Fast times and wild living with (the former) Baby Whozit…
Jul 2nd, 2009 by Jessica
It is amazing how much context determines our perception of the size of things.
Simon is now asleep in his big-boy bed upsatirs. His crib is now broken down and leaning against a wall in our guest bedroom.
Tonight, as I tucked him into bed and turned off the light, I was amazed by two things: how much bigger his room looks without the tall sides of the crib and the glider in it; and how much smaller he looks tucked into a twin-sized bed.
Jul 2nd, 2009 by Jessica
Word heard last night, around midnight, amid muffled cries during regular partial awakening: “Scary.”
Words heard first thing this morning, at his regular 7:30 wake-up time: “Daddy! Where are you?”
Number of times we heard pitter-pat of little feet in-between: Zero
Number of times Percy has napped on Simon’s bed: Twice
Words spoken to Matt about big-boy bed this morning: “Big boy bed is great.”
Day crib gets disassembled and hauled out: Today!
Jul 1st, 2009 by Jessica
Matt and I have been planning on moving Simon to his big-boy bed for a couple of months now. We ordered it in April, and it arrived in Kiddie Kastle’s warehouse last week. Since then, we have had a single mission: to prepare Simon for the change so he won’t freak out.
Therefore, we have talked about the big boy bed every night, shown him a picture of the bed we ordered every night, and even spent some time on the trundle in our guest bedroom to get him used to the size and feel. To add to the appeal, I ordered a really cute quilt with cars, buses, trucks, and helicopters appliquéd to it, and even sprung for the matching sham. (Note that I have never been willing to pay for a separate sham myself; I only have matching shams now because my new quilt—found at a discount house—came packaged with one.)
Today was the designated day to make the big move. This afternoon I took the glider to my mom’s house to make room for the bed, and I rolled up the stained area rug and got rid of it, too.* The bed itself arrived this afternoon, and by 7:00 p.m. it was fully assembled and ready to go. I put up a side rail for added security (not pictured), and I even lined up some Montgomery Schoolhouse cars on the headboard to add to the appeal. My goal was to make the new bed so enticing that Simon would take one look at it and fall in love.
Big Boy Bed in situ
Matt thought he’d love it and do fine. I feared was he would take one look at it and shriek in horror. It turns out we were both right. It also turns out we were both wrong.
So what did Simon say when he saw his new bed, purchased and planned for so lovingly by his parents?
I no like my new bed. I no like it! Big bed scary.
And then he proceeded to pick up every stuffed friend he has—Super Speedy the frog, Annabel the lamb, Dirty Dog, Dirty Dog’s Twin, Funny Monkey, Baby Bunny and Baby Bob—and move them one by one to “his bed”, AKA the crib.
Feeling defeated, we moved on to his bath. There was a splashing incident, some harsh words spoken, an accidental dunking, and much screaming. Really, the less said the better. By the time tears were dried and pajamas put on, it was a bit after 8:00 p.m. and Simon was shot. My notion was to read to Simon in his new bed, then put him down in his crib. Matt’s notion was to move the crib out of the room, read to Simon in his new bed, and then tuck him in for the night.
And that’s when we realized that until we disassemble the crib, there was no getting it into our guest bedroom. It won’t fit through the door. Sigh.
To my way of thinking, the notion of trying to tuck a tired and change-resistant child into his new and “scary” bed when he could look right over at his old, comforting, and beloved one was madness, if not outright child abuse. Thankfully, Matt is made of stronger stuff.
It is true that when we went to put Simon on his bed he screamed and thrashed and cried. It is also true that by the time we were half-way through our first of four readings of Kitten’s First Full Moon, he had calmed down. And, amazingly, it is true that when we went to tuck him in and say goodnight, Simon offered but a brief protest before Matt assured him he’d be fine in his big-boy bed, offered him a wooden toy car or two as a balm, laid his familiar Aunt Marcia blanket over his legs, and offered to lie down beside him.
Simon kicked him out. He didn’t want Matt in the bed; he just wanted to “go sleepy.” That’s my boy!
And so, we reach another milestone.
Goodbye glider that made nursing and calming a baby infinitely easier.
Goodbye gender neutral nursery that I planned for “Baby Whozit”.
Goodbye maple sleigh crib, soon to go to a family in need.
The Well-Loved Crib
Goodbye velvet and toile crib bumpers that reminded me of the Wind in the Willows and made me smile.
Froggie Bumpers
Goodbye to the baby who slumbered within.
Goodnight to the little boy I tucked into bed tonight.
