That way they’d determine which parents are so distractable when out to dinner that their child can not only grab and eat a fistful of butter, but repeat the stunt with mayo, then barbecue sauce.
I just hope the doctor won’t be testing Drake’s cholesterol at his next checkup.
I got back from the grocery co-op yesterday, and my husband G. Grod started to help me put away the groceries. Unfortunately, this meant we both turned our attention away from Drake. When we did notice him, he had opened the carton of eggs and managed to crack every single one of them. He was upset when we dragged him away, since he can’t understand exactly why raw egg is not the best plaything ever. Only one egg was lost and I may still salvage the rest. I made two pies and have a cheesecake on deck. I hadn’t planned a bake-fest, but if the cheesecake turns out well I’ll hardly be in a position to regret the egg debacle.
I live in the Twin Cities, home of many things, including the largest enclosed mall in the United States. Notice all the qualifiers and you’ll see that there are larger un-enclosed malls (King of Prussia, PA) and larger enclosed ones not only in the world, but on the same continent (Canada).
Nonetheless, the Mall of America, known to locals as the mega mall, gets a bad rap for its hugeness. All anyone ever has to say is “It’s got a roller coaster in the middle!” and listeners will nod, assured that it is huge beyond all other malls. I worked at the mall for about a year, though, and during that time I learned its secret. It’s not that different from other malls.
Yeah, there’s the roller coaster. But it’s really small. MOA has the usual four department stores, and all the shops you’ve come to expect. There are also some surprises, like the cheese shop that hands out free squeaky cheese curds. Yum. Like most malls, it does not include clear lines of sight from one end to the other, and there are no public clocks to tell unwary shoppers that it’s time to go home. Malls and department stores are constructed like this on purpose; they lure you in and then make it difficult to leave. If you know the traps, though, they’re easy to avoid. The Mall of America is manageable, but many natives avoid it because of size, crowds, and a sense of general distaste. I can’t help with the latter, but I can offer a few tips on how to get the most out of a trip to the mall.
One, set a time limit before you go, and don’t exceed it. One of the worst feelings is being in Nordstrom Rack, trying on shoes, and shoes, and shoes, then finally finding a pair that fits only to get in the “get the other shoe” line, which takes FOREVER. It’s agony. A corollary to setting a time limit is that if you’re going to Nordstrom Rack, just do that–you’re probably not going to have much left in you for anything else.
Two, have a mission. Don’t go to the MOA if you’re just going to hit the Gap, Ann Taylor or other mall standards. Head to the mall only when necessary, for things that can only be done there. Today, I went to Nordstrom (that’s Nordstrom without an ’s’, thank you.) with my husband G. Grod to get our son Drake fitted for shoes for the first time. He’s only ever had Robeez, which did very well for him but are not able to stand up to our Minnesota winter. Drake got a pair of Chuck Taylors for his birthday four months ago, which he finally deigned to wear last month. And his feet promptly grew too wide for them. A shoe-fitting was in order, and Nordstrom was the place, so the mall was our destination.
Three, park as close to your mission as possible. For Nordstrom, you take the Lindau Lane exit, and go up the West parking ramp. For Bloomingdale’s, take Killebrew and park in the East lot.
Four, go when the mall opens. Mid-day is hell.
Sadly, I must confess that I went to the Mall of America twice today. Once to get Drake’s shoes, after which I did a whirlwind scour of the clearance rack in the toddler department. I was too hurried, though, and picked out pants that didn’t fit him. Baby sizes and their ridiculous ranges are maddening. He has outgrown several outfits that were size 18M, so I picked out pants that were 24M, only to find when I tried them on that they were four to six inches too long. When you’re not even three feet tall, that’s a pretty long pant. What’s most maddening is that I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN THIS WOULD HAPPEN. Drake had gotten several pairs of pants for Christmas that were all too long, and then I went to the mall and bought him several more, without checking to make sure that they weren’t too long. And, of course, they were. Argh. So tonight I went back to the mall and returned the over-long pants. Armed with a pair of pants that I KNOW fit him, I found a few other pair that were just a skoche bigger at Hanna Andersson. I’m going to try them on him tomorrow to be certain. Drake is an active, screamy toddler and I don’t bother trying clothes on him in the store. The shoes were challenge enough. A further difficulty of baby sizes is that, like the baby, they’re a moving target. Yes, I’m pretty sure Drake just had a growth spurt, since his belly is now hanging out of most of his tops, but no, I’m not sure how long he’ll stay this size, so I want to buy clothes and shoes that have room to grow, but that are not so big that they fall off, or impede his movement.
I take some comfort that the original mission of shoes was achieved quickly and successfully. That the pants took two trips was discouraging, but may yet be worth it if they fit.
Bah, pants. They’re more trouble than they’re worth, except for that pesky social convention that insists that we wear them.
