Kid Amnesiac

This one isn’t about complaining; it’s about perspective.

Ever since my OBGN’s office handed me a copy of Plum Magazine (http://www.plummagazine.com/), I’ve been rolling my eyes at the notion that we older moms are somehow more special than or significantly different from the younger ones.

I understand that it’s harder to get pregnant after 35 and that complications are more likely, but this seems the stuff of the doctor’s office more than a glossy magazine. Trust me, Plum and the like spend much more time trying to sell you Scandinavian high chairs and designer maternity clothes than they do advising about pregnancy complications; this is no public service announcement. More like, I think, making a fetish out of late child-bearing.

Specifically, it’s the tag line, “something especially prized” that annoyed me, relishing as it does in the self-absorbed notion that older moms somehow prize or love their children more than younger ones do. Or that their own geriatric status confers special status on their offspring. Honestly, the whole thing reeks of entitlement, the same sort of nasty entitlement that makes rich parents think their kids are more special than poor ones and that keeps the patronage system alive in business, politics, and school admissions.

Having said that, I have noticed a difference in tone among my older friends who are new moms compared to the younger ones I encounter. Part of this difference is informed by pure economics. Most of the older moms I know have more disposable income than the younger ones, so they are more likely to shop in the maternity boutiques and browse European baby goods. I’m guilty on this score myself.

Looking a bit deeper, though, more profound differences show up. I get the feeling we older moms are a bit more worried about our kids. And for me and at least a few of my friends, this additional concern has everything do with time.

You hear a lot about women who want to be pregnant being ticking clocks, but I think plenty of us have a clock as our soundtrack in the post-partum phase as well. Having had our first baby relatively late, we don’t have the luxury of dawdling over decisions about subsequent children. You either get going right away or you knowingly narrow your options. Having up to a decade less time to save for college, you have to worry and plan for that right away, too. There’s no waiting for the next year when the next year might set you back two semester’s worth of tuition. Knowing that your current go-around with firsts and other stages of infancy may be your last, you find them harder to let go. I once asked my six years younger cousin if she got misty when her daughter reached a certain milestone and she casually replied, “Oh no. I mean, I might, but I’m doing this again and maybe again again.” Ouch. I’ve barely got time for one again, much less two.

On a more positive and personal note, I see some considerable upsides to parenting at a more mature age. I’m a heck of a lot more patient now than I was at 25. I’m also slower to panic and a bit-ok, a lot-more open about acceptable life choices. I’m saving for college, but if Simon decides to pursue a traditional trade, I’ll be fine with that. I just want him to find something that makes him happy, puts a roof over his head, and doesn’t exploit others.

A few weeks ago, at my Uncle Sam’s house, Simon got very tired and threw a fit. I looked up at my uncle and said, “So, do you miss this?” in the universal tone of an exacerbated parent. “It’s bittersweet, to tell you the truth” he responded.

Of course it is. His grandkids live several hours away, his own kids are now middle-aged, and he’s a recent widower. Maybe the especially prized portion of geriatric motherhood is that, having had time to lose more relatives and get closer to middle age yourself, you are slightly more likely to live in the moment. No one likes it when their kid is throwing a fit or fighting a diaper change. No one. But every now and again, in the midst of something unpleasant and frustrating, I consider that crying and fussing as much as cooing and laughing bring life to a house. They are aural reminders of youth, potential, and regeneration.

Do younger moms feel the same way? I assume many are wise and do. But I’m guessing that more of us achieve such wisdom only with the passing of time.

Technically, I took my babymoon trip two years ago in Maine. But I’ve decided to redefine the term, and Simon and I are having our second babymoon of 2008 now. (The first was documented here.) Simply put, he’s been a happy, funny toddler for nearly two weeks now. Since Father’s Day, when he began walking, to be exact.

I can see now that the lack of walking was dragging us both down. He was frustrated. His 19-month-old brain wanted to do all the things other 19-month old brains do. He wanted to walk around the house, climb over furniture, and scramble over play equipment. Since he couldn’t do all these things, he whined and grabbed on to my pants/skirt to have me help him do it. If I walked too slow, too fast, in the wrong direction, or not at all, he’d complain.

Heaven help me, I’m afraid I got short with him once or twice and said not very supportive things like “You can walk Simon. You just have to try. Or you can scoot where you want to go. But you can’t hang on me right now. Mama’s busy.” I realize these sentiments would not bring in child protective services, but they aren’t exactly the stuff of Hallmark cards, either.

