Kid Amnesiac

I’m on a child-related reading kick at the moment, having just purchased three new parenting books: The Blessing of a Skinned Knee: Using Jewish Teachings to Raise Self-Reliant Children, Raising Cain: Protecting the Emotional Life of Boys, and Discipline: The Brazelton Way.

Though I should be starting with the third book, as it most directly and succinctly addresses a pressing need, I have instead begun with the second, more interesting title. Furthermore, I have not begun at the beginning of this book, either. (I rarely begin at the very beginning, even with fiction. It’s a habit that drives Matt over the bend.) I instead began with Chapter 6: Mothers and Sons: A Legacy of Desire and Distance.

The authors begin by describing a mother and her twenty-four month old son at the park. He is exploring while she sits and watches, and his motions create an ever-widening orbit around her. After each revolution, he looks to make sure she his still there and watching, comes to her for a hug or some affection, then ventures out again, perhaps traveling a bit further this time. “He is the explorer and she is ‘home base’,” say the authors, and such is the fundamental pattern of sons and mothers.

Much of the chapter was thought provoking in its descriptions of how mothers and sons interact. And much of its advice I seem to have intuitively brought to my relationship with Simon. I’m not sure who these moms are that are “toughening” their very young sons and comforting or kissing them less than their daughters, but I am certainly not one of them. I dread the day that Simon decides not to hug or kiss me; until then I’m getting in all the affection that I can!

But one section of the chapter covered something I hadn’t really thought of before: boy energy. Having read a bit more, I see that “boy energy” is a theme of this book. Simply put, boys have a superabundance of energy that girls typically lack. They have trouble sitting still for stories, they fidget when they must sit for prolonged periods, and boys’ energy must be respected and given a proper outlet for them to flourish. There was even a description of a Montessori school that cordoned off an area in the class for boys to jump rope when they felt especially antsy.

I didn’t work today, so my goal was to redo Friday’s mama-baby day, ideally with fewer crying jags and less yelling. As I started the day, I had “boy energy” and the lessons of Raising Cain fresh in my mind; the book thus informed my interactions with Simon and my schedule for him.

After the regular morning routine, we headed to the JCC to play in the pool. Simon and I tossed a ball back and forth in the baby pool, shared a snack, then went to the big pool where he learned to float, danced with me, and played the “astronaut game” in which I count down from 10, hoist him wildly in the air, and ensure a huge splash on the way down.

Next it was home for lunch and a nap. Once he woke up, we changed clothes, ate a quick snack, and proceeded to walk to the park for Part II of a fun summer day outside. Here he spent some time on the swings, but spent more playing with the steering wheel and chimes on the play equipment, and even more running around a fountain, climbing up and over things, and chasing me all over the park. The entire time, I coaxed him to try out new things, chased him, arranged to be chased by him, took him down the slide, helped him climb up, down and over things, and otherwise did all I could to physically engage him.

By 5:30, we rolled up the sidewalk for dinner with Matt and my dad. Simon was pooped. He held on for dinner, played and danced a bit for my dad after dinner, and then collapsed into a sobbing heap at 8:00 sharp.

He’s in bed fast asleep now: I have several more active hours in me. Raising Cain has put me on notice for sure, but for now at least Simon’s 21-month-old boy energy can’t hold a candle to my 38-year-old mama energy.*

*Age may have nothing to do with this. It may simply be a factor of my being twice as much Soirefman/Kahn as he is. Anyone who ever saw my mom, maternal grandmother, or maternal great-grandmother in action knows the powerful force of which I speak.

The vast majority of the time, Simon is an easy toddler to take care of. He eats and sleeps well, and his disposition is sunny and social. Last week, however, was on the tough side. Every day but Wednesday (a Camp Whitworth day) he was off his game in at least one respect, and Friday he was crabby nearly the entire day.

I didn’t work on Friday, so I had planned a lovely mama-baby day for us. We’d start at the playgroup at Mama’s Hip, then come home for lunch and a nap, then hit the JCC pool once he woke up. After our swim-date, we’d have time for dinner and play with papa, and a family wind-down session with books and music would end the day. What could be better?

According to Simon, just about anything. He spent most of the day whining and yelling. I never could figure out what was wrong; all I knew was that everything I did was wrong. I picked him up the wrong way at the wrong time. I chose the wrong toys. I made the wrong food. I read the wrong books. I went about changing his diaper all wrong. I’m pretty sure I even looked at him the wrong way most of the time. The single thing I got right was taking him to play group, but even that ended poorly when I (wrongly!) wouldn’t let Simon run up and down a busy street without holding my hand.