And, please God, may he sleep through the night.
*About that area rug… I ordered this cream botanical rug because it fit so very well with my nursery. “Cream?!” my mother asked with raised brow. “For a baby’s room?” “But Mom,” I assured her, “according to the catalogue, it’s stain resistant and perfect for high traffic areas. It’ll be fine.” “Hmph” came her not too enthusiastic reply, accompanied by a certain twist to her mouth that indicates she remains unconvinced. It was, in fact, an uncleanable mess within weeks. She was right, and I wish I would have listened to her.
Jun 30th, 2009 by Jessica
We all scream for ice cream
Ah, the simple joys of summer. For Simon, these include stomping around in Grandma’s garden, throwing rocks into the creek, and eating ice cream. On a warm (but not hot) sunny day, it’ s hard to argue with his logic.
I’ll upload more soon, but here’s a favorite picture from tonight.
And now, a solution to last night’s riddle. The person pictured in the post below, who in that picture at least I do think looks like me, is my Great Aunt Reva. And before you say, “Ah, an aunt–that makes sense” let me add the twist: She’s an aunt by marriage. Until her death several years ago, she was married to my Great Uncle Dave, who in turn is my maternal grandmother’s (my Bubbie’s) older brother.
Uncle Dave turns 100 next week, and his son found the picture while sorting through old photos. He sent it to me along with a note saying that he understands he should not be seeing my face in his mother’s, but that he and his wife undeniably were. Funny that. Could be a fluke with this picture. Could be the reality of a shallow gene pool in the shtetl. We’ ll never know, but it’s been interesting to see a face like my own from 86 years and two generations ago.
Jun 29th, 2009 by Jessica
Reva ca. 1923
I have not given up taking pictures. I just had a snafu earlier this month that means I have quite a mess to sort through and, having recently come through a bout of insomnia, have yet to get to it. I will get to it. After all, I’m going to be taking pics over the July 4 holiday and we’re setting up Simon’s big boy bed this week. That will force my hand.
For now, though, I offer a diversion. Posted here is a photo sent to me today. The picture was taken in 1923, and the girl in it is 13. The sender was struck by this person’s physical resemblence to me. I’m trying to decide whether or how much I see it.
What do you think? If I told you this person was my grandmother, would you believe me?
That would be the (incorrect) past tense of “go”, in case you were curious. I learned it just this morning when Simon woke up, called for me, and started to talk a mile a minute.
“Mommy, turn on the light. No, [pointing up at the ceiling after I turn on a desk lamp], that light. Mommy, I want to go downstairs and watch Kee-yus George. Keeyus George go to the doctor. Simon goed to the doctor, too. Simon did see Dr. Kawen.”
He had a lot to say this morning, and could clearly communicate for the first time the difference between the present or present progressive and the past. He adds this primitive understanding of the past tense (stick a “d” at the end!) to his primitive understanding of plurals (stick an “s” at the end!), his pretty mature understanding of adverbs (slow, fast, crazy), adjectives (handsome, pretty, cute, light, bright, dark, tiny, loud, and scary just to name a few), prepositions (to, in, on, under), and possessives (Simon’s treat, Mommy’s car, Daddy’s office.)
Next up: Getting his pronouns straight. If Simon wants me to chase him, he will often call out “I chase you!” repeating my words without understanding they are always relative to the speaker’s perspective. It’s super cute, but sometimes a bit confusing…
Jun 25th, 2009 by Jessica
“A friend may well be reckoned the masterpiece of nature.” Ralph Waldo Emerson
I believe this to be true, and so I’ve been heartened and proud to see that sometime this spring, when I wasn’t really looking or paying attention, Simon’s playmates and classmates became friends. And I do mean real friends: children whose company he enjoys, whose feelings he cares about, and children who, in turn, care about him. Of all the fruits our labors with Simon have borne, the cultivation of these first friends is surely the sweetest.
I think, ironically, I didn’t notice what was happening because of Simon’s longstanding friendship with Sophie. Sophie is Simon’s first friend, pre-dating the others by such a wide margin that she is a true outlier. Sophie came into our lives when Simon was about four months old and she about a year and a half. This long history makes her a temporal outlier. She is also a lively, spirited child who is much more assertive and boisterous than Simon. Were she anyone else, she would intimidate him. But she’s sweet Sophie who has been in his life since before he can remember, and so for her (and her alone), Simon puts aside his sensitivities, making her an outlier in that regard, too.
