Kid Amnesiac

Exact words spoken by Simon todayat lunch-time:

Simon eat burrito. Burrito tastes yummy.

Next time we’re in SF, we have a date at La Taqueria,  OK?

When you work from home, it is more crucial than ever to maintain professional decorum. In that way, people know you are truly working from home, as opposed to, you know, “working”.

Matt and I put on a clinic of at home professionalism on Wednesday evening, when he had a regularly scheduled meeting from 5:00-7:00 p.m. At about the 5:15 mark, while I was making dinner for Simon, I realized that he was stuck in our small half-bathroom downstairs off the kitchen. Many a guest has gotten stuck in this bath—the knob is tricky and needs to be replaced—so I didn’t think much about it when I heard muffled cries and the knob being jiggled.

I thought a whole lot more about it, though, when my usual strong-arm tactics failed to open the door. As I struggled to open the door from the outside, Simon continued to call out for help and wriggle the knob from the inside. He was a trouper for most of the time, but now and then got scared and cried.

After five minutes or so of struggling, a horrible thought dawned on me: What if Simon locked the door from inside? Had I given it two minutes of solid thought, I would have known exactly what to do: go get a screwdriver and either unlock the door that way or take the entire knob off. Before I clicked into gear, though, I ran into Matt’s office and whispered “Help, Simon’s locked himself in the bathroom” to Matt while he was on his call.

Matt put the phone on mute and walked downstairs to help us all out. While he went looking for a screwdriver long enough to undo the lock, I found my head, grabbed the screwdriver I keep in the dining room closet, and loosened the knob. At that point, I could open the door just enough to see a very relieved Simon and realize that our problem was a small plastic toy wedged between the door and the floor. We got the door open just enough to let Simon out, who squeezed past the sink, walked right past Matt, and uttered a very remorseful:

I’m sorry Daddy

as he passed by.

An hour later, after dinner, we had our second incident. This time I was doing the dishes while Simon played in the kitchen. He loves the phone, so I again thought nothing when I heard him pick ours up and say a very cheery:

Hewow? Yeah, Yeah. OK. Bye now!

I thought a bit more about it, though, when Matt came rushing down the stairs flailing his arms in the air. Simon hadn’t picked up the home line; he had picked up Matt’s office line and interjected himself into the meeting.

Oops!

Amazingly (or disturbingly, I can’t decide which) no one said a thing about this on Matt’s call. Were any of them paying attention? Or has this become the new professional standard for those who work from home?

I hate my skin. It itches all summer from sun sensitivity, it itches all winter from dryness and wool sensitivity, it’s prone to sprouting little red bumps on the backs of my legs and arms, and I’m now wrapping up my third decade fighting acne. Everything bothers my skin, even things like “hypoallergenic”  or mineral-based makeup. Don’t even get me started on sunscreen.

So I suppose I should not have been surprised to discover that Simon may be going down a similar path. His first days home from the hospital—now 2 ½ years behind us—he had a red tushie much of the time. Then we put him in his Fuzzi Bunz, and the redness magically disappeared. Once we graduated out of newborn-sized diapers, I discovered unbleached Seventh Generation diapers, and he has been able to tolerate those for travel, pre-school, and the occasional times when I get caught short between loads of laundry.

The Fuzzi Bunz kept us all very happy, and Simon was well over a year old the first time he had real diaper rash. Then, last September and October, he had sinus and ear infections that necessitated antibiotics, which in turn irritated his stomach and produced toxic, skin-eating poop. We went another two rounds with diaper rash as a result.

Now it’s happened again. Sunday morning he awoke with a beautiful bottom, but three bad poops later he went to bed with what looked like a baboon’s rear end. It was beet red all over, had two raised welts on it, and at least two spots where the skin was broken. When we went to clean him up the last time, he sobbed and cried out “Mommy! Mommy!” in a way that broke my heart. It may have been the first time a diaper change brought me to tears.