It was maddening, and my nerves were frazzled from a bout of insomnia the night before. At times like this, I wage an internal war between doing/saying what I know to be the correct things and giving into my frustration and doing/saying what I know to be the incorrect things. Friday, I tell you, my internal reserves were low, and I gave in to baser instincts, like yelling at Simon to just be quiet, more than once. I may have even told him to shut up. (I sure hope not, but I can’t remember.) I’m not proud of this or excusing myself in any way. In hindsight, it’s clear as day that I lowered myself to his level and was something of a toddler myself.

On the other hand, there are some upsides to days like these. They make you a bit less judgmental about the public parenting of others. They make you appreciate the good days more. And in this instance, some crabbiness helped me to solve an emerging sleep problem of Simon’s.

For the past week or two, Simon has woken up after two to three hours of sleep many nights. Unlike his previous partial arousals, these times he’s wide awake, lucid, and unhappy. We got into the habit of picking him up, bringing him into our room for a bit, and then putting him back down. When this happened once a month, I didn’t think too much about it. At four times a week, it began to emerge as a new and unwelcome routine.

Most nights, after the crying would begin, Matt would suggest we let Simon work through it on his own. I’d half-heartedly agree, then insist on intervention the minute the crying went past five minutes and/or escalated in tone. Friday night, though, I was so tired from Simon (and, frankly, of Simon), that once I put him down for the night, I had no desire to see him again for at least 12 hours.

So when he awoke howling at 10:05, I was more willing to try Matt’s suggested course of inaction. I let it go. At 10:14 the crying reached a crescendo and I got ready to go get him. And then, just as abruptly as it began, it stopped. We repeated these non-actions when Simon awoke unusually early the next morning, letting him be unsettled and cry until he dropped back to sleep and woke up happily babbling at his regular waking time. The payoff was that Simon slept in late Saturday morning, had a terrific day, and got himself back to sleep when he awoke during his Saturday nap and again that night pretty easily.

It just goes to show you that sometimes doing nothing is the best thing you can do for everyone. And that there’s some value in even the most annoying of days.

Most days around here are categorized as good (Simon sleeps and eats well and isn’t frustrated much or often) or bad (Simon sleeps or eats poorly and seems fussy most of the day). But today wasn’t really either. Today was just funny. It was also a day that he blew several of our dearly held theories.

Theory 1: Simon sleeps through the night, never wakes before 7, and has no interest in sleeping with us.

Our day began inauspiciously enough at 6:45 a.m. when Simon awoke. 6:45! Our baby doesn’t get up so early, especially not when the previous night ran a bit late. He doesn’t wake up crying either; he wakes up jabbering. But today at 6:45 Simon began to fuss, and he didn’t settle down after we ignored him for 10 minutes or so. Reluctantly, Matt got up to get him and bring him in with us. Whereupon he wriggled about and cried intermittently for 45 minutes or so, then fell soundly asleep on his tummy, head facing the foot of the bed, tush up high in the air, right leg crooked over my left leg. He stayed this way until just past 9:00.

Theory 2: Simon doesn’t watch TV or know who characters like Elmo are.

Despite this rather lengthy lie-in, the little guy still seemed a bit tired and off his game for substitute babysitter Valerie today. When nothing seemed to make him happy and he rubbed his eyes a few times, Valerie suspected he needed some quiet time. So she set him on the sofa and popped in a DVD, whereupon was Matt was astounded to later find Simon, comfortably situated with his head on a pillow, full body length stretched out, turned slightly towards the TV, engrossed in Elmo. I think we bought this DVD for our flight to California in April, and it hasn’t been out of the box since. Moreover, Simon only watches TV when Matt and I have something on-usually a nature show, basketball, or King of the Hill rerun-and he never sits on the couch for more than a few minutes or lies on it at all. Regardless, Simon stayed put today for the full length of the video. A little sad, but also quite amusing.

Theory 3: There are safe times to let Simon go diaperless.

