeeze himself in there to change my sleep number and pluck the baby monitor from its stand.

The goose egg from last month is now a faint grey mark above his eye but as he is still using his face to break a fall, I'm sure it won't be lonely there for long.

Of course, these are just the marks we can see. I'm sure he has aches and pains from running into walls, tripping over toys and getting his fingers caught in his dresser drawer.

Yet he soldiers on, rarely crying when injured, wearing his battle wounds like a badge of honor; another victory in the daily parade of new events and discoveries. After all, chicks dig scars.

Ouch!

Before the G-man came along, I thought pregnancy and childbirth were the only parts of motherhood that hurt (aside from emotional things like having your little one leave for the first day of school without even looking back and stuff like that). I just assumed the pain ended there and the only bumps, bruises and scrapes I'd have to attend to were on my wee guy.

Um, no.

I may be bigger than he is, but he fights dirty.

Seemingly from day one, I have been on the receiving end of star-seeing head butts; fingers to the eye; jabs to the ear; lips stretched down my chin; nose bonks; skin pulls; feet to the head, chest, stomach; my wrists are shot from holding him so much; and more that can make you feel like you're on the losing end of every prize fight.

No matter how often the fingernails get trimmed, there's always a little something poking out that catches my gums as he exploring my mouth or scrapes my fingers as he's examining my hands. And the toenails! Yikes. A scratch from the big toe as he clamors aboard can actually draw blood.

Teething bites are cute when it's still all gummy in there. But once the first one pops through, watch out. They are like puppy teeth - sharp and biting everything. G-man currently has 8 chompers, 4 on top, 4 on the bottom, all in the front. Now the molars are coming and my shoulder is paying for it. He latches on with all he's got and tries to tear the skin off. Either I'm really tasty or he's secretly being raised by wolves. Thankfully, I haven't heard of him trying this cannibalistic behavior on any of his friends, but it may just be a matter of time. Last week, he clamped down so hard I still have the bruise it left on my arm and the tooth indentations were around for a while, too.

A recent favorite past time is pinching. Not big, whole hand things; rather, little nippy ones. He grabs my skin (usually that attractive waving portion on my underarms) and works his tiny fingers like they are mining for diamonds under there. It hurts. And leaves red/blue/purple marks just in time for short-sleeve weather.

The act of being on the floor automatically puts me in harm's way. He rams his toys into me (and the dog - he doesn't seem to realize what's coming); climbs on me with legs, feet and hands in delicate areas; drops things on me; and of course, occasionally just falls down on top of me.

All this I am supposed to accept with a gracious smile even though he is allowed to shriek with the horrors of having a toothbrush near his mouth.

Along with the standard issue hazmat suit I mentioned in my first post, new mom kits should come with first aid supplies for the adults that get in the way of the whirling dervish they just brought home. Perhaps full body armor or one of those inflatable sumo wrestler suits. Oh, and I hear a bottle of vodka can do wonders.

Say something...anything...seriously

For what seems like every moment of my day, I hear "da da di?" coming from my little explorer's mouth. You see, while the G-man may love working on his gross motor skills and was on the earlier side of get up and go, his vocabulary and language skills are still at the starting gate. So his go-to phrase are the three little 'words' he loves to hear: da da di!

I have no idea what this means. Sometimes, he says it desperately, getting louder as he frantically gestures towards the window. Is it a bird? Is it a plane? Is it freakin' Superman?! I don't know. And I feel bad about that.

He's trying so hard to communicate; in fact, he's "talking" all the time. Constant chatter is his full-time hobby. It amazes me that he has so much to say. I hear "da da di?" throughout our entire walk, a little hand thrusting out from the stroller as he tries to direct my attention. I simply name everything we are passing and agree with him. What am I agreeing to? Is he getting a pony?

I just want a word. A real word with a real meaning. A couple of months ago, we thought we had it. I was holding a banana, signing banana, Scott was saying banana, and we both swear, he said...banana! Oh, happy day! We rushed to the baby book and dutifully wrote it down. The proud parents, a wandering toddler and a banana. We haven't heard it, or anything else, since.

(Last week at Gymboree, two people reported hearing him say "Gymbo" - the name of the clown mascot - but alas, I missed it and the alleged feat has not yet been repeated.)

I saw on mamapedia that there are a lot of non-talkers his age, but some of them at least are chatting it up with their parents. Not even "mama" and "dada" have made it out from his lips. Oh sure, he says the syllables over and over, but not to us. Unless he thinks the activity table gave birth to him, I'm pretty sure he just likes making the noise.

Oh, and the noise. He adores the phone. In the beginning, it was simply pressing buttons and making prank calls from atop the changing table. Then he added conversations, holding the phone up to his ear. He even does the pauses like a real exchange is happening. Now, everything is a phone. The remote. A handheld game. A spoon. A toy car. Up to his ear it goes and a stream of babble erupts for the next 20 minutes. He must not have clear reception because sometimes he has to yell. And yet, the tone of his voice and the surety of what he is saying leads me to believe he can talk. Just in Italian.