And now, for this past week or so, it’s as though a pressure valve has been released. Simon’s feet are finally coordinated with his thoughts, and he’s relishing his freedom. He toddles where he wants to go, and he toddles to check back in with us if he feels the need. There’s been very little whining, and no incessant clinging.

Heaven! Just Wednesday at the playground, he walked to the swing when he wanted to swing. He walked to the climbing equipment when he wanted to climb. And when he was tired and ready to go home, he walked to his stroller. Such simple things as I write them, but so revolutionary in our home life.

I realize that babies get harder to watch when they become mobile. But I can say with experience to back me up that having a toddling toddler is infinitely easier than a non-toddling one.

Age is a funny thing-it’s more relative than I used to understand. In my mind’s eye, I still picture myself as a twenty-something-a youngish twenty-something. My parents, meanwhile, are frozen in their forties, my cats are still kittens and my heroes are all still in their prime. I’ve known that this is all untrue for some time. But Simon’s existence is putting a spotlight on the matter as it becomes increasingly obvious to me that time and age are conspiring to keep me from sharing certain things with him. I’m on the wrong side of a generation gap, and I don’t like it one bit.

When Matt and I lived in Ann Arbor, when we were twenty-somethings, we had a friend with two kids who were just over ten years younger than us. This gap was the source of much merriment, as we’d quiz them about things like the first president they could remember (Reagan or Bush 41), whether they ever read Bloom County (no), or if they could remember a time when people used typewriters (also no). The space shuttle was old news to them, they didn’t read Calvin and Hobbes, and they didn’t know who shot J.R. You get the idea. It all seemed terribly funny then.

Now, I’m seeing less humor in the situation. This is Spinal Tap, one of my favorite movies is 24 years old. Paul Newman is 83 and may not be well. Senator Edward Kennedy is now 76 and is certainly not well. John Ed Pearce is gone. Walter Cronkite is 91. It is only now dawning on me that Simon will one day hear these names and regard them the same way I do/did references to Richard Burton, Martin Luther King, or Edward R. Murrow: greats I have no immediate experience with.

By the time Simon is old enough to be paying attention, most of my favorite actors and actresses will be gone, retired, or boringly middle-aged. U2 and The Police will be nostalgia music. (Their early music is already older now than the Beatles’ music was when I first started listening.) There aren’t going to be any high-profile Kennedys on the national scene. Print journalism is dying. For that matter, apart from the BBC, the New York Times, NPR, and The Economist, you could make a compelling argument that all English-language journalism is dying.

It’s not that I don’t think a new generation of greats will rise up and inspire him. I do. It’s just that I wish U2 could stay young(ish) a bit longer, that Senator Kennedy could be a firebrand in the Senate for 15 more years and that Paul Newman could run his charity, direct films, and be gorgeous for another decade or so. I wish Paul Wellstone were still around. I wish I could still read Molly Ivins once or twice a week. I wish Thurgood Marshall were still on the Supreme Court.

In short, I wish that I could introduce Simon to all that has inspired and moved me before it gets consigned to history and invokes a “ah mom, there you go rambling on again” reaction from him. And if I can’t get that, I hope at least his generation will grow up with idols worthy of worship. If only wishing could make it so.

Sometimes the answer to a problem is right in front of you, but you just can’t see it. Fortunately for me, my path has crossed with someone who has a complementary problem to mine and better vision into a solution.

My problem is that I worry Simon needs more socialization than he’s getting. I’ve made it to a play group every Friday for a month now, but I still haven’t figured out Tuesdays, as my work and childcare schedule hasn’t allowed for it three weeks straight. Frankly, I don’t thing once a week will cut it, especially if Simon is to be ready for preschool in two months.

Enter Shannon. Shannon owns the shop that hosts the Friday play group and is the mother of Christopher, an eighteen-month-old boy and Simon’s favorite in the group. Shannon is worried that Christopher spends too much time in the fishbowl of her shop. She’s also reaching the point where Christopher’s “help” is getting less helpful. She could benefit from some more time to work uninterrupted. I don’t know how she’s managed this long.

At play group just over a week ago, Shannon inquired as to whether my sitter might be willing to take on a second child for a few hours each week for extra money? I asked Molly, and she was game for it. So this Wednesday, Christopher and Molly came over the house to acclimate Christopher to the place and to get the boys more used to being together. Simon smiled the whole time and Christopher cried when it was time to leave. Success!