And the coup de grace came tonight. My Dad was over for dinner and socializing, and towards the end of the night Matt took Simon upstairs to give him a bath. A bit later, a wet and naked toddler came downstairs and commenced to unselfconsciously run around the living room. As my Dad laughed, Matt explained his theory that since Simon probably pees in his bath, it must be safe to leave him undiapered right after. The bladder is empty, right? Well, the words were barely out of his mouth when we all saw a tidy little arc of pee spurt out of Simon and land on our living room rug.

So much for theories. We were 0 for 3 today!

I think Simon has some quality bonding time ahead of him with his Uncle Ian. It’s just too bad that he won’t be back in California sooner.

You see, my friend Ian is a great lover of Danish. Well, all pastries actually. I’ve seen him hike up small mountains in San Francisco late at night to secure one of his favorite donuts from Bob’s, and I’ve watched from a bemused distance as he finds bakeries in every neighborhood in which he or I have lived. When Tartin first opened in the Mission District in SF, I knew Ian would be the first to give me a review. When I had a hankering for brioche in Pacific Heights, I knew Ian would support me against Matt and be willing to wait in a long line to get the goods at Boulangerie. And when we stayed with Ian and Christine in Oakland this past spring, I knew Ian would find a way to get a trip to his favorite bakery on the agenda.

I support his passion, even as I don’t share it. One of the few areas in which we disagree is the donut and most pastries. On the whole, I find them all too sweet donuts too greasy to be enjoyable. Ian thinks this is pastry heresy and downright un-American of me. He’s a big fan of cheese and fruit pastries, while I’d rather have a good bagel. And that’s OK; rational people can agree to disagree. Viva la difference.

My son, however, is clearly taking Ian’s side. A little over a week ago, the two of us were running errands together and stopped at Panera for lunch. I hadn’t bothered to bring a diaper bag with me when I left the house; I just stuffed some wipes and a bib in my bag and headed out the door. That meant that I needed to be sure I got food both of us would eat. I ordered a half tuna sandwich, a cup of corn chowder, and a cheese Danish, hoping Simon could nibble on the Danish on the way home if the rest of the lunch didn’t suit him.

He had never been given a Danish before, cheese or otherwise, and yet he seemed to recognize it straight away. His vision was so single-minded, that he didn’t even see the other food laid out before him. Instead, he spent the next 20 minutes doing all he could to dismantle the Danish. First, he licked the cheese part of the top. Then he ripped the pastry edges away from the center to get to cheese core. Once the sweet cheese was fully consumed, he turned his attention to the pastry bits. The edges in particular were tough going for him, but he attacked with a fury and dedication I had not seen before.

I watched, equally delighted and disgusted, as he bit and tore off parts of the pastry, chewed for a while, then took pieces out of his mouth to get some rest, and then put them right back in his mouth to finish the job. By the time he finished, the pastry was obliterated and a sticky coating of sugar and saliva covered his face, hands, and hair, shining nearly as bright as the smile that stretched across his entire face.

Bon Appétit, kiddo. Enjoy it now when we can tell ourselves that all that fat is good for brain development.

Correction: D’oh! I forgot that Ian hate cheese in nearly all forms. No worries, though, as the next day kiddo devoured a cinnamon roll with alacrity. I tell you, he’s not picky. So long as sweet dough and lots of butter is involved, he’s cool.

Now here’s a milestone I didn’t know to be on the lookout for. Simon sang in the back seat of the car last night, adding his own little grace note (no pun intended) to a busy and happy weekend.

We first heard the beginnings of singing, what I jokingly call Ur-singing, about a year ago. Right after putting him down for a nap or for sleep at night, Matt and I would hear a slightly melodic “da da da” from his room. It was Evie who first recognized this as singing; she thought Simon had taken matters into his own hands when his care-givers didn’t sing to him.

The next phase started a few weeks or months ago, I’m honestly not sure which, when Simon began to babble along with songs on the radio, doing his best to sing along. The problem here was finding a song whose only words were “no,” “light,” or “bus.”

Then, last night, The Rolling Stones came over the airwaves with “The Last Time,” a song whose stanzas all end with the refrain “Oh no, Oh no.” Hey, Simon knows those words! So after a verse or two, Matt and I heard a small voice from the back seat join in on the “Oh no, Oh no” part. We looked at each other, had one of those “Did you just hear what I did?” exchanges, and smiled broadly.

Such a little thing, but such a delight nonetheless. Also, quite possibly, the first and last time I will feel any real affection for the Rolling Stones. Oh no, oh no!