As the day goes on and "da da di?" is bored into my brain, I long to know what he's saying. Is he asking me a question? Is he telling me the cats are plotting an escape attempt? Can he really be that fascinated with seeing a van drive down the street? Guessing is getting exhausting.

Of course, it's got to be so frustrating for him, too. Today I took him to Whole Foods. I like to visit there and show him the produce, talk about colors, let him feel the textures, and then drop a paycheck on the few items we pick up along the way. Well, he was in the cart and repeating "da da di?" over and over. I played along. Yes, that's cheese. There's some crackers. Look at the people shopping. That's soup over there. And he's getting frantic because obviously, I am a moron. As I stepped in front of him to push the cart, he pushed me away instead. What? There is nothing behind me, except the soup. And then, our savior. A white knight appeared next to me with...G-man's pacifier. I didn't even realize he'd had it in the store, much less that he had dropped it and it had bounced away behind me. This good samaritan either saw it happen or spoke toddler-ease for there it was. Thank you, kind sir, in so many ways.

He proceeded to drop it again three more times but this time I was on to him. At last, for those brief, shining moments, I knew what he was saying.

Mommy meltdown

It's hard to get mad at G-man when I have tantrums myself. After all, he has no excuse (or so the books lead me to believe) but I, an adult, should have it under control. Ah, easier said than done. Especially when we decide to wig out together.

Take this morning. For the most part, it was a typical morning. Early fun, breakfast refusal - but I'm kind of over that - walking the dog, some play time and off to Gymboree. No real stress issues. The dog had his usual pokey little puppy act going on where I felt like we would never get home, but needed no more prodding than, "Come ON, Tino."

I'll admit that the kid probably takes some of his cues from me. During Gymboree, I could tell he was getting a little tired so I may have started to be a bit on edge as I watched his behavior and the clock, while pondering what quick thing I could feed him when we walked into the house to get his tummy full for dreamland. Still, I had purposely driven to class instead of walking so he would get home faster.

Aye, there's the rub.

We emerged from class to find...a semi making a delivery parked behind my car. To who? Don't know. For how long? Anyone's guess. So here we are, tired, hungry and oh yes, it's hot out, with a few blocks to go and no way to get out.

He was fascinated with the truck for a while and I was getting antsy. We sat in the back seat with the hatch open so he could see and the air conditioner on. I didn't have a good snack with me. I didn't want to give him a drink because he would fill up on water. His eyes were getting red from being tired. And I was more than a little annoyed now.

Finally, we get to move and motor on home. Walking in the door, he sees Tino so I think he's happy and I can put him down. Wrong. He goes into tantrum mode. Whatever, he can do that while I make lunch. At least I know where he is.

While waiting for the microwave to do my bidding, I check the messages. Great, one from the eye doctor's office saying they won't fill the order I want from 1-800-Contacts. It's not a brand I've used before and they aren't comfortable doing it. In reality, they are probably not comfortable with the fact that I a.) skipped my exam because I can't afford it, and b.) I usually get the stuff from them, not someone else. I am not in a good mood. And someone is still screaming.

Lunch is on the table! Let's go, let's eat! Let's...continue our tantrum in the high chair. Awesome. Food starts flying. The dog and one cat are loving it. I am not. After a little sip of water, he tries some bites. Oh yeah, this is good stuff. He tries some more. He asks for the plate. I bring it to him and realize he's about to grab it and dump it. So, no, I take it away. That seems to be the final straw for him.

Full on meltdown.

And guess what? I'm not far behind.

I see the pile of stuff from this morning that still needs to be cleaned. I haven't eaten lunch yet. I discovered the microwave is a mess after a blow-up in there yesterday that didn't get taken care of yet. The dishwasher never ran last night. There are calls to make. Emails to respond to. Work to do. A sick cat. I have a raging allergy headache.

I scoop the G-man out of his chair without even washing him off (which I will regret later) and pop him in his crib. There may have been some cross words, too. Ok, there were definitely some cross words. And, um, maybe a little yelling outburst.

Back to the kitchen to do some clean up and get at least a few things under control, including myself. G-man is still telling the world what a horrible mom I am, but there's a thunderstorm going on so no one will hear him anyway.

After a few minutes, I go back in to see him. I'm happy to try lunch again if he is. Turns out, he's just really tired. I pick him up (seeing that the food that was on him is now squished into the crib sheet - more laundry - joy.), give him a pacifier, and gently rock him to sleep. Poor li'l guy.

I've saved his lunch in the fridge and straightened up the house now. Feeling a little better, I'm ready to face the afternoon if he's willing to do it with me.