Mom et al » toddler behavior

Lessons: I’ve Learned a Few

Maria — Fri, 17 Jul 2009 19:00:00 +0000

A few odds and ends I’ve learned now that I am a mother of young children:

Your chances of leaving the house without a smudge of bodily fluid on your shirt or pants are slim to none.

There are some truly psychotic kids’ TV shows out there. I’m lookin’ at YOU Boo-Bah.

Three-year-olds can conjugate compound verbs. Be prepared when you’re driving and someone cuts you off, and you ever so accidentally blurt out “FRACK!!!!” Your preschooler might just inquire, “Mama, why are you fracking?” (PG version enabled for sensitive eyes)

Milk vomit: That stank is super hard to get out of couches and carpet. Especially when it leaks between the cushion cracks of your sectional (the parts that don’t separate). Good luck with that.

Long road trip? Your toddler will not let you down, and ensure that he requires a poop change every hour.

Noise making, light sensitive peg puzzles are the devil’s way of making sure your child is wide awake with the first ray of sunshine. Pieces get lost, and the moment the light changes in the room your little one’s peaceful slumber is interrupted by, “MOOOO!!! MOOOO!!!”

If you have two children, you really don’t get a proper sense of the sibling bonding that is being forged until you have received an eye and earful of the two sharing a joint tantrum, fully equipped with the same doe eyed, tear strewn, mouth agape faces that can now expel perfectly synchronized gasps and wails.

Having kids means never being able to find one of your 12 coasters when you want one. I later find them strewn inconspicuously about the house. I don’t know what it is about them, but my kids go coo-coo for coasters. I’m seriously contemplating putting some in next year’s Xmas stockings, after which I will undoubtedly be awarded Best Mom EVER.

Everyone’s ready to leave in the morning. You’ve got bags slung over your shoulders, your three year old finally has on her shoes and is carrying her stuffed animal, books, book bag full of toy cars (sans books), and cell phone. With a coffee in one hand, you reach down to pick up your toddler with the other, and catch that unmistakable aroma fumigating from his backside. You glance at the clock, knowing you’re already running late, and calculate in your head how much longer he can sit in it. You shrug, say screw it, hoist him up, and tell yourself he’ll live though the 10 minute car ride to daycare. You then pass him off to his teachers with an apologetic, “Sorry, I think he pooped on the ride over.”*

* They agree to change him with a smile, but know you’re totally lying. **

** You pull the same stunt with your mother in law, but she also knows you’re lying. ***

***The difference is she calls you out on it.

Not to be entirely sarcastic, I’ll end with one relatively sappy notation:

The first time your toddler looks at you and says, “Mama, I love you” will expand your heart to capacity and at the same time crush it into a heap of tiny-finger-wrapped pieces. This all occurs in one unbelievably endearing, bleary eyed, jaw dropping moment, and stays with you forever.

New Shoes and Toddler Truths

Maria — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 20:48:00 +0000

I’m not much of a shopper. Maybe it was my years in retail. Maybe it is due to my complete lack of patience with crowds, lines, dressing room quotas, checkouts, and parking. In any event, I need new shoes, and I’m totally procrastinating on this next purchase endeavor.

My recent trip down memory lane actually reminded me that this has always been a pattern for me. When I was employed at GapKids during the early 90’s, the grunge with a hint of preppy look was considered perfectly acceptable work attire. I confess that in addition to my bootleg Gap jeans (at 50% off discount, of course), flannels, and my irreplaceable army-green barn jacket; I had a fascination with my patent leather, black, semi-high-thick-heeled penny loafers. Yep, I was stylin’. I wore these loafers on most days, sunshine or rain, and after a while they began to look quite a bit weathered. Once patent leather gets really worn in, it starts to have a horribly cracked and aged look to it.

But they were the most comfortable shoes EVER. I could stand in them on double shifts for hours on end. I would love to say it was my adoration with the shoes, and the immense level of support they provided that dissuaded me from purchasing new ones. If I’m honest it was because the last thing I wanted to do, after spending time in a store all day, was go to another one.

