Kid Amnesiac

The Scene: A lovely day in Tyler Park, sunny, breezy and comfortably warm.

The Players: Matt, Jessica, Simon. A slighter younger, significantly hipper couple with their two sons, age approximately 4 and 7.

Our time at the park began by simply lying on a blanket under a tree and rolling a tennis ball and forth to Simon and then bouncing it at him. He thought this was hilarious and laughed for a solid twenty to thirty minutes. Boy babies are easily amused-delightfully so.

Then we decided to move into the park’s enclosed playground so we could put Simon in a baby swing and let him squeal at the other boys from closer range. While Matt and I pushed Simon and talked to him, we watched the other family.

Mom and dad were lying on a blanket, the mother reading softly out loud to the dad from what appeared to be the newest Harry Potter book. The older son sat alone on a see-saw reading what looked like an educational picture book while his younger brother  ran back and forth from see-saw to slide with excess energy to burn.

Periodically, the parents would look up to admonish the children. The older son was told sternly to “just sit down and read your book”, while the younger son, Lennon, was told more than once to not leave the enclosure when he was seen making for the gate.

Simon thought Lennon was the best, and Lennon seemed like a sweet kid, so we’d periodically wave, smile or have Simon wave at him. The older boy occasionally tried to read out loud to his parents, and Lennon had a spell of random yelling, but for the most part the boys entertained themselves while the parents enjoyed their book. At one point Lennon must have been told something he didn’t like, because we heard him clearly say “Shut up, mommy,” at which point his parents giggled.

As we headed up Tyler Parkway to make our way home, I looked over to Matt and said, “So, can you guess exactly what three judgmental things I was thinking?”

Without batting an eye, Matt replied:

1. “How about you play with your kids instead of just yelling at them.” Check.
2. “I can’t believe the kid said ‘shut up’ to his mom and they just laughed.” Check.
3. “For Pete’s sake, they named him Lennon?!” Check.

Dear husband was three for three, not only in what I was thinking, but also exactly how I would have said it myself. We haven’t been married 10 years for nothing.

I’ve met a wide swathe of humanity of the playgrounds in Louisville, including many different types of parents. I’ve chatted with middle class parents from Atlanta who were enjoying the more relaxed atmosphere of Louisville and an obviously poor young mother who told me about needing public assistance because her first child’s baby daddy is in prison and can’t send child support. I’ve talked to mothers who nursed for four years and mothers who didn’t nurse at all. Mothers who wanted four or five kids and mothers who were ready to stop at one. Mothers dedicated to sending kids to private school, and mothers equally dedicated to sticking with the public school system.

Throughout these interactions, I try very hard to remember that there is more than one way to be a good parent, and that I should not get judgmental when others make choices different than mine. After all, no one has all the answers, no one is perfect, and the vast majority of us are doing right by our kids. But yesterday I didn’t try so hard. Today I just watched as this couple read a children’s book while alternatively ignoring and yelling at their own actual children and quietly seethed. For their kids’ sake, I hope I was missing the larger picture and was judging unfairly. I really do.

And while I am sure to make plenty a parenting mistake myself (I’ve probably already blown the sleep training thing…) I truly hope the day never comes that I drag my kids to a park and then treat the entire outing as an extended time-out.

Simon is now in the full throes of separation anxiety. This developmentally normal phase is alternately cute and tiresome, thrilling and exhausting.

I am Simon’s entire world, or at the very least his very most favorite person within it. When I laugh at him, he laughs. If I seem upset, he will, too. What’s more, he can be quietly content in a room with someone else, only to become audibly excited if I enter the room and then loudly destitute when I leave again.

One the one hand, this is quite an ego boost. No one else loves me like this, and unless I have another child, no one else ever will. Then again, it’s also exhausting, as I am the cure for all that ails him. Teething pain? Let mama make it feel better. Tummy trouble? Mama again. Bored? Here’s mama to play. Sad? Mama will hold you. Hungry? Come to mama.

Mama, mama, mama, mama, mama!

Further complicating this situation are my mixed feelings about being away from Simon myself. For while I’d surely lose my mind if I didn’t have my mom, Evie, and Emily to help me-and while many days I wish they could come more often or stay longer-at the end of a babysitting shift, I’m always eager to get my hands on Simon. And if I have help many days in a row, I get really hungry for him. Sad? Make Simon laugh. Anxious? Hold Simon. Tired? Lay down next to sleeping Simon. Bored? Blog about Simon.