I had my silver sulfadiazine cream, AKA the magic bullet, to treat him with. And I knew to use warm washcloths to clean him at diaper changes. But frankly, cleaning up a dirty bottom with warm washcloths is neither terribly effective nor overly pleasant. There had to be a better way. But baby wipes-with their irritating chemicals, detergents, and sometimes alcohol—were not an option.

So I made my own! I read about do-it-yourself baby wipes ages ago, but never got around to trying it out. It sounds a bit crazy, no? In theory you cut a roll of paper towels in half, remove the inner cardboard core, insert into a plastic container, pour a homemade solution over the top, and voila: you have a roll of wipes you pull out from the center.

In practice, things were a bit more complicated. My grocery store didn’t have the right sized container, so I bought a tub of cheapie wipes and threw them all out. Cutting the roll of paper towels in half also proved to be challenging: In the end, I resorted to a hacksaw and made a terrible mess. My kitchen looked like a paper mill by the time I cut all the way through the roll.

For a solution, I used two cups of boiled water as my base, ¼ cup of aloe to soothe,  2 TBS of Dr. Bronner’s pure castile soap to gently clean, 2 TBS of extra virgin olive oil to moisturize, a couple of drops of tea tree oil to help heal, and some vitamin E for added benefit. I then poured the mix over the paper towels in the container, waited 10 minutes, flipped the container upside down for 10 more minutes, turned it right side up, and nervously pulled out my first wipe.

The verdict? A little goopy (I’ll cut back on the aloe next time), but quite nice. I wiped my hands with one, and for the first time in ages my winter chapped hands felt better after cleaning than before. I’m really sorry that it took open sores for me to try this out, because now I’m thinking about how much money I could have saved and how much kinder I could have been to Simon’s skin from the beginning.

Happy Trails

We’ve had terrific spring weather this past week, but a cold front is due to roll in tonight.

So to make the most of it, we went to parks twice yesterday and again this morning. Today I even chronicled our adventures in the photo album.

Tomorrow school starts back up, then it’s Passover, and by the time we get back outside next weekend, we may well be in the full bloom of spring.

I read Lisa Belkin’s “Motherlode” blog on the NYT pretty regularly, despite my reservations about Ms. Belkin’s research style, which often seems to consist of looking around at other moms who share her rarified lifestyle.

Last week, two posts got me to thinking. One was about the correlation between having children and self-reported unhappiness (Yes, unhappiness; more later). The other, which was as or more intriguing, was about talking to your children about death.

Or, as the guest blogger would have it, emphatically not talking to your children about death.  The writer, Jody Becker, was so concerned about broaching this disturbing subject with her daughters that she has taken what I’d consider extreme measures to avoid it. Referring to her beloved grandmother’s tea set she writes, “The tea set is hidden because I don’t have a ready answer for the question, ‘Where is your Grandma, mommy?'”

Really? The timing of this was especially interesting to me because about two weeks ago, I began talking to Simon about death. When we drive to school, we pass the house my Bubbie and Zadie lived in from around 1951 until just after my Zadie’s death in 1993. Matt, who is the one to take Simon to school in the morning, always points out “great-great-grand-bubbie’s house” to Simon as they drive by it. Recently, Simon has taken to pointing it out for me when we pass it on the way home from school after lunch.

So about two weeks ago I took the plunge:

Do you know who Grand-bubbie was, Simon? (Matt calls her great-great-grandbubbie, but that’s two generations too far up the tree.) She was my bubbie-your bubbie’s mommy. And we all loved her very much and she would love you very much, but she’s not here with us now. We miss her, and seeing her house makes us think about her. When we get home, I’ll show you a picture of her.

There. How hard was that? A day or so later, when tucking Simon into bed for his nap, I took a look at the blanket we use for mid-day naps—hand-knit by my Aunt Marcia—and took the plunge again:

Do you know why we call this the Aunt Marcia blanket, honey? It’s because my Aunt Marcia made this for you. You met her a few times when you were a baby, before you were a big boy like you are now, but she’s gone now. She loved us very much, and it’s nice that we have this blanket so we can think of her. I’ll show you a picture of her when you wake up.

