Kid Amnesiac

Before I forget, I thought I’d take a minute and jot down some of the new things Simon is saying and doing.

On the verbal front, we’re still not getting sentences, but we are hearing lots of new words. He says things like “yo-yo”, “circle”, “mommy apple”, “mommy mean” (sigh), “pee-pee”, and “shirt.” More notably, most of these words come uncoached. It seems like each day he’s likely to look at an object in our house or in a book and, without notice, tell us what it is for the first time.

On the bed-time front, our little guy is losing his love for his bed. He still sleeps well, but we’re starting to get attempts at postponing bedtime. The usual scenarios involve his pulling down a new stack of books to read or running around the upstairs opening and closing doors. He’s also developed two new bedtime companions: Bob, the giant rabbit his Nana brought him for Easter last year, and a toy bus or fire- truck.

When it comes to reading, Simon has discovered some new favorites and is more emphatic than ever about letting his opinion be known. Most days before his nap and before bedtime, he picks a group of books, stacks them beside me, backs up into my lap, and then puts the books he wants me to read in my hands, open to the first page. You know, just in case I missed the hint. 99% of the time, those books will be Moo Baa La La La (which he calls “la-LA”), Kitten’s First Full Moon, and Tickle the Pig. If I try to sneak in a book of my own choosing, odds are he will whine, shake his head vigorously, and throw the book to the side.

Notably, I chose none of the current favorites . One belonged to his cousins first, one was a gift from friends Lucy and Malcolm, and one was a gift from friends Beth and Bob. The love of Kitten’s First Full Moon especially surprises me, as it’s a subtle story of a kitten who mistakes the moon for a bowl of milk, and it is illustrated in black and white ink wash drawings. I think it’s absolutely gorgeous and playful, but I wouldn’t have expected it to be such a hit with the under two set. Since Simon is dead-set on reading this at least twice a day, I’m glad we both are such fans.

Simon has also decided that I am a fun object to manipulate. When we read The Very Hungry Caterpillar, he grabs my right forefinger or thumb and has me press the digit into every hole on the book. He used to do this himself, but now it seems to be more fun to have me serve as his proxy. He also enjoys pushing me around like a stroller, buggy, or cart.

Which brings me to a new favorite game in general: pushing and pulling. Any object that may be pushed or scooted is. It’s not just toy lawnmovers, poppers, strollers, or toy buses and cars that are pushed, but also foot-stools, chairs, and me. About a week ago, he discovered that that which can be pushed can often be pulled. Maybe I can con him into taking me on the next wagon ride.

In terms of mobility, Simon has discovered two new ways to go down stairs. When he’s feeling particularly tall and big-boyish, he walks down holding on to—or suspended from—the banister. When he gets tired of swinging from the banister or gets nervous about the sheer drop of the stairs, he now slides down on his belly. We’re not seeing very advanced climbing skills, but we are seeing crazy initial attempts at climbing. And finally, while we are still having issues with him trying to run into the street or running away from us, he’s decided that he loves walking across the school parking lot holding my and Matt’s hand together.

The cutest anecdote I have comes from one of his classmates. For weeks now, Matt and I have thought of one little girl as “Greta the greeter” for the way she always rushes the door and hollers out “Hi Simon!” when we arrive at school. Today Greta topped herself. No sooner had we arrived than Greta ran over from the play kitchen and excitedly called out “Hi Simon! I made coffee!” Maybe you had to be there, but I’ll be smiling over this one all day.

At Simon’s one-year check-up, our doctor told us he should visit the dentist before he turned eighteen months. We were surprised to hear this and frankly dreaded the trip. So we put it off. He turned eighteen months and we maybe possibly fibbed at his check-up about having a dentist. We are, after all, friends with a dentist. That counts for something, right?

However as the guilt piled up, I decided I’d try to get Simon in to see a dentist before he turned two. I made the decision last Thursday, telling myself I’d find a dentist and book an appointment while Simon napped on Friday. And I sort of did some research, but largely postponed the endeavor until Monday.