Simon, Simon, Simon, Simon, Simon!

I know this phase will pass, and I have a sneaking suspicion that Simon will be the one to pull away first. So I think I’m going to sit back and enjoy the adulation before Simon decides he’s too cool to be demonstrative with his mother.

Simon will be nine months old next Monday. According to the books, that puts him five days away from crawling. Well, I’ve baby-proofed in anticipation of the big event, but I’m not counting on it happening anytime soon.

Simon hasn’t been early with any major motor skill, but this is the first he’s likely to miss altogether. In fact, I won’t be surprised if Simon skips crawling and goes straight to walking. I just hope that by the one year mark he’s found a way, any way, to get around. Dragging, crawling, scooting, that hybrid walk-crawl thing that makes babies look like gorillas-I don’t care which one. It’s just that I’m going to feel pretty silly if I’m pointlessly stepping over baby gates and fighting with cabinet latches for over three months while Simon stays put wherever I leave him.

So why can’t Johnny crawl? I lay the blame entirely on the “Back to Sleep” campaign, which cut down the incidence of SIDS by 50% but did so at the cost of baby pattern baldness and late or no crawling. That putting babies to sleep on their backs should delay crawling seems especially cruel when you consider that, with Simon at least, I had to swaddle him for over five months to get him to fall asleep on his back in the first place.

It’s just isn’t natural to put babies down on their backs. In fact, it triggers the startle reflex in newborns, making poor baby tense up, flail, and cry. But after you do this enough, baby grows so used to being on his back that tummy-down grows to be the hated position. Despite the assurance of all those happy babies on the Tummy Time activity mats, Simon did little but flop and shriek when I put him tummy down. We have no pictures of him sweetly looking up while propped on his arms because it rarely happened and never lasted long enough to get the camera out when it did.

For the most part, when you put Simon down, he struggles to get up, then groans and collapses. And screams; I musn’t forget the screaming part. At this stage, he will now reach for toys beyond his grasp, end up on his stomach, push his arms and legs in a crawl-like fashion without being able to raise up his whole torso, flop, and then roll over on his back. So he’s going through the motions of getting into position to crawl, but he hasn’t developed the necessary muscle tone to pull it off. And he needs a full dose of muscle tone, because holding up his melon head is going to take real strength.

Fully understanding the reasons for Simon’s delay, I’m pretty OK with it. It’s just that in a week he’s due for his nine month checkup and I know Dr. Newstadt will ask me about this. This is the same doctor who earlier suggested that I enforce tummy time even if Simon cries, that I sleep train Simon so I’m not getting up in the middle of the night any more, and that I irrigate his ears to remove excess wax.

I’m 0 for 3 on these tasks. And I’m simply not looking forward to getting a D in motherhood. So what can I do about it? I have two thoughts. I can plead my case to Dr. Newstadt (hysteria over tummy time, blah blah blah, nursed babies sleeping less, blah blah blah) or I can engage in evasive maneuvers. I’m liking that second option. In fact, I am seriously considering asking for Dr. Abrams this time, as she may not ask about the sleeping and will probably think the ear wax thing is new. That makes me 2 for 3 and should bump up my average to a B- at worst. Then maybe I can casually mention that I make Simon’s baby food, which should be good for enough extra credit to bring me up to a B/B+. It won’t make Simon crawl any faster, but at least I’ll feel better.

Tonight was the night Simon ate the first  real table food I made for him. I’ve been waiting eagerly to introduce Simon to more complicated food and have him join me at the table, and I’m very excited that our gustatory adventure has begun.

For the past month, Simon’s breakfast (oatmeal or muesli with fruit) and lunch (applesauce, yogurt, ricotta and fruit) hasn’t been too different from my own. But he’s gotten plain fruits and plain vegetables in the evening, and that just does not seem dinner like to me.

Two nights ago I decided it was time to break out the more interesting food, so I fed him the Plum Organics red lentil vegetable stew. He liked it ok, but struggled a bit with the slightly chunky texture. Last night he got the same thing and loved it. I hadn’t seem him kick his legs so much since the first time he got yogurt or spinach with mangoes. That inspired me to check out the ingredient list on the label, get out my cook books, and make a lentil stew myself.