Now, at my store we were a one stop shop for all your child donning needs, and that my friends included kids’ shoes. A substantial portion of my day involved fitting the aforementioned whiney, angst filled toddlers into stylish little soles that cost more than I would have spent on a pair for myself. But seriously, they were cute, and the definition of “irresistible” to first time moms.

One afternoon a mother brought in her young daughter, who announced proudly to me that she was 3 years of age. The mom explained that she was in need of new shoes and selected a style for her little one to try on. As I helped the little girl into her new mary-janes, she pointed to my happily patented leathered tootsies and stated with pure sincerity:

“You need new shoes too!”

As I was kneeling down I looked to my feet and gained the toddler perspective of just how very correct she was. The mother was horrified, apologizing to me for her child’s blurt, which only made matters worse that yes; it was the brutal honest truth. I shrugged it off with a smile and a laugh and told the little girl that she was right. I think I may have waited it out for a little while longer, but I did eventually retire them.

There was no accusation in the little girl’s statement. I love that about kids, the way they say it like it is; their total lack of filtering. I see it with my daughter all the time:

“Mama, your hair is messy. You need to visit the hair cutting store.”

“Daddy, you’re stinky. You need to take a shower.” (Sorry honey)

I will miss that lost innocence, when she learns that there are polite ways of saying things, and that there are other statements that had best be kept to oneself. For now…speak your mind, my child.

Cheerio?

Maria — Thu, 25 Jun 2009 20:22:00 +0000

When I was in college I worked for GapKids, which at that time was in its prime and one of the top children’s clothing stores. I’ve written before about how being a mother wasn’t always a life choice that I found endearing. I have a feeling it was my experiences in their stores that laid some of the ground work. On a daily basis I watched mothers cart their children in strollers, often looking ragged as they attempted to run their errands with whiney, tantrum prone toddlers and hungry infants in tow. I was subject to a countless number of melt downs, and while I enjoyed my job and not all the children were angst infested, I was often left with the impression that man, maybe the whole children thing just isn’t worth it.

Putting aside the emotional outbursts, I was also amazed by just how much stuff had to be carted along with the kids: diaper bags, small coolers, toys, blankets, etc. All these things were needed for one quick trip to the mall. Snacks were a constant presence and I spent many nights cleaning up crackers and Cheerios left behind, crushed and crumbled under foot.

Cheerios. For years I wouldn’t touch the stuff. There’s one particular memory that I have with regards to this heavenly bit of toddler snack food that left me scarred for a good decade. I was assisting a mother with her purchase while her son sat content in his stroller. A little pile of those special O’s rested in his front tray. He snacked happily while his mother rummaged through piles of ribbed t-shirts that I would have to refold again later. As I watched the boy banging a teething ring against the stroller, several pieces of the cereal fell to the floor. I sighed with the realization that later I would be cleaning those up as well, and looked indignantly upon the child before me.

It was then that I noticed the single piece of Cheerio affixed to the chin of this darling little boy, held in place by goops of sticky drool. His mother finally settled on a ribbed T and held it up to the boy for sizing. When she looked at him she also noticed the sopping piece of grain and with one swift, horrifying swoop removed the soggy O with her index finger and inserted it promptly into her mouth.

In perhaps more disgust than was necessary, I gagged. I felt the quick involuntary motion of vomit raise up my throat, burning my esophagus. I swallowed hard and turned from the mother and child, who were continuing on with their clothing and eating as if nothing abnormal had just taken place.

It would be years before another Cheerio would pass my lips. Now that I am older and have several younglings of my own, I’ve had plenty of experience with infant/toddler bodily fluids. I would like to believe nearly four years of cleaning poop and vomit has toughened me up a bit. I’m also used to my son’s big, wet, sloppy kisses. But would I eat a sopping wet Cheerio stuck to his chin? Pretty sure I still wouldn’t go there.