We don’t think we’re imagining that Drake is finally saying a few words. What is unclear, though, is whether he’s saying them meaningfully, or if he has just become a mimic, and not such a skilled one at that.
The first word, as I mentioned before, was touchdown. What followed was hot dog, then yucky. These were actual words. But what about ha-ha and ta-da? And moo, baa, and abwoooo, the latter like a high-pitched little wolf? Are they words?
And touchdown, hot dog, and yucky, but never mom?
Ah, but he has learned how to kiss. It’s an open mouthed face-plant, more endearing in concept than in execution. I hope that he’ll get better before he starts kissing other girls than me.
1. When I put Drake down in the play area so I can go to the bathroom, he screams the entire time.
2. He screams when he’s done being outside, but then keeps screaming when I bring him inside.
3. He fights me when I care for him in basic ways: dressing him, putting a coat on him before going outside into the cold, getting him out of the house so he can visit his girlfriends at the coffee shop, changing his diaper, putting cream on diaper rash, etc.
The lack of sleep and constant self doubt are killers too, but the above three really seem like new circles of hell.
Of late, Drake will come up to me and throw his arms up, asking to be picked up. Aw, I think, he wants to give me a hug.
No, in fact, he wants me to take him to the nearest light switch so he can play with it endlessly, till I get bored and whisk him away, causing screams of outrage.
One of his favorite books is Can you sing by Lisa Lawston, illustrated by Ed Vere. His favorite page has changed over the months. Currently it’s the wolf, which he imitates with an astonishly cute, high-pitched Ah-bwooooo!
This morning, out of the blue, I asked, “Drake, where is your nose?”
He promptly stuck his finger up his nose. I was pleased. My husband G. Grod was both pleased and appalled.
Turns out he also knows where his ears and tummy are, and can pat his head. Who knew? I should’ve asked sooner.
Also, at lunch I asked what he was eating. He said “Ah-aw,” which I thought sounded pretty close to the correct answer, hot dog. That is, until I asked him later who the furry red monster was on his cell-phone. Turns out “ah-aw” sounds an awful lot like Elmo, too.
I was writing last night in the study when I heard Drake give a louder yell than he usually does when he stirs in the night. I went to investigate, and felt his sheep blankie on the floor by his crib with my foot. That’s odd, I thought, he hardly ever throws her out of the crib. Drake’s room is dark, with no night-light, so when I go in to comfort him, I usually just stick my hand in the crib and pat it around till I find him. Last night, though, his body parts seemed strangely arranged, so I moved quickly to hit the lights.
The poor little guy had his feet on the ground, and his torso trapped between the side rail of the crib, which had separated from the end board, and the mattress. No wonder he was yelling so loud; it was quite alarming for both of us. I quickly extricated him and could find no physical harm. He calmed quickly in my arms as I tried to figure out what to do, since my husband was out for the evening. I knew I had to get into Drake’s closet to get his pack n play, but where would I put him while I assembled it? I wanted to do as little else to have him awake and active at 11 p.m. I was excited when I heard my husband come inside, but less so when he didn’t come upstairs. I began speaking into the baby monitor: “I need help; come upstairs,” over and over, on a loop like on Lost, but not in French. Alas, my husband didn’t hear me on the receiver downstairs. I heard him go in and out taking out the garbage and recycling for the morning pickup. Finally, though, he did hear me and come up to assist. He held Drake quiet in our room while I set up the pack n play. Drake was hard to calm when we put him in the pack n play, but when he finally did sleep, he slept through till morning and woke happy. He also took a good, long nap there this afternoon.
I’ve got a call into the crib manufacturer, and spoke to someone at the store from which we purchased the crib. It’s annoyingly more complicated than it should be. I can’t determine the model of the crib, because it’s not on the directions, we threw away the box in our move, and it doesn’t match any of those on the maker’s website. The envelope that housed the directions and was attached to the crib says to contact a different crib company. Finally, the store of purchase is going out of business. I was so pleased when we bought that crib to avoid the crush and anonymity of Babiesrus for personal help from a local store.
I’m hoping that the manufacturer (if indeed the company I contacted IS the manufacturer) will do right by this and we can get the crib repaired or replaced quickly and at no charge. Drake will be 16 months on Monday, and he climbs like a monkey. I don’t think he’ll be sleeping in a crib for long, so having to purchase another at this point, particularly given our current financial freeze due to G. Grod’s layoff, would suck tremendously.
Our nightly ritual with Drake goes dinner, bath, naked time, books, then bed. Sometimes, though not often, he pees or poops during naked time. We’ve not yet had a horrifying disaster, like this, or this, to clean up. When an accident happens, my husband or I pick up one of the pieces of clothing that Drake wore during the day, wipe up the mess (usually just pee) and let naked time run its course.