Amidst this procrastination, disaster struck. At exactly 4:30 on Friday afternoon, I realized that Simon was missing part of his left central incisor, thus putting the longest possible interval of time between discovery and treatment. And did I mention that we didn’t have a regular dentist for Simon yet?

Normally, circumstances like this call for a bit of Matt calm. I relate the hysteria inducing problem du jour, and he tells me why it’s no big deal and I should calm down. I knew things were bad when Matt not only echoed my concern, but amplified it. Here are a few calming nuggets from my more hysterical half:

“Oh my God! Poor little guy. This is a disaster!”

“This is just awful. We have to fix it.”

“Honestly, we can’t let him walk around like this for five years. We have to do something.”

“I’m really upset about the tooth. It’s just terrible.”

While Matt assured me that things were every bit as terrible as I feared, I got on the phone with Shellie Branson, the pediatric dentist Simon’s pediatrician had recommended to me nearly one year ago. This conversation turned out to be one of the most singularly hilarious in my motherhood to date. The fact that I was the butt of the joke takes nothing away from that fact.

The Scene: I’ve just found the now yellowed and crumpled piece of paper with Dr. Branson’s name on it, called the number, and been told by a recorded voice to call back Monday or phone a different number if this is an emergency. I declare it a possible emergency and dial the number.

Voice: “Hi”

Me: “Hello. Is this Dr. Branson’s answering service?”

“No, this is Dr. Branson. Do you have an emergency?”

“Well, I’m not sure. I mean, I’m calling because I might have an emergency, but I was expecting an answering service. Do you have time to talk?”

“Of course, I just picked up the phone.”

“Right. Ok. So, my name is Jessica Goldstein and I have a 23-month old son. My pediatrician, Dr. Newstadt, recommended you. I know I was supposed to come by the time he was 18 months, and I was going to call to see if you had an appointment for next week because I can’t face him if Simon hasn’t gone yet. I really was. But that’s not the emergency. It wouldn’t be, right? The emergency is that I don’t yet have a dentist for him, but would like you to be it, and he’s chipped a front tooth, and it looks like half of it is missing, and I don’t know if that’s an emergency or not which is why I’m calling you.”

As you can tell, I was off to a fantastic start. This has got to be some of the worst nervous babbling I’ve ever engaged in.

Dr. Branson: “Did he chip his tooth today?”

Me: “Well, I’m not sure. He was in preschool this morning, but they didn’t tell me about anything that happened and I’m sure they would have if they had noticed. But I think if this would have happened a few days ago I would have seen it. I mean, it’s really awful. It looks like a third of his tooth is missing, sort of a half-moon carved out of his front tooth. Anyway, it could have been today but nothing has happened today, but if it was several days ago I think I would have noticed.”

Thus, my streak of verbal brilliance continues, in which my logorrhea is matched only by my general incoherence. I’m feeling a bit like the love child of Joe Biden and Sarah Palin at this point. Dr. Branson asked me a few more questions, and I answered in similar form. Which led us here:

Dr. Branson: “Is Simon by any chance your first or only child?”

Oh dear. That obvious? Of course it’s that obvious. Time to cop a plea:

Me: [voice a bit louder] “Of course he’s my first and only child. That’s why I sound so hysterical right now!”

Dr. Branson: “Well if there’s no blood or pain, you can relax. I see this twice a week. It’s probably not as bad as it looks. Call my office and tell them to schedule you for Monday. I’ll take a look and see if any treatment is needed. And then we can run through a full first cleaning and I’ll give you some tips. It will be great.”

Me: “Thanks so much, Dr. I really appreciate it.”

By now I think the call is over. But there’s one final punch-line left:

Dr. Branson: “Now, what did you say your name was again?”

I tell her.

Dr. Branson: “Hm. Do you go to AJ [Adath Jeshurun, a Conservative synagogue in my neighborhood] by any chance? I mean, is it OK if I ask… [voice quieter now] I just assumed from the name….”