Oh, and I do feel a teeny bit of regret for the sales assistants that have cleaned up the fair amount of Cheerios and Goldfish I’ve left behind on their floors, but gah…I did my time.

Hey Mom…want some?

Sunday Strolls

Maria — Mon, 01 Jun 2009 21:54:00 +0000

It’s that time of year in New England where we crawl out of our dark and dreary self imposed shelters and bask, albeit squinting blindly, in the warm rays of our glorious sun. Hip, Hip! Hooray! Spring has sprung in full bloom to renew our lands, lift our spirits, and once and for all (or at least for a couple of hours per day) put an end to the persistent assault on our ears that has taken up residence, unabated for the last 6 months: toddler whining.

Picture if you will, gentle readers, two children of the ages 3 ½ and 19 months. The big sister has soft blond ringlets of hair framing her sweet face. A Disney princess bow pins the tresses from her eyes. The baby boy, not so much a baby anymore, has dark curls of his own surrounding his cherub face. His large, bright brown eyes are a reflection of his mother’s.

My, aren’t they lovely. See them sitting together, rocking back and forth. Their hands are entwined around the same McDonald’s happy meal toy as they tug to and fro. The boy makes shockingly high pitched harpy screeches. The girl, equally bewildering, expels guttural utterances that ought not be possible, as she vies for control of the…what the fuck is that anyway? An insect?

Scattered around them are 98,903,240,438 other toys, all dedicated to the soul purpose of satisfying their undying need for stimulus. Yet, it is this bug thingy that holds them in a fight to the end, or (with all attempts at distraction thwarted) until I finally lose my patience and bark at them in a “HEY!!! CUT THAT OUT!!!” manner. This scene has been brought to you today by the depths of winter. Spring, with summer just around the corner, provides us with a much preferable alternative.

All one need do is hold up a bottle of Banana Boat Baby Sunscreen, and somewhere in the near distance a Pavlovian bell rings, as my children drop everything and run to me with the knowledge of the outdoor frolicking to come.

I love this time we spend together. Well, not so much the amount of time I spend keeping my children from running out into the street, into slow but still oncoming traffic. I could also do without the time spent arbitrating the use of one ball amongst the many that they have at their disposal (10), because for whatever reason they both want THAT ball.

It’s the walks we take that I really love. We stroll through our neighborhood, pausing to look at every fire hydrant, basketball hoop, bird, and storm drain. We laugh and sing and say hello to neighbors who have also emerged from their cocoons, busily tending to yard work and playing with their young.

Yesterday we passed an older gentleman, peacefully reading a book on his front porch. My daughter, the budding social butterfly that she is, stopped first to gawk, but then to talk to him to ask what he was doing. What is this strange activity? Why would adults read to themselves? Where are the other children to whom he should be reading? I did my best to explain that the man was enjoying some quiet time, and after a quick conversation about how he has hanging flower baskets just like ours on his porch, we made our way.

But I couldn’t help myself and looked back a little longingly. I remember the days when I would spend a lazy Sunday, sitting out in the shade reading quietly, enjoying the sounds and smells of spring as I immersed myself into a story. The thought was fleeting; as I looked back to my little family, holding hands as we walked down our street, I knew this shared stroll was a perfect way to spend such a beautiful spring day.

Passages

Maria — Wed, 08 Apr 2009 23:43:00 +0000

The period of 16 to 18 months of age is a bit of a honeymoon. Both Mommy and Son are sleeping through the night. Bottles are miraculously held by tiny hands. No longer does Mommy have to lug to day-care with masterful skill sheets, blankets, lunches, diapers, wipes, and a 28 lb toddler positioned on her hip just so. This little dude can walk now. He teeters alongside his sister, fingers blanketed by Mommy’s hand.