That didn’t seem so hard, either. To be fair, Simon is probably too young to understand any of what I said to him and is certainly too young to ask any difficult questions in response. But I assumed that now was a fine time to plant the seeds for a future conversation—that talking about people I loved who were now gone was a great way to get the conversation rolling when he’s ready.

It seems to me that if you can’t discuss the death of someone unknown to your kids, that you are going to be in a horrible pinch when someone near or dear to them dies.

Curious, I clicked into the comments field to see what others had to say about Ms. Becker’s essay, and I was extremely relieved to see that the nearly unanimous consensus was that Ms. Becker is avoiding a natural and gentle way to introduce the topic. Quite a few went so far as to use the word “crazy”, and many relayed stories about how they approached the topic with their young kids and even had a book suggestion or two.

I’m a big believer in listening to the village. I hope Jody Becker is, too, and that she gets down that tea set and hopes her daughters will ask her about it.

I consider this the first (short) installment of what is sure to be a long list of things Simon says in public that could cause embarrassment to his parents.

Today’s was pretty benign. We were at Cherokee Park enjoying our second outdoor venture of the day when someone walking a chihuahua passed us. Simon took one look at the tiny, short-haired dog and declared:

That is a tiny cat.

I happen to think chihuahuas are sweet, but compared to the giant huskies, labs, and German shepherds passing us by, I could understand—and giggle at—Simon’s misidentification.

Garden Helper

We are extremely busy over here enjoying our spring vacation. So far, I have worked about half my normal hours, spent six hours trimming liriope in my garden, spent another spell weeding,  spent 8 (eight!) hours putting down mulch, and met with a landscape architect to discuss my disastrous back yard.

This was all supposed to take place in a single half day. As you can see, my time management skills are as fabulous as ever.

I have also enjoyed lazy mornings in my PJs, and ordering a big-boy bed for Simon. It’s the Dutailier Felix 410 in blue jeans finish with a lowered foot board if you are curious.  I probably spent close to 20 hours looking for and researching beds before settling on this one, a decision made simpler by the fact that it was Matt’s favorite by a mile. Having had a gender neutral nursery for 2 1/2 years now, I am truly looking forward to boying it up for my car-obsessed, ball-obsessed little guy.  I might even affix a row of wooden cars on the headboard to entice him to make the switch in few months time.  I can guarantee that the sheets will have a car/plane/train theme.

Still left to do is:

• finishing a grant
• finishing two publishing proposals for work
• painting my bathroom
• doing a thorough spring cleaning
• organizing my attic
• clearing out old clothes for friends, the Goodwill, etc.
• taking Simon to the aquarium in Cinci, the Science Museum in Louisville, and possibly on the Belle of Louisville.

As it’s Friday, this list is looking less and less feasible all the time! Typical.

Despite all this activity, our vacation highlight thus far came last night night on the Whitworth’s driveway. Matt asked Simon where Grandma was, and Simon looked up and said extremely clearly:

Gramman’s inside making corn dogs.

And she was. Simon has just this week achieved the linguistic milestone this sentence partially illustrates; he is using contractions, prepositions, pronouns, and the present progressive verb correctly. Almost as fun was the stage a week prior, when he was trying to figure all this out and would say things like, “Simon go sleeping.”

So that’s a short version of our spring “staycation”.  Lots of work to do, but all very satisfying, too.

Last Saturday Jim, with the help of some dear friends, organized a surprise birthday party for Evie.

When he first told me of the plans, my heart sank. The party was called for 7:30. Most nights, Simon is beginning to get crabby at 7:30. By 8:00 he’s usually all smiles, but that’s only because we’re into the bedtime routine by then and the kid loves his bath, loves his story-time, and loves his bed.

So while the early evening is frequently the best time of day to be with Simon, it’s a time for being quiet at home, not at someone else’s house with a crowd of strangers and limited access to toys.