Me: “Oh, it’s fine. No worries. My family goes to Keneseth Israel [a second synagogue, formerly Orthodox and now Conservative, also close to home]. But Dr. Newstadt goes to AJ, and he recommended you to me.”

“Right. I know him from there. I treat his kids. But your name sounds so familiar. What’s your husband’s name?”

“No, that’s not it. His last name is Whitworth, and he grew up at Southeast Christian.”

Pause.

“Well, OK. I’ll see you Monday.”

Epilogue: In telling my mom this story, she piped up immediately: “What was her name? Branson?” And she goes to AJ? That must be Jerry Branson’s sister. Do you remember Jerry Branson? He and Perry [my brother] were friends. They had a paper route together. Nice family.”

And that is what happens when you live in a small city: You go to the pediatrician your husband went to as a child, meet a nice doc from South Africa who asks if you go to AJ at your child’s three-week check-up, and then get referred to a pediatric dentist who’s the sister of your brother’s childhood friend!

As for Simon, he only broke the enamel. We opted to repair the tooth, which involved strapping him down on a papoose board for about 5-10 minutes while the doctor painted his tooth, put bonding material on it, and then filed off the excess. She was great, but Simon was hysterical, and the less said about the visit the better. His new smile is fabulous, I will say.

It’s been ages since I’ve uploaded new photos to our album. I’m afraid that was one of many tasks that slipped through the cracks during my six weeks of travel and work craziness. Filed under, “better late than never”, you may find some cute pics of Simon at the petting zoo, with Molly, and hanging out in his sandbox in the August album. I’ve posted one of my favorites to the left.

Alas, I finally got caught up with photos the very day Simon became decidedly less photogenic. See the pic below right? Notice anything amiss with Simon’s smile? Like the fact that the greater part of his left front tooth is missing!? He chipped a tooth today. Or, more likely, he cracked a tooth when he face-planted on asphalt earlier this week, and today was the day that the compromised bit fell off.

Simon seems oblivious to the matter, so I suppose it’s not a big deal. Our pedodontist seems fine with waiting until Monday to see him (more about that hilarious exchange soon), so that’s also reassuring. But man, Matt and I are both really upset about this. Can they do bonding on a two-year-old? We can’t imagine having the poor little guy walk around with a big hunk of tooth missing for the next five years! The rest of September, including better days, may be found here.

My mother has told me more than once how, as a newlywed, she watched her new nephew bang his head on the floor in frustration and thought to herself with the certainty that only the childless ever have: “No child of mine will ever do that.”

Then she had my brother Steve, who walked around for several months as a toddler with a black and blue spot right in the middle of his forehead. This bruise, a result of his frequent and fervent head-banging, was my mother’s mark of shame.

I’ve never uttered “No child of mine will ever do X”, but I get off on a technicality. Smart enough to rephrase things as “I doubt a child of mine will ever do X” or “I hope a child of mine will never do X”, I’ve evaded the absolutes of the dreaded statement, while still expressing a fair amount of certainty that behind it. In other words, it’s all semantics.

So you can perhaps imagine my amusement when a few weeks ago I watched Simon get horribly frustrated in the kitchen, get down on all fours, and rap his head against the hardwood kitchen floor. “Well,” I thought as he looked up at me crying and holding a hand to his head, “I’m sure that wasn’t much fun and you won’t be rushing to do it again.”

Wrong. I saw it soon afterwards, and while it’s hard for me to pin down the exact frequency since I’ve traveled three times in the last six weeks, I know it’s become more common of late. I’m not deeply troubled about this behavior, for I’ve read that alongside rocking, which he doesn’t do, and hitting himself in the head, which he does, that this is “normal” toddler behavior. Basically, they get themselves all wound up until, unable to control themselves, they lash out at whatever their nearest target may be. Even if that target is themselves.

Still, it’s behavior I’d very much like to minimize, the secret of which seems to lie in reducing frustrations. I have a few strategies in mind, but I’m also mindful that as Simon approaches two, he is feeling frustration similar to what he faced between eighteen and twenty months. That is, just as his frustration peaked before he began to walk, he now seems to be getting frustrated over his inability to speak in sentences.