Two nights ago, Drake peed during naked time, and G. Grod used a shirt to wipe it up. Then last night, Drake toddled into the study, peed, then went to get his pants to wipe it up. G. Grod found him, industriously swabbing the floor, though several feet from the spot of the actual event.
Last night, Drake was playing, then let out a loud fart, threw up his arms and yelled “Duh-dahhhhh!”, by which he means touchdown.
We burst out laughing, wondering if it would be clever or trauma-inducing to encourage him in this habit. I’m guessing the latter.
But, oh, it was funny.
Ever since I had the baby, I’ve struggled with my posture. Soon after Drake was born, I reached for something and had a shooting pain in my hand. I went to get it checked out and saw a family doctor, a chiropractor, and finally a physical therapist before someone ventured their best guess that the problem was a weakness in the midback, translating to a weakness in the shoulder, and travelling down to the hand from there. When I did the recommended exercises, the shooting pain went away. When I slacked off, my hand became numb at night and I would experience periodic numbness all along the arm. I’m back, then, to doing the exercises and feeling better. I’m very conscious of not rounding my shoulders, though it’s hard to pick up and carry the 25-pound Drake without doing so.
I get tremendously aggravated, therefore, when I see catalogs and magazines in which the model is posed in that round-shouldered posture, like this. This is not only bad physically, but in the yogic tradition it shuts in the heart, so it’s bad emotionally, as well.
My friend NYC Bette has worked with actual models, and says that the stereotypes are often true: vapid people who smoke a lot, eat very little, do a lot of drugs, and don’t even exercise because the development of muscle might alter their body and make the clothes not fit.
Ignore the models. It’s an unhealthy stance, one that only gets exacerbated by the physicality of motherhood, with breadfeeding and baby carrying. Madonna had it right, way back before she was even a mom or into yoga: open your heart.
The tendency is to overcorrect and arch the lower back and stick out the boobs. This doesn’t help; it’s just bad in a different way. Instead, the correction is to breathe into your middle back and open your heart, projecting it as if you had a lovely pendant at the top of your collar bone that you wanted to show to good effect. Also helpful is to lie on the floor with a rolled towel under the spine between the shoulderblades.
I used to pass judgment all the time on moms when I wasn’t one. I’ve learned the hard way that I have no place judging someone till I’ve walked in their shoes. If I haven’t done all the things I’ve ever judged other parents for, I’ve at least thought about doing them.
Yet I am currently passing judgment myself, on people who snark at moms. An essay at Chicklit notes that some book reviewers have snarked about the current slew of mom books on the market. Why, the essay writer wonders, do they not instead decry the overabundance of rosy Ronald Reagan biographies or something else more worthy of indictment?
I have yet to meet the mom (oh, wait, maybe I have) who is not overextended, underappreciated–at least by her child(ren)–and plagued with self-doubt and recrimination about how she’s doing as a mom. Since I’ve worked hard not to remain someone who bitched about moms, I have some impatience with people who do so, especially those who are moms themselves.
A few months ago, I attended a meeting of a local mom’s group. I went looking for help and support, because I’ve felt so tapped out and alone. What I found was a poorly organized group and moms that I didn’t seem to have a lot in common with. Previously, I would’ve dismissed the group and the moms in it, and not gone back. Instead, I’ve continued to attend meetings and activities, and even taken on an ongoing event, when the woman who was supposed to lead it fell ill. I joke with my husband that I went to get help, and stayed because I felt sorry for them, but it’s not far from the truth. Other moms aren’t necessarily better off than me, and if I can’t get help, then I might as well try to help somebody else. This approach, rather than judgment, is what I try for, now.
My husband G. Grod was watching Drake. He fixed himself a beverage, put it on a table out of Drake’s reach, then made a phone call.
While he had his back turned for a moment, Drake managed to drag the drink off the table, spilling it everywhere. G. Grod ended his call quickly to clean up the mess. While he was doing so, Drake found the phone, turned it on, started pressing buttons and began babbling into it.
Whenever I ask my mother how she managed, she always says, “You were a very good baby. Not like Drake.”
Drake has refused to eat vegetables for some time now. For a while, I continued to buy the jarred purees, but eventually he even refused those. Twice a day we put veggies in front of him, and twice a day he refuses to even put them in his mouth.
Yesterday at the coffee shop, though, he put a crayon in his mouth, made a yuck face, took it out, looked at it, and then put it in and started eating it again.
Drake has said his first word. It was neither mama or daddy. While he makes those sounds a lot, he doesn’t use them consistently. Tonight, when I came in the house, Drake shouted Da! at me over and over again.
His first word?
Touchdown.
And though it sounds barely more distinct than “duh-daaaahhh”, we are now certain for two reasons.
The first is that he does it right after we say it.
The second is that he throws both his arms up in the air when he does.
Heh, heh.
His father is so proud.