Besides the day Molly watches the two boys, I might just go pick up Christopher for the odd afternoon myself. The shop is just a few blocks from our house, it’s delightful to see the boys play together, and I know Simon must get bored with just me sometimes. Assuming this all works out, Shannon gets a break, Christopher gets a change of scenery, and Simon gets some company and encouragement to work on his running, jumping, and climbing skills.

I’m sure the plan has some wrinkles I’m not seeing, but right now I’m feeling pretty buoyed by the idea. It takes a village indeed.

Simon has uttered what sounded like sentences in past, but I could never tell. Today, however, clear as day he took one look at his new toy (pictured) and carefully enunciated:

“That’s the bus.”

Yup, it sure is. Looks like mama picked a winner.

Best of all, it’s a maple bus made in Vermont by a family-owned and operated business. They make trains, too, so at least one shopping dilemma has been solved.

Fourteen and a half months ago, I gulped hard and spent a small fortune on 15 medium-sized Fuzzi Bunz, a diaper sprayer, and 15 micro-terry diaper inserts. These replaced the previous lot of 15 size small Fuzzi Bunz Simon had just outgrown–diapers that never had to accommodate the digestive tract of a baby eating solid food (Ah, how I long for those halcyon days of odor-free poo.) I was a bit nervous about placing this second order, as I had just made a significant financial commitment to a form of diapering that I hadn’t yet thoroughly tested.

Now, a little over a year later, I’m about to retire this lot, too. Like their predecessors, Simon has outgrown these diapers in the rise. Having used them so long, they are also looking a bit tired. From pilled fleece, to wear around the snaps, to a few snags in the outer fabric, you can tell that these diapers have been around the block a few times. And if that weren’t enough, the escalating arms war Simon and I are engaged in over diaper changes has made snapping him into Fuzzi Bunz excruciatingly difficult.

I’m ready to lay down my arms. Au revoir, Fuzzi Bunz.

Bienvenue Thirsties and Happy Heiny’s!

The key to our third go-round with cloth diapering was to find a bigger size, which I could do with Fuzzi Bunz, and to substitute velcro for snaps, which I could not. The bigger size was a no-brainer; as I’ve said before, hip-hop style diapers fail at their primary function apart from any aesthetic preferences I might have. I’m less psyched about the velcro–excuse me, hook and loop closure–as I’ve read that babies can pull these off easier and that velcro provides laundry challenges. Then again, I’d rather deal with laundry issues and have to keep Simon in a diaper and pants or shorts than deal with wrestling 25+ pounds of pure fury at every change while I mess with snaps.

What I could not decide on was whether to continue with pocket diapers and inserts or try out an all-in-one where the inserts are stitched in. Happy Heiny’s are examples of the former, Thirsties the latter. Right now I’ve got 6 of each, and I’ll fill in the balance with whichever I end up preferring.

The all-in-ones are less flexible and take much longer to dry, but I have to say there’s something really nice about not having to stuff the suckers every time you do laundry-to say nothing of the sometimes disgusting process of unstuffing soiled diapers before you put in a load of laundry. Plus, the Thirsties have nifty leg gussets that inspire confidence in the product. On the minus side, the laundry tabs on my trial Thirstie has already given out, so I fear I’m going to end up with a very long diaper chain after each wash load.

The Happy Heiny’s win points for using a very sturdy hook and loop closure and for a design that places much elasticity through the rise. Putting on Happy Heiny’s is a treat, and the fit is superb. Plus, the pocket aspect means that I can dry them much faster. Right now, I’m leaning towards ordering more of these.

One other change in our routine: I didn’t order any yellow diapers this time around, so my rainbow stack has been interrupted. I struggled with this decision more than I should admit. But the thing is that I don’t really like the way the yellow diapers look against Simon’s skin (he’s olive like me; it does him NO favors), so I can either make the stack look better at the expense of the child or vice versa. You can see the dilemma.

As I write this, the ghost of Red Auerbach has lit up his victory cigar with over two minutes left on the clock in the NBA finals. Actually, who am I kidding? The ghost of Red Auerbach lit up with two minutes left in the first half.