So it’s just possible-and this is surely what I’ll tell myself if I fail to get him to stop banging his head on the floor-that the best thing I can do is sit back, help Simon with his speech as much as I can, and let him work out his frustrations as best he can. That will be much cheaper than padding the floor, at any rate!

Time to take a patience pill!

School was still out at KIP Monday, so I took the day off from work to go on full-time mommy duty. Looking for ways to enjoy the warm and sunny weather, I decided to head to the zoo, figuring that Simon would have a great time running around, being strolled around, playing on the playground, and looking at all the animals.

He had other ideas. The first thing that happened was that once we pulled into the zoo parking lot, Simon knew where he was and began to bawl. Our last trip began the same way, and I’m still not sure what’s going on. My best guess is that earlier this summer the Whitworths took Simon to the zoo, where he had a great time until they got on the zoo train, at which point Simon collapsed into a hysterical fit. I don’t understand why the zoo train scared him or why he’d think of the zoo only in terms of the train later, but it’s the only theory I have.

I wasn’t about to go home without a fight, so I let Simon cry while offering to carry him, push him, or walk alongside him. He chose option #4: Sit on the sidewalk inside the zoo, bang his head once or twice (more about that in my next post), and lift up his arms to me to be taken away.

I waited him out. First he was happy to be carried for a bit. Then he conceded to say hi to a zookeeper and look at the giraffes. His lower lip trembled a bit as we approached the elephants, but after looking at baby Scotty and his mom Micki for a while, Simon was ready to take off and have some fun.

And this is where I learned a little about the world as experienced by a two-year-old. Simon had very little interest in taking in the majesty of nature’s fauna. He was, however, enthralled, by a series of ramps, steps, rope fences, automatic doors, and vending machines. At first I was frustrated by this and tried to push my agenda (see animals!), but then I thought about Wendy Mogel’s opinion’s about time in The Blessing of the Skinned Knee. More about this phenomenal book soon, too, but the gist of the chapter on time is that, in a hurried society, we owe our kids some time lived at their own pace.

With this nugget of wisdom in my mind, I decided to let Simon explore the zoo on his own terms. And here’s what he did:

• He delighted in running between vending machines, then back out, in an advanced game of peekaboo.
• He ran inside the right door of the monkey house, through the monkey house, and back out the left door in a spirited game of chase with me.
• He ran up and down the ramp leading to the gorilla exhibit, pushing his own stroller for much of the way and nearly losing control more than once on the way back down. Once he did lose control of the stroller, at which point he collapsed into a fit of giggles as I struggled to reach it.
• He learned to duck under a rope fence to stand between bamboo trees.
• He approached and then backed away from the automatic doors leading to the inside part of the gorilla exhibit, marveling and saying “wow!” out loud as they opened and closed before him.
• He managed to wave and say “hi” to one of the gorillas, in the single animal-focused part of his self-guided tour.

After all these adventures*, we made it to the playground, at which point Simon was too tired to do anything other than swing for a while before we headed home for lunch and a nap. So did we have a good time? Yes, we did. Did we have the good time I had planned to have? No, not at all. But I suppose that’s because you can’t expect a 38-year-old and a nearly 2-year-old to see the world the same way or enjoy the same things. And that’s OK. Simon had a great time, and I learned a little lesson on patience.

* For anyone thinking, “Boy, I’m glad I wasn’t there while this kid terrorized the zoo,” let me reassure you that (1) the zoo was very nearly empty Monday; (2) I kept a very close eye on him and he never once stepped on a plant, blocked someone or anyone’s path, or otherwise got in the way.

While I was in Vegas this past week, Simon picked up some new linguistic ability. I had heard “wabble” (waffle) and “yewow” (yellow) before my trip, but “You know what?”, “apple”, “Ernie”, and “bubuly” (blueberry) are all post-trip additions, leading up the big highlight: His first sentence.