I’m a good three weeks behind in uploading and organizing pictures. This might not sound dire, but given how many pictures I take, I’m perilously close to having to declare photo album bankruptcy.

Here, for your viewing pleasure, the toddler in all his spectacular messiness and glory.

When I was pregnant and again when Simon was newly born, I remember asking Evie what Matt was like as a baby. (I don’t know how much I asked my mom, frankly. I was the third, so while Mom remembers that I scooted on my tush and disliked baby food, she doesn’t really remember that much else.) She’d tell me some comforting things, like the fact that Matt was totally easy and sweet natured; some alarming things, like the fact that Matt sat among a heap of toys more than he played with any of them; and some things I didn’t really understand, like the fact that “Matt loved his bed.”

Huh? What does it mean exactly that he loved his bed? I get it now. It was thirteen months in the making, but Simon clearly loves his bed now. I know this because he will quite regularly go and stand by it or point to it when he’s tired and ready to sleep.

He first did this for my mother. She was reading him books before nap-time, and at some point he put the book down and gestured over to his crib. It was as though he was saying, “I’m tired Bubbie. We can read later.” And sure enough, he looked happy and relaxed when she put him down, and he fell asleep with nary a peep.

Then it happened with me and Evie .And Molly. And now we are at the point where Simon pretty well tells us when he’s ready to go to bed. We will sit in the glider in the nursery at the end of the day, and he will bring us a succession of books to read. He brings them over one at a time, and each time we lift him into our lap and read to him snuggled together. After 3-5 books, Simon will leave the glider, veer to the left (the books are to the right) and stand by his crib. Sometimes he’ll lift his arms-telling us to please pick him up and put him to bed. Sometimes he’ll hang onto the slats. Either way, it’s very clear what he’s telling us.

Last night he got stuck on a single book that’s perhaps a bit too advanced for him. His frustration mounted, and he was beginning to damage the book.. My solution was to take the book away from Simon, which begat angry tears. Matt’s was to say, “Simon, let’s go to bed,” which begat his giving me the book and walking over to his crib.

No kidding. It’s a good thing that he loves his crib, frankly. Because the other thing about Simon is that he loves to sleep, logging an average of 11-12 hours at night and another 2-3 for his nap. Were I going to sleep 15 hours a day, I’d want to love my bed, too.

I think we’re about finished with First Steps. Last Wednesday, the day I horribly overbooked myself, our therapist Amy called to see if she should come for Simon’s therapy. It seemed ridiculous to cancel just because Simon could walk. I mean, I was thrilled to see him walk his little Frankenstein walk, but there was still walking with hands down, running, stopping in place, carrying things, kicking, and climbing to master.

So she came, and we decided she’d come again in three weeks to see how Simon is progressing. I’ll let her come, but it’s for two not entirely healthy reasons: For one, I’ll let her come because as long as I have to pay for July, I might as well get more than one session out of it. And in the second place, I want to show off.

Simon is progressing in leaps and bounds. He’s been walking pretty quickly for over a week now. At least once each day, I am thrilled to hear the thumpity-thump of not-so-little feet pounding away on the hardwood floors. Then yesterday he got into a higher gear and ran a bit.

We were so excited! Then, before we even had a chance to eat a victory brownie, he kicked a ball for his Auntie Jen the soccer player. His climbing skills remain limited, but it’s not for a lack of trying. He can climb on his sand and water table, up the stairs, and onto his train table. He tries to climb onto our bed and into and out of the bath-tub, too.

Not coincidentally, we are finding these new skills are accompanied by squeals, giggles, shouts, and bruises. Three out of four isn’t so bad.

As if that weren’t enough to be happy about, I’ve been working fewer hours of late (cashing in some comp time), we’ve enjoyed a long holiday weekend, we’re seeing advances in what Simon understands, and the summer weather has been glorious. It is truly a good time to be Simon and to be Simon’s mother.

Much like the airline industry, I am prone to encountering “overbooking situations”. Somehow, I always think that this will be the week when the space-time continuum will alter to accommodate my planned 30-hour day.