So at around 10:00 p.m. last night, after we finally got Simon to fall asleep, I busied myself by heading down to the kitchen, looking through cookbooks, and throwing together a stew of  red lentils, sweet potatoes, carrots, celery, onions, and bay leaves while WFPK’s “country gentleman” Berk Bryant entertained me with the final hour of his Sunday evening bluegrass show. (It’s the “shortest, fastest, bestest three hours in radio”. Take Berk’s word for it.)

Tasty! The only difference between this and what I’d make for myself is that I left out the salt and then mashed the whole thing up in a food mill. We trotted it out tonight and Simon eagerly lapped up every bite. I couldn’t feed him fast enough. Fingers crossed, it’s official. Simon is ready to quit the boring single ingredient baby food stuff and join me at the table. I can’t wait to trot out the baby risotto and baby polenta. This promises to be great fun.  Bon Apetit!

Simon has been working on cutting his central and lateral incisors (the front four teeth) for over a week now, and it has resulted in some fussy, uncomfortable days and some board books with chewed up corners. Friday night I finally saw the culprits-four tiny icebergs just about to break through the gummy surface-when Simon opened wide to laugh at something. His entire upper gum line appeared tender and swollen, and I felt real sympathy for him.

For reasons I don’t quite understand, though, Friday and Saturday Simon had a holiday from the discomforts of teething and had really good days. He played quite a bit, squealing with delight whenever the cats crossed his path, and he ate and slept well, too. He also repeated the new trick he mastered Thursday, putting the toy stacking rings back onto their cylinder holder.

The capper to Friday came at its very end. Matt and I had Simon on the bed with us for some quiet, pre-bed playtime, and I bent over to rub noses. “Eskimo kisses!” I declared. He giggled. So I did it again. And he giggled again. We repeated this exact scenario over and over until he giggled in anticipation of my bumping my biggish nose against his tiny upturned one. I had no idea he could laugh for that long.

I kept waiting for the giggling to turn into pre-sleep crying because typically, regardless of how good a day he’s had, Simon has a short burst of fussiness just before he goes to sleep. He becomes antsy and uncoordinated, rubbing his eyes and changing positions frequently until he finally gets comfortable and settles into a quiet, pre-sleep state.

But Friday night, once he tired of all the giggling, Simon turned on his side and quietly stared at me. In turn, I got on my side facing him and stared back, my face a mere inch or so from his. Simon lay completely still, held my gaze for ages, breathed his hot baby breath onto my face, and reached out to pat my cheek. Then his eyes got heavy, a sleepy grin stretched over his face, and the hand on my cheek dropped to the bed. He was asleep seconds later.

That half hour or so was unbearably sweet. I think it was the sense that Simon wasn’t so much enjoying our game as he was just enjoying me that made it so wonderful. Usually Simon is happy in active, energetic ways; he’s happy because he’s having fun. Friday night I think I witnessed happiness that stemmed from a profound contentment and sense of security. Whatever it was, it left me with a warm glow and made me drift off with a happy, sleepy smile on my face, too.

This Thursday I had my scheduled appointment to order prints from Simon’s photographer. With Dede Holman Photography, you don’t simply look at proofs and choose your package. No, you have to come in for an appointment to place your order after viewing the proofs online at home.

When Dede explained this to me, I thought it silly. An appointment to order my preferred prints? Ridicuous! I went home, studied the proofs with Talmudic intensity-show me one of the 60 or so pictures and I can tell you its number-and carefully planned an order within my preset budget. I knew what things cost, I made some hard choices, and I was ready to hand over my order to Dede in five minutes flat.

Ha! Dede ushered me into her studio, pulled down a screen in front of me, and settled me in beside her on a couch. The lights dimmed, music began to play, and before I knew it I was being entertained by a slide show of all the proofs. As much as I loved many of the pictures online, seeing them in their true color and at full resolution on a huge screen was overwhelming. By shot 6 or so I was telling Dede how beautiful her work was. By the halfway point I was holding back tears. By the end, I was blowing my nose and wiping my eyes.

I then promptly placed my order for a 20?X30? canvas wrapped wall portrait in sepia tone of Simon in profile. A piece of art I know I’ll cherish forever, and a purchase that exceeded my original budget-the one I had so solemnly committed to-by 300%. That Dede is one heck of a saleswoman. And I? I am one heck of a sap. But I am not alone! A stack of similar wall portraits in the front of Dede’s studio sat as silent witness to the overspending, emotionally wrought mothers who fell victim to Dede’s slide show before me.