We’ve heard possible sentences before, but we were always unclear as to whether Simon was just mimicking us or if we heard correctly. Some of that babble can sound a lot like real language. But there was no mistaking this, it was loud and clear. Unfortunately, it was also a rebuke of me, using my own words no less. We were standing in the laundry hallway, next to the door leading to the basement at Jim and Evie’s house. Simon pulled the door open, I went to close it, and in the resulting push-pull of things Simon lost his balance and fell down.

At which point he collected himself, looked up at me, and said clear as day, “Mommy, nice!” As in, “Mommy, be nice to me” or “Mommy, you have to be nice.”  He hears this from me every day-multiple times-when he pats the cats too hard, pulls the cats’ tails, “brushes” mine or Matt’s hair by beating us over the head with a hairbrush, or engages in any other number of rough-play toddler classics.

I guess I’m glad to see Simon stand up for himself, but I do wish his sentence to me had been something, well, nicer.

We blame Grandma and Bubbie. At least once a year, and frequently twice or more, I sit back and watch Matt, Evie, and my mom battle seasonal allergies and put up heroic efforts to keep sinus infections at bay. Since Matt and Evie began using neti pots, they have had some success, but I’ve still watched the trail of balled up tissues lead to a prescription for antibiotics. They tell me sinus infections are miserable and I believe them; it sure looks and sounds miserable to me.

So I’m not surprised to find Simon struggling with his sinuses, I am just surprised to see the problems hit at such a young age. After two weeks of battling ragweed and downing various combinations of Dimetapp, Zyrtec, Sudafed, and Benadryl, he clearly took a turn for the worse late this week. His coughing escalated, his mood took a nose-dive, he ran a small fever last night*, and today-in what might be the most pitiful gesture I’ve ever seen-he cried and grabbed his throat in pain after a coughing fit.

Clearly, it was time for another trip to the pediatrician. Dr. Newstadt quickly confirmed that his chest was clear, thus putting our paranoid worries about pneumonia at bay, then noted his inflamed tonsils and diagnosed a sinus infection. To quote him: “This has gone on long enough. It’s time to nip it in the bud.” We wholeheartedly concurred, and tonight Simon got his first dose of an antibiotic.**

Welcome to the family, kiddo. Maybe for your second birthday we can get you your own neti pot.

Our time at the doctors followed the now familiar pattern. Cries in the waiting room. A brief period of calm in the waiting room. Then an extended period of misery in the examination room, where Simon shrieks and thrashes during the temperature check, the weigh-in, waiting for the doctor, and the doctor’s examination. At one point, as Simon was throwing his bus against a wall and banging his head on the floor, Matt noted wryly that it was looking a bit “One Flew Over the Cookoo’s Nest” in the room.

Not to be outdone in inappropriate movie references, I then asked, while Matt and I both struggled to restrain him, when the green goo was going to fly out of Simon’s mouth. This little Exorcist joke got less funny when Dr. Newtadt checked Simon’s tonsils, and Simon projectile vomited mucus on himself, dirty dog, baby bunny, and me. Good times!

The day wasn’t all bad, though. After his three-hour nap, Simon awoke in a pretty good mood. He ate an OK dinner, snuggled on the couch with us to watch “Little Bobbie” (Our name for King of the Hill), laughed at all the punch lines, snuggled some more after the show, snuggled upstairs on the bed, guzzled lemonade, and went to bed very late but in a very good mood.

*I have no idea what his actual temperature was. I have never taken Simon’s temperature, and I was not about to try yesterday with a squirming, miserable toddler. My children’s thermometer is nothing more than a prop. Simon is too young to hold it under his tongue, and I am too chicken to even think about trying the rectal method. I can’t imagine getting him to hold still, and I can imagine all too easily his wriggling, hurting himself, or having the thing break off while it’s in him. So today I spent $50 on a thermometer that takes a forehead reading. If it’s good enough for the doctor’s office, it’s good enough for us and money well spent!

**Actually, I guess it’s his second antibiotic, as Simon was administered one in the NICU after they discovered that he had aspirated amniotic fluid. They worry about pneumonia with neonates and take a medicate first, wait for lab results later approach.