Here in Louisville, my little family celebrated tonight with a victory brownie. We didn’t think it was premature at the time; we were celebrating Simon’s beginning to walk. What we didn’t expect was that the real show was coming later, fueled in part by the brownie’s caffeine and sugar no doubt.

For tonight at the park and then at the house, Simon walked non-stop. He walked across the play area at the park. He walked all over our house chasing the cats. And he learned to get to standing without pulling up on anything. When we left the house at 4:30, walking was not Simon’s primary means of locomotion. When we went to bed tonight, it was.

Unfortunately, we capped our otherwise blissful night with a little tumble off the bed (unrelated to walking). So Matt and I have to wake and check on the little guy in a few minutes, but I’m not worried. Because even after his tumble and the accompanying tears, he still got up and walked all over the place. And tonight, after seven months of watching the calendar and worrying about Simon falling behind, I’m not going to let a little tumble get me down.

Hurray Simon! (and Go Celtics!)

Simon is taking off. What a beautiful sight!

After Sunday night’s performance, I was cautiously optimistic that Simon would continue to improve and would be walking soon. But I didn’t want to put a time-line to it because Simon’s progress to date has been so slow. Two days later, however, I’m seeing things differently. We’re here.

Yesterday Simon took steps all day in tiny little bursts. He even walked in the bathtub a bit. And today he’s just launched. He’s walked in the living room, in the hallway, all the way from the guest bedroom to his room, and the full length of our front sidewalk. His posture is still stiff as a board, he still looks nervous on occasion, and he still loses his balance at times, but he’s walking walking walking. And I am cheering cheering cheering.

I’ve only managed one photo so far, and it’s not the best. I’m sure to get a better one soon, but in the meantime behold the walking child!

No kidding. When I woke up this morning, I thought the day’s miracle would be Boston closing out the Lakers in Game 5 of the NBA finals. Right now the score is Lakers 37- Celtics 22 at the end of the first quarter, so I’m thinking a Celtics win might require more of a miracle than the universe is willing to dispense just now. And that’s OK with me for two reasons:

1. No team has ever come back from being down 3-1 to win the NBA finals. Boston can go close out the series this week on their home court. The long-suffering fans deserve it.

2. Simon began to walk today. So who cares about the NBA finals? Or work? Or the yard? Or anything. My toddler finally toddled! And so, on Father’s Day 2008, one day before Simon’s 20-month birthday, this mama exhaled deeply, cried a little, and felt her heart skip a beat even as her blood pressure dropped 20 points easy.

You still with me? I kind of buried the lede here. In case you missed it:

SIMON BEGAN TO WALK TODAY.

My phrasing here is deliberately circumlocutionary. He did not walk as I think of that word: He didn’t go from one side of the room to another all on his own. But he took three to five steps tonight, he knew he was doing it, and he repeated the feat five or six times. Thus, he began to walk.

Tonight reminded me of nothing so much as the night of March 28 when Simon pulled to a stand a dozen or so times in one night after doing it every two weeks (or two months) for over four months. For the past week, he’s taken little steps, but always under circumstances where he lost track of himself. The minute he realized he was unsupported, he’d grab on to something if it were available and sit down if it weren’t. Tonight, on the other hand, he took steps to move around a corner, he took steps to walk to my step mom Ruth, he took steps to go bug his Uncle Dan, and he took other steps I can’t recall exactly because it almost began to look normal.

Ironically, Simon took his first steps the week Amy had to cancel our physical therapy appointment with First Steps. I know he might not do this again tomorrow. But I have a gut feeling that we are very, very close to true walking. I’ll be shocked if it doesn’t come in two weeks or less.

In honor of this grand achievement, tonight we debut the “toddler” tag on the blog. Now that he’s gotten up and toddled, it only seems fair.

Within a day or so of my purchasing Happy Baby Things That Go, I snapped some pics of Simon reading it. Then I got a new Elizabeth George novel and started consulting with landscape architects about my back yard (my back yard needs a landscape magician, I’ve decided), and never got around to taking said pics off my camera. Tonight, my mother reminded me that it had been a long while since she’d seen new pics; the poor thing is stuck with a photo from way back on June 1. Clearly, I’ve been negligent.

You know that you are suffering from world’s-most-photographed-child syndrome when you feel guilty about going two weeks without publishing new pictures of your child! What a little emperor I run the risk of creating over here…

Regardless, a sample pic is at right; more are in the Gallery. May everyone dream sweet dreams of buses tonight.