Kid Amnesiac

Poor Simon. He had a really tough day on Sunday, and nothing I could do made him happier. His day started off fine, but he woke up from his morning nap late and on the cranky side and stayed that way for a full three hours.

Lunch didn’t fix it. Singing didn’t fix it. Hugging and kissing and sympathetic talking didn’t fix it. Dancing didn’t fix it. Fresh diapers didn’t fix it. His piano didn’t fix it. Blocks didn’t fix it. Playing ball didn’t fix it. No matter what I tried, the lower lip quickly pushed out, he’d bend over in half, and a spell of sobbing would ensue.

After two and a half hours of this, I insensitively got out my camera to document things. Bad mama! At the time, I just figured that taking a scientific approach beat getting frustrated and impatient with him.

Then something interesting happened. He didn’t perk up immediately, but he didn’t want to be bent over, face on the floor, when the camera was out. While still crying, the howls and screams ended and the emotional intensity dropped quite a bit. After a little crying, some eye-rubbing, and some rather plaintive whimpering, he pointed a little finger at the flash and said “light.”

That was the beginning of a fragile peace that morphed into a thoroughly pleasant evening. By bedtime, I don’t think even Simon could remember that he had been so upset for so long. But I’ll always have my pictures to prove it!

I am, to say the least, a creature of habit. While I’m not afraid to change jobs or move across the country, I am pretty wedded to the smaller things in life. If you take away my morning tea and newspaper, for example, I tend to get crabby; I can’t function without a morning shower; and I am sure that I have eaten yogurt, granola, muesli, or a bagel for breakfast every day I’ve been home for the last ten years or more.

So it’s not too surprising that I’ve visited my love of routine on Simon. In some respects, this is a bad thing. For example, we haven’t gotten out and explored play groups or classes as much as I’d like, because doing so would deviate from our standard homebody routine.

In other areas, though, my love of routine has been a blessing. One of those areas is bedtime. It took a while to get there, but Matt and I now have-and have had for several months-a baby who easily falls asleep alone in his crib. It’s a complete joy, and it makes our lives much easier. Best of all, we never had to let him “cry it out” to get here.

I think there are many reasons for this happy development, and I have no doubt that one of the bigger ones is that my love of routine has manifest itself in a consistent bedtime ritual that helps cue Simon. Every night, nearly without fail, we do the following in the following order:

1. Once Simon shows signs of sleepiness, we take him upstairs and put him in his PJs.

2. Then we move into the bedroom, where Matt, Simon, and I play together quietly on the bed. This typically consists of some peek-a-boo, some piggy toes, and a fair bit of “reading”.

3. At the first sign of eye-rubbing or head-titling, we get out Pat the Bunny, Sleepy Bunny and a cup of milk. Simon takes the occasional sip while we read about the sleepy bunny putting his toys away, having a yummy snack, patting the cat goodnight, making a wish out his window, pulling up the covers, and going to sleep. Now that he’s older, Simon can pat the kitty himself, point out the light in the book to me, and sometimes even act out the bunny putting his toys away.

4. After we’ve finished the book, I pick him up and carry into the bedroom. On my way, I might sing “Little Goldie Goldfish” if I think Simon can hang on for a few minutes. After the song, the words and gestures in our little ritual never, ever change. I turn on his CD player and tell him I’m doing so. I turn on his noise machine and tell him I’m doing so. I turn off the froggie lamp and tell him I’m doing so. I pull the shade back from the window so he can make a wish, which I say for him and which is always something we’ll be doing the next day. (Perhaps setting him up for disappointment later in life when all wishes don’t come true!). Finally, I lay him into bed, hand him his pacifier and dirty dog, tuck a blanket around him, and say the following, “It’s time to go to sleep sweetheart. Here’s your paci and dirty dog. I love you very much. Good night (hair stroked), sleep tight (cheek and eyebrows stroked), and I’ll see you in the morning (I kiss my hand and touch it to his cheek).”

And if that sounds just a bit too treacley for your taste, consider that the last thing Simon hears each night is my hissing between my teeth, “Percy, get the *&^% out of here, NOW,” as I practically kick Percival out the room behind me. It seems that my cat, too, is a creature of habit, and one of his is launching his dinner-time campaign in the nursery at 8:00 p.m.