Aside from Sophie, until very recently, the other children in his life were his cousins and his classmates. The former are all older than him, and he seemed to have no real relationship beyond familiarity with the latter. He was, however, clearly working up to that next step, as he’d lie in his crib at night and rattle off their names and declare them all best friends. Matt and I would look on admiringly without really believing a word of it:
I see Lola. She best friend. I see Larkin. She best friend. I see Avi. She best friend. I see Sosia. She best friend. I see Gabbi-ELLE! She best friend.
We’d call this type of speech “conjugating”, as Simon would chose a pattern and slot a variety of words into it. Amo, Amas, Amat. It didn’t seem to really mean a thing. Then something interesting happened. One night “Baron” made the list the day after Simon’s teachers told me that he had spent the day playing with him. That seemed less like conjugation to me, and more like reporting.
And now he has forged two very real camp relationships that cannot be denied. We have witnessed the connection, and seeing is believing. The first is with Veronica, who will always have a place in my heart for helping Simon adjust to camp. Even though “camp” is in the same building as “school” and has much the same staff, it’s not exactly the same, and Simon remains extremely sensitive to all changes. Making the transition to camp was hard for him; I came to realize exactly how hard when he informed me with a very serious face one day that “Camp’s not scary.” When he says that, you can bet the farm that it’s because whatever preceded the “not” scared the heck out of him.
I think it was late in the first week of camp that Simon stood in front of the auditorium where all the children gather in the morning, took in the commotion, and froze. Just then, Veronica, a new girl about his age, showed up with her mother. I had heard from teachers that Simon had taken a liking to her, and wouldn’t you know it Veronica saw Simon frozen at the entrance, took his hand in hers, and escorted him in. Just like a friend. And Simon, comforted by the gesture and company, marched right in with a big smile on his face and had a great time. That day was the last time camp seemed to scare him.
Then last week, our friends Sharon and George’s daughter Leah started camp. They know each other a bit, but had previously been in different classes at school. In camp they are grouped together, though, and Simon is in heaven. Thursday or Friday last week, when we dropped him off, Leah arrived at the same time. The two reached for each other, held hands, and ran together giggling all around the room. Periodically they would split, then run back to each other, embrace, and begin their hand-in-hand running anew. I could have stayed and watched for hours.
There are other budding relationships, too. He’s crazy about our neighbor Lin, is excited that his classmate Ruby lives right next door, is developing crushes on his aunts Tia and Stacy, and adores spending time with his Goldstein cousins, even if they are all older. The chance for family connection is the reason we moved back home. I’m glad to see it, but I expected it. Whereas nascent friendships were not guaranteed, and they gladden my heart all the more for it. It’s early days yet, I know, but if Simon continues to make connections like those he is building now, I think he will possess a key component for a lifetime of happiness. And what, really, could make a mother happier than that?
Jun 23rd, 2009 by Jessica
I wouldn’t have predicted this. I went to pick up Simon today after our Very Bad Morning, and the minute he saw me he squealed with delight, ran to me, and gave me a giant hug and kiss. We went to a park with his friend Leah (and my friend Sharon), then came home and snuggled, napped, played, ate dinner, played some more, read stories, and sacked out.
At one point, he leaned into me and said “I love you, Mommy. You best friend.”
It was, but for ten minutes or so this morning, one of our sweetest days ever. Who would have thunk?
Sometimes when Simon is losing it or being really difficult, I pretend I’m being filmed or that I’m in a public space. I know that sounds really, really strange, but I figure if I discipline as though I were on public view, I might just do a better job of maintaining control. It keeps me from screaming (which I do rarely) or swatting (which I have never done) and generally makes it easier to discipline according to my principles instead of just reacting out of anger or frustration.
By this measure, today was an epic fail. We’ll all be OK, but I did have to apologize to Simon before he left for camp this morning, and I may do it again when he gets home to increase my odds of his understanding me.
It was pretty much a perfect storm that began with my waking up late (again) and not well rested (again). The short story about my sleeplessness is that after burning the candle at both ends for too many weeks in a row, I realized last week that I was exhausted and needed to get more sleep. And the very first night I tried, I started having something called “middle insomnia.” I fall asleep just fine, but then wake up at 3:30 or 4:00 a.m. and have trouble getting back to sleep before 5:00 or 6:00. I’m working on my sleep hygiene, but I’m also pooped and not on my A-game.
