Kid Amnesiac

When I was pregnant and again when Simon was newly born, I remember asking Evie what Matt was like as a baby. (I don’t know how much I asked my mom, frankly. I was the third, so while Mom remembers that I scooted on my tush and disliked baby food, she doesn’t really remember that much else.) She’d tell me some comforting things, like the fact that Matt was totally easy and sweet natured; some alarming things, like the fact that Matt sat among a heap of toys more than he played with any of them; and some things I didn’t really understand, like the fact that “Matt loved his bed.”

Huh? What does it mean exactly that he loved his bed? I get it now. It was thirteen months in the making, but Simon clearly loves his bed now. I know this because he will quite regularly go and stand by it or point to it when he’s tired and ready to sleep.

He first did this for my mother. She was reading him books before nap-time, and at some point he put the book down and gestured over to his crib. It was as though he was saying, “I’m tired Bubbie. We can read later.” And sure enough, he looked happy and relaxed when she put him down, and he fell asleep with nary a peep.

Then it happened with me and Evie .And Molly. And now we are at the point where Simon pretty well tells us when he’s ready to go to bed. We will sit in the glider in the nursery at the end of the day, and he will bring us a succession of books to read. He brings them over one at a time, and each time we lift him into our lap and read to him snuggled together. After 3-5 books, Simon will leave the glider, veer to the left (the books are to the right) and stand by his crib. Sometimes he’ll lift his arms-telling us to please pick him up and put him to bed. Sometimes he’ll hang onto the slats. Either way, it’s very clear what he’s telling us.

Last night he got stuck on a single book that’s perhaps a bit too advanced for him. His frustration mounted, and he was beginning to damage the book.. My solution was to take the book away from Simon, which begat angry tears. Matt’s was to say, “Simon, let’s go to bed,” which begat his giving me the book and walking over to his crib.

No kidding. It’s a good thing that he loves his crib, frankly. Because the other thing about Simon is that he loves to sleep, logging an average of 11-12 hours at night and another 2-3 for his nap. Were I going to sleep 15 hours a day, I’d want to love my bed, too.

“Uh Oh!” must be one of Simon’s favorite words. We hear it most mornings when he wakes up, along with “the bus!” “ball”, and “oh no!” Specifically, we hear “Uh oh! Uh oh! Uh oh! Uh oh!” It’s fun to say.

Now, though, we have a context for “uh oh!” that’s less fun. Ever since Simon began to walk two weeks ago, his interest in climbing and scrambling has far outstripped his ability to climb or to detect edges. We’ve had one tumble off the bed so far and another one off some play equipment. Simon, poor guy, has one black-and-blue goose egg and another reddish raw patch to show for it.

It would seem that just when I can trust Simon to keep his clothes intact, I now have to worry about his face! A friend recommended a parenting book called “The Wisdom of the Scraped Knee” to me just yesterday. I’m thinking that could be just what the doctor ordered for me, because I have to say that two tumbles resultinig in tears and ice bags are making me feel more negligent than wise.

But hey, he’s still pretty. And it’s still way better than butt scooting!

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.

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.