He’s able to communicate his needs and wants. Ba-ba! He screams with authority. All-done! He cries in protest of diaper changes. Hungry for a snack, he points to the bag of cheerios; smiling broadly and nodding when asked if he wants some more. He sings, dances, revels in the joys of his world. Personality shining through, he displays sarcasm while prodding his agitated older sister in the back with toys during their bath. Smack out of a Simpson’s episode, she exclaims, “Ow, quit it!”, and looks to Mommy for justice. He laughs and takes revenge for her many transgressions (a.k.a. toy stealing) by poking her again. All about Karma, Mommy lets it slide.

It’s an amazing time for Mommy and her little man. Every day he learns something new; a new word, a new hand gesture, new sights and sounds to behold. Mommy watches as he takes it all in, pointing in wonder at the birds that have traveled home for spring; calling out to the trucks zipping by on the road; concentration evident in his eyes as he ponders the feeling of grass on his palms.

Watching all these things come to pass pulls at Mommy’s heart strings. She wants to scoop him up, hold him in this stage forever, his tiny arms wrapped around her, his face nuzzled in the crook of her neck. She feels his weight in her arms, and recalls when she first brought him home. How tiny he was in comparison to the sturdy toddler he is now.

This snuggle is too brief. The boy is changing so fast. There is a whole world out there to explore and it cannot be accomplished from Mommy’s grasp. She manages a quick smooch on those irresistibly soft and chubby cheeks as he reaches for the ground. All done! She sets him back down, and off he runs, faster, more assured, steady on his feet. Not too far, just enough for Mommy to grieve his inevitable distance.

During all the trying times of infancy, there was always the desire push through it…to get past it. Yet even when it was most difficult, there was enormous joy, pride, appreciation for the enrichment of life, acceptance of the rite of passage. What a crashing flow of emotions…hope and desire to watch him grow, ache and desperation to keep him close.

Morning

Maria — Wed, 01 Apr 2009 16:03:00 +0000

Mornings with my daughter pretty much go like this:

“OK Sofia, time to go potty. Let’s get ready for school so you can go have breakfast and watch a show before we leave. Sofia, enough running around please, you need to go potty. Sofia, go potty please. Let’s go. You’re not going to have enough time to watch Mickey Mouse and you’re going to be upset. Please go potty. Common Sofia, let’s have a good morning. Please go potty. 5….4….3….2… (Sofia rushes to the potty and steps on her stool). Put Bear down first, you don’t want to drop him in the toilet. Sofia, put down your bear, you don’t want him to get dirty. OK, but if you drop him in the toilet he’s going to have to take a bath in the washing machine and you wont be able to take him to school. Let’s go, pull your pants down please. Pull your pants down. Sofia, please pull down your pants. No, don’t sit on the potty yet, you’re going to wet your clothes. You need to pull your pants down…your underwear too. Sofia, please pull down your underwear. Yes, I do hear the rain. Please pull down your underwear. No, Daddy’s still in bed. Come on, Sofia, you need to pull down your underwear. OK, good job. You all done? Ok, now you need to wipe. Sofia, wipe your pee pee, please. Yes, I do hear that Dominic is awake. No, you cannot go see him right now; you need to wipe your pee pee. Sofia, you’ve got pee dripping down your leg. Please focus. Wipe your pee pee. Good job, put the toilet paper in the potty. Sofia, please don’t play with the toilet paper, you’ve got pee pee on it. Germs! Put the toilet paper in the toilet. OK, good job, now pull your pants up. Yes, you’re right, your underwear too. Where are you going? You’re going to fall. You need to pull up your pants. OK, wash your hands please. Yes, you have to wash your hands. I’m sorry you don’t want to but you need to wash your hands after you go potty, you have germs on them. Sofia, wash your hands. Come on, grab the soap. That was too quick Sofia, you need to scrub your hands. Make sure you do a good job. OK, dry your hands please. Sofia, dry your hands. Nana will pick you up today. Please listen to me, dry your hands. You want pancakes for breakfast? OK, make sure you tell Daddy, but right now you need to dry your hands. OK, let’s get dressed. Take off your clothes please. Sofia, you need to take off your clothes. Take off your clothes. Now, put on your undies. I’m sorry, all of your princess undies are dirty; you’ll have to wear Elmo. Sofia, there aren’t any princess undies clean. I’ll ask Daddy to wash some tonight, but right now you need to put on your underwear. Wait, they are backwards, try again. OK, put on your pants please. Yes, they do match your shirt. See, they both have pink in them. It doesn’t matter that they are different kinds of pink they still match. Come on, Sofia, please get dressed. Thank you. Now get back on your stool so you can brush your teeth. Grab your toothbrush please. Grab your toothbrush. Sofia, please grab your toothbrush. OK, now brush well. Don’t just eat the toothpaste sweetie, you need to brush your teeth. I’ll finish for you later, right now I need to fix your hair. Please keep brushing. What’s wrong with this elastic? It’s pink. You want a braid down your back and barrettes too? Sigh. Fine, but you’re going to have to hold still. Sofia, please hold still. I can’t put the barrettes in your hair if you’re jumping up and down. Please hold still. Sofia, face forward so I can see what I’m doing. If you can’t hold still I can’t put barrettes in your hair. (Tony in the background, “Sofia, be a good girl for Mama and hold still”). OK, open wide so I can finish brushing your teeth. You need to look at me. Sofia, look at me please, not the mirror. Yes, you are a Mirror Queen. Look at me. Look at me. Sofia, please look at me. OK, let’s wash your face. Hold still please. Sofia, hold still. OK, go downstairs and see Daddy for breakfast. No, I’m not coming with you I still need to get dressed. Yes, my hair is messy; I still need to fix it. Go downstairs. Hold the railing!!! Not safe!!!”