Up until this week, Drake has never liked to hold hands. He either has wanted two-handed support, or none at all. In the past couple days, though, he sticks out his hand and looks at me expectantly, so I can help guide him as we walk over bumpy sidewalk on the way to the park.
He still has no words, though he sometimes sounds like he’s imitating us when we say “Touchdown!” It sounds suspiciously like “uh-oh” though, so I’m not convinced.
Also, he is able to make the “ah-ah” sound in imitation of ha-ha–sounds like Nelson Muntz, from the Simpsons.
When he first did the “ah-ah,” I aspirated the H trying to get him to put the sounds together, “heh, heh”. So he huffed out “heh, heh” but did not combine for “ha, ha.”
Tonight at dinner, I was signing to him, asking if he wanted more banana. I felt proud of myself that I knew both signs.
He threw up both his arms.
Touchdown!
I saw two criticisms of “mommy blogs” recently, and the remarks gave me pause. Both were written by bloggers whose sites I regularly visit, and whose opinions interest me. Some of my response was to feel defensive. I am a mom who blogs and I blog about my experience with motherhood. In some ways, then, I resemble those remarks. I, as part of a larger group, got zinged by two women who are smart, good writers and mothers themselves. And that’s fair. I agree with some of the critiques of the mommy blogs, and know I’m deserving of those critiques myself: self-indulgent, overly prone to complaining, veering between the sentimental and the insane. All of these might not make for riveting reading by others. But there are zillions of blogs out there that I don’t read, for many reasons. What seems unfair is the singling out of the mommies for special criticism. I’ve said it before, I’ll write it again: moms need help, not judgment, ESPECIALLY from other other moms.
I blog about motherhood as a way to get through it. It is so much harder and confusing than I had expected. I read books, I talked to friends, I took the birth class and still I felt bitch-slapped by labor, delivery and life with a newborn. I write about my experiences because there was so much I didn’t know, that people just don’t mention, that’s not in the books, that other people–doctors, midwives, other moms–sometimes don’t even know. I write about the happy stuff because I need to remind myself of it, and not fall into the easy trap of focusing overmuch on the negative. I know it can be precious and twee. I know that every baby does the same things and so charting the milestones is pedestrian. I know all these things and still I write, and still I defend the mommies who blog.
Yes, their blogs and mine may be all the things I’ve mentioned. But we’re all just trying to get through. If you’re a mom who is in such a better, more solid place, then that’s great. But, as your mom probably said to you, if you can’t say something nice, then don’t say anything at all. Or at least go aim your disdain at someone who is more deserving of your vitriol than tired, frazzled moms. That’s kicking us when we’re down, and that is, among other things, simply unkind.
Our toddler, Drake, is not a very biddable guy. Now that we live in a house that has three levels, getting from one to another can be difficult. I’ve got a bum wrist with a ganglion cyst, so I’m trying to limit lugging his heavy self up and down the steps.
I usually change his diaper upstairs. I have found that if I wrap up the diaper tightly, I can pitch it down the stairs to the first landing. Drake will shimmy after it, then I’ll kick it to the next landing, he’ll follow it down, then I’ll nudge it to the floor, where he’ll pick it up. I’ll then ask him to throw it away for me, and he’ll toddle through the first floor to the garbage can and toss it right in.
This is very cute, and it gets him downstairs, but the hazard I’ve found is that he doesn’t yet understand that we only put things INTO the garbage can; it’s not a two-way relationship.
One of Drake’s new things is to stick his finger up his nose. This drives his father, G. Grod, crazy.
Funny, because it doesn’t bother me that much. But the nuclear screams of death, and flinging food on the floor? Those work my every last nerve.
[By the way, during one scream in the coffee shop the other day, a woman put her hands to her ears. Today, during our childhood ed class--more about this later--after letting one loose other moms looked pained. I figure if other moms think it's bad, then this is not just run-of-the-mill screeching.]
The other day during lunch, Drake shoved his finger up his nose, waited a bit, took it out, then pointed at me insistently with it, grunting “Unh, unh, unh!”
I responded simply, “That’s great, sweetie. Thanks so much for sharing.”
A sleeping baby is a little bit like an ex-boyfriend. He’s easier to love. Sleep, like time, erases some of the hard edges, the bitter exchanges, his screaming, my anger. I can look at him and feel only the fondness, not the frustration. I remember the good times we had together, not the meltdowns. It’s so much easier to feel connected in retrospect than it is in the middle of it all. Ex-boyfriends, though, get the eliding benefit of absence. They don’t wake, twice a day, cranky and hungry and screaming their displeasure at me. Real relationships are hard to slog through, sometimes. There is fun and playtime, but also tedium, unpleasantness and work. Babies, however, have something critical that ex-boyfriends do not–the ability, in real time, to offer compensating joys for the drudgery.