Into this mix stepped a toddler who is going through a difficult patch of wanting to constantly assert his independence even as he lacks the skills to do so. Lately, everything has been a negotiation: leaving camp, getting into his car seat or stroller, leaving the park, walking through parking lots or other places where he has to hold our hands, changing his clothes or diapers, taking a bath—all of it.
So there I was this morning, running late and not feeling well. I got myself downstairs just after Matt put Simon into his swim-trunks and shirt (today is a water-play day) and asked him about breakfast. Would he like oatmeal? “I can’t eat oatmeal now” came the (whiny) response. Would he like baby-cakes? “I can’t eat oatmeal now” came the (whiny) response several more times.
That cleared that up! So I decided that I’d make pancakes and if Simon didn’t eat them, I would. I just didn’t feel right about sending him off to camp having offered him nothing but dry cereal for breakfast. While I was finishing, Simon asked for grapes. I told him that he could have grapes, but not just grapes, and that he’d need to eat these in the kitchen instead of dragging them into the living room (a bad habit we have with pancakes). That started more whining, as both eating in the kitchen and not having grapes seemed equally undesirable to Simon.
When I finished the pancakes and offered them to him, he was still whining and crying about the grapes. So I put them on the kitchen counter, told him we’d get back to them in a few minutes, and went to fetch his water clogs and pack up his bag for camp. While I was busy putting shoes in his pack, I heard a thunk, a splat, and a wail.
Yep. Simon decided he wanted pancakes and orange juice after all, made a grab for the tray, and knocked the entire thing off the counter. He was covered in orange juice. My floor was covered in orange juice. His juice glass, a two layer thing with frogs, glitter, and discs between layers, came apart in the fall. The pancakes were covered in juice, frogs, and glitter. And in the middle of it all stood Simon—wailing, stomping in the sticky juice, and picking up and crying over his pancakes, whether because they were ruined or because he didn’t want them I was unsure until I threw them away and he wailed and stomped even more.
And there I stood, tired and crabby, facing a horrible mess and an unfed child who needed to be changed and out the door in about three minutes. He wailed and crabbed, and I’m afraid I did not parent as though the cameras were on me. Instead, I yelled. I yelled at him for whining and crabbing. I yelled at him for not wanting his breakfast when I first offered it. I yelled at him for making a bigger mess by stomping in it. I yelled at him for getting in my face and making it hard to clean up. And, for good measure, I yelled at him for only wanting the pancakes now that I had to throw them out.
About the only thing I got right was not yelling at him for pulling the tray over in the first place. I guess that’s a start. I’ve replayed this in my mind a few times to figure out what I wish I had done. I wish I had either sat Simon at the table or put the tray out of reach. I wish I would have consoled him that accidents happen, removed him from the mess, and worked on cleaning him up before I tended to the floor. I wish I wouldn’t have yelled at all, as it only fed negative emotions in both of us. I wish I would have given myself a time-out when I felt the urge to yell.
In short, I wish I would have parented as though the cameras were rolling. Absent that, I’m praying for a decent night’s sleep and am going to start reading Kids, Parents, and Power Struggles.
Jun 22nd, 2009 by Jessica
Simon has been saying this thing I think is hilarious for a few months now. The problem is, most of those I know will have to have the joke explained to them. And you know what they say about having to explain a joke, right?
So I’m specifying my audience here. This joke is primarily for Amanda and Kate. To others who immediately get it and I left off, I apologize. I will take a minute and explain it, too.
Simon likes to play the “fort” game. When we play fort, we usually hide under blankets or couch cushions, and the entire game is comprised of Simon getting into and out of the “fort.” Matt or I have to stay in the “fort” for the entire duration of the game, which typically ends when one of us feels asphyxiation is near.
I’m not sure why this game is universally called “fort”, since last I checked forts are not usually made of blankets or pillows. It would seem as though Simon doesn’t get it, either, as when he plays the game he calls it…
… “souk”
Which is funny and apt. I get why the “f” to “s” transference happened. We hear about “sire engines” and “Sosia”, too. If Simon says something I can’t understand, my first stop is to replace the “s” with an “f” and see if I get anywhere. The “k” bit is a total mystery, unless Simon’s Mediterranean genes come with an established lexicon. I’m also thinking calling our game “souk” is a better fit for Simon than “fort”, as he has no aggressive bone in his body (to date, at least), but loves to go shopping at the grocery, hardware, or shoe store.
OK, so what’s a souk? A souk is a traditional open air market place in an Arab or Berber settlement. These days, many of them are in modern cities and look like malls, but in some places you can still come across a vast array of open air, tented, stalls. He unintentionally gave our game a perfect name.