Not for the Squeamish: July 2009

"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.

The following is rated Pre-G

In the before time, the long, long ago (approximately 18 months ago), life was different.

I did laundry once a week, on Sunday. Granted, it took all day, but that's because I kept forgetting I was supposed to be doing it. A typical Sunday afternoon exchange in our house went like this -

Scott: "Aren't you doing laundry?"

Me: (looking surprised) "Oh crap, I am! Totally forgot."

Now, that same conversation takes place about 5 times a week, as the anomaly is now a day without the dreaded load to wash, dry, fold and put away. I had no idea there would be so much. I expected a baby to create more. Of course, that's the joke right? No sleep and always washing clothes. I just didn't know so many of them would be mine...

Once upon a time, I had clean clothes. For an entire day. Ones I could even push to another day before popping them in the basket. Not only were there no mystery marks on my shoulders or muddy shoe prints on my thighs, everything smelled nice and none of my collars were stretched out. It's true; I have photos for proof.

There was a time when my water bill didn't look as if I was filling a municipal pool every day. From the moment the G-man came home, the water hasn't stopped flowing. Making formula. Washing my hands a billion times a day. Endlessly cleaning bottles, baby plates and utensils, sippy cups and toys. Running a bath every night. The self-breeding laundry. Turning on the dishwasher constantly to clean up after cooking for him. And now his two favorite hobbies: playing with the hose (turned on, of course) and washing his own hands, which appears to be necessary whenever he even sees a sink.

Prior to mommyhood, Costco-sized items lasted a while. A billion pack of paper towels could stretch an entire season. Now, we go through a full roll at least every two days. Tissues were a big consumable but not nearly the hot commodity they became during this past winter and into the spring. Milk and soymilk could actually expire before we got around to using them up.

If you knew me in the olden times, you saw a woman with makeup. Hair brushed. Jewelry on. You knew a person that complained about getting only 8 hours of sleep. You marveled at the fact I could go almost a week without having to drive somewhere. You hated that I always had a cold house in winter and put off turning the air conditioning on in my car or the house until practically Labor Day. You waved to me at the adult pool. You met me for lunches that lasted longer than 30 minutes before someone screamed and/or threw food.

Yes, in the beginning I could pop out for an errand without needing a sherpa to haul all of my stuff. I was late to things but never this late. Parties started at 7 instead of ending at 6. I could meet you on a moment's notice. I worked during the day instead of at night. The only stopping I had to do on walks was the result of Tino the lollygagger, not because a pacifier was missing, a shoe was down, a tantrum was starting.

Pre-G, I read books. I cooked meals from scratch. I cleaned my house (ok, not so great, but I made a better effort). I made phone calls when I wanted. I even watched TV.

I wish I had made a time capsule. I would have included a wall that didn't have mashed potato on it; shelves that held real decorative items or books, not toys; a door without pencil "art" scribbled directly on it; a remote that didn't have to be hidden; a cabinet that didn't need a locksmith to get into; a dog that was clean, without food stains on his head or back; the snooze button; eyeglasses without fingerprints; and money in my bank account.

Then I would have lovingly tucked the capsule away and gone to make race car sounds, cheer someone on for going dookie in their pants or create play doh hats for a frog. Because in the before time, the long, long ago, life was different. But not necessarily better.