Now isn’t that the stuff that children’s books are made of?

Oh goodness have we ever hit a sweet spell in baby-cum-toddlerdom. Simon has spent the last few days in a super cuddly phase, and I am eating it up.

Ever since Simon achieved mobility around the one-year mark, he’s been torn between forces compelling exploration and independence and ones urging close ties to his caregivers. I knew incipient independence would yield much less snuggle time, and that’s one of the reasons I was so upset when Simon weaned himself. I had hoped that sustained nursing might be the way to sneak in snuggles with a baby who was increasingly on the go, and I feared that weaning would bring an end to our close physical relationship.

I have to say Simon has spent the last week or so largely erasing those fears. He’s been reaching for me to hold him all the time, leaning into me when I do pick him up, happily sitting on my lap for long stretches, and following me around when I’m doing chores in the house. As much as there is nothing in the world like the way a newborn melts into you when you hold him, this new phase has some under-reported upsides.

Namely, it’s the specificity and reciprocity of his current affection. He’s not happy to be hugged by just anyone. He wants me. And his Daddy (Matt can insist on being “Papa” all he wants; Simon calls him “Daddy”). And his Grandma and Papaw. And his Bubbie. Better still, you don’t have to guess that he wants a hug-he now can let you know! And best of all, once you hold him, his eyes light up, he makes happy little noises, and he wraps his chubby arms around you and hugs back.

If there is a better feeling in the world than having your child show such love and security in your arms, I don’t know what it would be. I know that storm-clouds are on the immediate horizon and that tantrums and defiance can’t be far behind, but if Simon can just hold on to a small part of his current sweetness, I know we’ll all get through it just fine.

Literally. Simon has been interested in drinking from a cup for ages. Unfortunately, he’s much less interested in the age-appropriate Born Free sippy cup filled with milk than he is the red plastic tumbler we use to douse him in the tub. For at least three months, Simon has strained to lift the Maker’s Mark cup to his lips while in the tub. In fact, for the past month or so he’s been more interested in the cup and the bottle of baby shampoo than he has been his bath toys.

Friday was a bath night. Like other bath nights, Simon dipped the cup into the tub and then struggled to lift it to his lips. Unlike other bath nights, Friday night he succeeded. Matt and I heard a gulp followed by a sputter, and then realized to our horror that Simon has just ingested a significant quantity of warm bathwater. Excellent! I bet there was some pee in there, too…

After this incident, I decided to make Simon a deal. I’d allow him to messily drink from an open-top cup on occasion if he’d drink from his sippy cup at least some of the time. Monday and Wednesday, Simon drank from his sippy cup on his own for the sitter. By Thursday and Friday, he’d do so for me and Matt, too. So yesterday, at Highland Coffee Company, Simon joined us at the table, helped himself to bites of a cinnamon scone, and quenched his own thirst from a small, non-spouted plastic cup. No cover, no straw, no handles-a total big-boy cup.

Of course, he was less than perfect with this cup and managed to dribble some water from his chin. As he grew tired and distracted by the table of pretty women across from him, he managed to pour quite a bit down his shirt, too. But he also drank a fair bit and was so proud of himself that he smiled and clapped between drinks. We clapped for him, too.

In honor of this impressive milestone, I’m going to go out and buy a stack of small plastic cups for Simon to use. If he’ll keep up his end of the bargain and use the sippy cup at least some of the time, I’ll let his cup runneth over for the rest.

Last year for Valentine’s Day, we loaded a then four-month old Simon into our car, drove to Jim and Evie’s house, and watched him have the best, most social and flirty day of his life to date. Last year, he was My Funny Valentine.

This year Simon was already at his grandparents’ house for their regularly scheduled Camp Whitworth day when Matt and I arrived for dinner. Unfortunately, he did not proceed to have a fun, flirty night with us the way he did a year ago. Instead, Simon had a difficult re-entry from his afternoon nap and never quite achieved sustained happiness. We had bursts of smiles, activity, and giggles, but they were regularly punctuated by fits of frustration and crabbiness.

Oh well. I guess every holiday can’t play out like a Hallmark commercial.