Wednesday, I actually planned the following day. And I swear that at the time, this day seemed a bit busy perhaps, but also totally doable. Here it is:

• 7:30-9:30: Simon wakes up, we have breakfast, I shower and enjoy a leisurely cup of tea, then Simon and I play together for a bit.
• 9:30: Molly (the sitter) arrives for the day.
• 9:30: Amy (the physical therapist) arrives for Simon’s First Steps appointment.
• 10:00: Christopher arrives for the morning. He plays with Molly and/or plays with Simon during his therapy appointment.
• 10:30-1:30: I work, eat lunch, and supervise the landscaping in the front of the house and the deck building in the back.
• 1:30-3:00: I meet with my neighbor Lynn to cut down two trees along our property line in preparation for more landscaping work.
• 3:00: Molly leaves for the day; Simon and I play until 5:00 or so when Matt gets off work.
• 5:00-8:00: dinner and play-time
• 8:00: bedtime for Simon
• 8:00-10:00: household organization project continues (I’m overhauling the inside and out.)

HA!

Here’s what really happened:

• 9:00: Simon wakes up Our little sleep champ logged 12 ½ hours Tuesday night.
• 9:10-9:30: No time for planned pancakes. I throw yogurt and granola into a bowl, hand it to Matt, and dash to the shower.
• 9:30: Molly and Amy arrive; Simon is still groggy and slightly crabby. I’m dressed but dripping.
• 9:50: Christopher arrives and seems a bit crabby and clingy himself.
• 10:00: Christopher begins to cry.
• 10:15: I meet with Fairleigh (front yard landscaper) to discuss plans while trying to console Christopher and participate in Simon’s First Steps session at the same time.
• 10:30: Amy updates me on Simon’s progress, gives me written instructions for the next three weeks, and tries to schedule our next session while I rock an increasingly inconsolable Christopher in my lap.
• 10:35: I see Amy out the door and answer a quick question from Walter (the deck guy) as I load Christopher in the stroller to take him back to Shannon’s shop.
• 10:35-11:35: Walk to Mama’s Hip and back, stop to discuss Christopher’s hard morning with Shannon and assure her that these difficult stages are universal and normal.
• 11:35-2:15: Log in to work. Complete single task that was supposed to take 20 minutes.
• 2:15-3:00: No sign of neighbor Lynn, so first round of weed-killer administered using my new sprayer. I learn two valuable lessons at this point. First, add the Roundup to the water-not the other way around! Second, be very careful when you go to empty the pressure sprayer, lest you spray Roundup all over your legs and face. Yuck!
• 3:00-3:10: See Molly off, hang on to cranky Simon, and check to make sure I have the Poison Control number just in case.
• 3:10-4:00: Pay Fairleigh for work, keep Simon from running into the street or poison ivy patch, eavesdrop on Greg (the architect and landscaper) who is explaining to Walter that my deck is now seven inches lower than it’s supposed to be. Uh Oh! Run into Lynn and reschedule our work.
• 4:00-5:30 Escape with Simon to park to play and then to Heine Brothers for some decaf and a Kizito cookie.
• 5:45 to 8:00: Sit looking shell-shocked as Matt makes dinner and plays with Simon before bedtime. Clean kitchen from earlier milk spill. Put in load of diapers. Talk to assistant about author emergency. Talk to author about author emergency. Pour restorative glass of wine.
• 8:00 and beyond. Attend to new bug-bites, collapse on couch, watch “Entourage”, begin new book.

The rest of my planned filing/weeding/household organization? I decided it could wait until Thursday. Simon spends Thursdays at Jim and Evie’s for about six hours, giving me time to work for five hours, work around the house for three hours, and run a few errands. With logic like this, what could possibly go wrong?

“Uh Oh!” must be one of Simon’s favorite words. We hear it most mornings when he wakes up, along with “the bus!” “ball”, and “oh no!” Specifically, we hear “Uh oh! Uh oh! Uh oh! Uh oh!” It’s fun to say.

Now, though, we have a context for “uh oh!” that’s less fun. Ever since Simon began to walk two weeks ago, his interest in climbing and scrambling has far outstripped his ability to climb or to detect edges. We’ve had one tumble off the bed so far and another one off some play equipment. Simon, poor guy, has one black-and-blue goose egg and another reddish raw patch to show for it.

It would seem that just when I can trust Simon to keep his clothes intact, I now have to worry about his face! A friend recommended a parenting book called “The Wisdom of the Scraped Knee” to me just yesterday. I’m thinking that could be just what the doctor ordered for me, because I have to say that two tumbles resultinig in tears and ice bags are making me feel more negligent than wise.

But hey, he’s still pretty. And it’s still way better than butt scooting!