Sigh.

Auto Observations

Maria — Thu, 19 Mar 2009 21:09:00 +0000

My daughter playing with cars:

“OK Car, let’s go this way. Hey, look out! I’m coming through! Move, Car, move! Excuse me, I need to go there. Oh, Ok. Here you go. Thank you!”

My son playing with cars:

“BROOM…..BROOOOOM BROOM BROOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!! BROOM BROOM BROOM BROOM BROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!”

Ok, granted they are separated by two years in age, and Dominic can’t even be expected to have mastered the V sound yet, never mind car to car conversation. Yet, I can’t remember a time when Sofia, even at the age Dominic is at right now ever made car sounds. It really makes me wonder, how much of it is a boy versus girl thing? Nature versus nurture? I’ll guess we’ll just have to wait and see what he comes up with when he gets a little more conversational. Something makes me think it wont be quite as cordial.

Dominic expressing his joy over matchbox cars:

Sofia at a similar age. Hard to believe how much she’s grown:

Bracing Myself

Maria — Mon, 05 Jan 2009 18:21:00 +0000

My son’s new thing is to toss his left over food off the side of his high chair at the completion of each meal. This is surely a rite of passage for every new toddler. Details are hazy, but I’m positive my daughter must have done the same thing. I’m not so sure, however, that she did it with as much…gusto. If I’m not in the immediate vicinity and he has time, he will drop pieces one by one and watch them fall. If I’ve got a little more of my A game going and I present myself front and station before his chair, poised to clear the tray of food, he starts flailing his arms wildly, sending bits of meat and vegetables sailing to the carpet below in various directions.

Last night it was pizza. Clearly, my head was not in the game, as I looked over at him and realized about 10 pieces of pizza were grouped on the carpet as he leaned over the side of his chair. These were calculated drops. I ran over to pick up the pieces (thinking to myself…”how far past the 6 second rule have we come here”) that were supposed to be leftovers for lunch the next day. As I picked up and examined the specimens for ware, I felt something light, yet significant enough to notice, hit the top of my head. My darling little boy in perfect aim was dropping more pizza on my noggin. OK, note to self: Clear the tray before picking up the food on the floor.

I tried to stop laughing long enough to give him a stern “Dominic No!” in response to this personal affront to myself and my leftovers. His response drew a little shock and awe. He bared his lower teeth to his top lip and started huffing in and out at me. His very first display of ‘tude! And so it begins.