I had forecast a disaster. By the time we got in the car, I had both an escape plan and my list of lines ready. “Poor boy,” I was ready to say at 7:45, “he’s used to having his grandparents all to himself, he’s overwhelmed by all of this, and it’s already past his bedtime. I think we’ll just mosey on home now. So sorry we couldn’t stay.”

When Evie didn’t make it the house until nearly 8:00, panic was setting in. Could we leave before she even got there? How miserable did Simon have to be before we ran the white flag up the pole and called it a night?

What I had not anticipated was this night Simon would deviate from his usual crowd aversion and biological clock. The crowd didn’t phase him, the cake and lemonade thrilled him, and he was—truly—the life of the party as he greeted everyone, said “excuse me” as he weaved between people, and played happily in the back room. He (adorably, and I sincerely hope not inappropriately) played a silent game of ring-around-the-rosie during the prayer circle, and when it was time for cake he walked right up to Evie and sang:

“Happy buday to Gramman. Happy Buday to Gramman.”

I think he told her that he loved her, too. Then he dug into the Italian cream cake with gusto and ran around like a crazy man. We finally left at 8:45 or so, and Simon got tucked into his bed that night at around 9:20. By the time he hit the sheets, he was so slap happy he could hardly walk straight and had a terrible case of the evening giggle hiccups.

I know he’s mine and I’m biased, but I also know when Simon is being cute and when he’s being annoying. And on what used to be the first day of spring, Simon was in the full flower of little boy adorableness. I was so proud of him I couldn’t stop smiling. And honestly, I think I may have to prevent Simon from seeing any of Jim and Evie’s friends after this until he’s 25 or so and solely responsible for his own behavior. Because he will never, ever be more adorable or winning than he was that night.

God bless mothers who work full-time outside the home. I don’t know how they do it. By which, I don’t so much mean I don’t know how they physically get everything done-I’ve got a pretty clear picture of how that happens—but rather I don’t understand how they clear out the head space.

The last two days I’ve been in the midst of a work emergency, the type that has me burning the midnight oil, getting up early, eating mindlessly and irregularly, and not paying attention to the people around me.

I’ve been completely focused, consumed you might even say, by finishing the task at hand, and any interruption or distraction has been unwelcome. It’s not just that the ringing phone has annoyed me; it’s that having to stop to go the bathroom has annoyed me, getting sleepy has annoyed me, and getting hungry has annoyed me. Basically, life has been an unwanted distraction.

This fugue state is all too familiar to me. I wandered into and out of my own life in college, worked like a demon for much of grad school, and experienced similarly intense periods during my start-up days and at my current job.

I used to blame the situation, but I now understand that the common thread is me. So far as I can tell, some folks are good at “work-life balance” and some are not. I fall into the “not” category.

But it’s one thing to periodically neglect your spouse, your friends, your hobbies, and yourself, and an entirely different matter to neglect your child. And I’m afraid that for the last two days hearing Simon cry, wake up from a nap, or ask for something, or require food or a diaper change has been greeted—internally, for the record—by a small voice in my head saying “not now, Simon. I don’t have time.”

That voice, that voice I know so well and have lived with for so long, is the exact reason I went to half-time when Simon was born. Every now and again I think about going back full time, feel guilty about my current rather cushy situation, or feel like as long as I work more than half-time in reality I might as well get paid for it. And then I realize that my choice is not about how many hours a week to work, but rather about how to draw a line around my job and not let it take over my entire life and supplant my parenting.

Tonight at dinner time I consciously decided to take a break. While the water boiled on the stove, I sat on the floor and rolled a car back and forth to Simon. As we played, I took in his long fingers as he revved the car before releasing it, the way his newly cut hair is shaped over his ears, the food stains on his pants, and the remnants of hot cross bun icing in his hair. Each of these mundane things helped bring me back to the present and to the life of our house.

For the last two years, work-related fugues have been the exception because I have set external controls on my behavior. I know in my heart that if my work life were different, I’d live outside my life and my family much of the time.

So truly God bless those full-time working mothers. I don’t know how they do it.