Wednesday, on the other hand, was a fantastic day. We finally got real snow this week, and even though the weather reports made it look like it would melt before the skies would clear enough to get out and enjoy it, Wednesday the sun came out before the snow melted after all. It was play time. I dragged Simon around our neighbor’s front yard and our back yard in his sled for a half hour or so, and then once Matt’s work day ended we loaded up the car and headed to Cherokee Park.

What a blast! The snow had a thin layer of ice on top, making it super slick. The metal runners on the sled sped across the surface, and Simon enjoyed racing around the soccer field in circles and being guided down a gentle hill. He liked it best when we went fast, so the day called for quite a few sprints in crunchy snow and 30-degree temperatures.

I’m totally out of shape at this point in my life, so it didn’t take much for the cold and the exertion to get me huffing and puffing. I’d be right on the edge of throwing in the towel when I’d look over and see Simon leaning back in the sled, holding onto the side rails, and looking up at me with an expression of happy anticipation. Good sled dog that I was, that was enough to convince me to sprint away, pounding heart and half-twisted ankles notwithstanding.

Interestingly, at one point I lost control of the sled and fell down, doing an impressive skid as I hit the ground. Simon clearly understood what had happened, looked at me with a worried face, and didn’t smile until I laughed and signaled that I was OK. He understands more than I give him credit for.

One of the best parts of our park excursion was being around other families while they enjoyed their snow day, too. Everyone was having fun and there were lots of smiles to go around. It was a moment of winter fellowship, and a thoroughly delightful way to break up a work week.

When Matt and I were in physics class 21 years ago (21 years ago!), our fabulous teacher G. Dewey Beadle once joked that a bad grade of Matt’s indicated “progression in the wrong direction.” It’s a physics joke; you’ll have to trust us that the joke was funny. (You really do, as I remember laughing but do not remember the exact meaning of “progression” within the context of physics.)  [I don’t think it had anything to do with physics per se — I just had several test scores in a row that were trending downward, and the way Mr. Beadle said that made it sound like we were analyzing experimental data.  For the record, I’m sure I got an A in the class.  mgw.]

Flash forward 21 years (21 years!), and I do believe Simon is progressing in the wrong direction, too. I quit reading What to Expect: The Toddler Years about the time Simon “should [have been] able to” walk well and “might be able to” do a host of other activities related to the bipedalism Simon has yet to discover. It was all too depressing.

Feeling a bit masochistic, I took the book out for another spin last night. At 16 months (Simon will be 16 months old Saturday) Simon “should be able to” imitate activities (check!) and scribble (not really, but I think he hates his toddler crayons). He “will probably be able to” use three words (check!) and “dump an object in imitation (What does this mean?). He “may possibly be able to” use six words (check!) and run (no comment), and he “may even be able to” kick a ball forward (with support, check!).

By seventeen months these stretch “may even be able to” goals include building a tower of four cubes (check!), identifying two items in a picture by pointing (check!), and throwing a ball overhand (check!). And by eighteen months he “may even be able to” identify a picture by naming (check!). Moving right along, Simon “may even be able to” build a tower of six cubes by 19 ½ months (check!).

Right then. Simon can build a tower of six cubes now-about four months ahead of the curve. He’d be able to go higher, but he can’t reach any higher. When he runs out of arm length, he looks for smaller cubes he can co-stack on larger ones. And those six words he may possibly have-he’s got about 10-12 of them. In fact, he added two more today: “do-do” for “window” and “no” for snow. He’s been able to kick a ball for about two weeks, he’s had an overhand throw for ages, he turns book pages like a champ. He can show me a cat or light in a book, and he’ll say “light” when I show him one in a book if he’s in the right mood.

With every passing week, Simon develops in new and fascinating ways. But I have to admit that at times I worry he’s progressing in the wrong direction. Not in the physics way-he’s not going backwards-but he keeps on making strides in the areas where he’s already successful, like fine motor and language skills, while making slow and painful gains in the gross motor skill area.

At some point I know he’s going to get up and walk. There’s nothing wrong with him; of course he’ll walk. But man, I am getting scared that I’m going to have a child with a 50+ word vocabulary, capable of simple sentences and elaborate block construction techniques, who still locomotes by scooting on his tush. I don’t expect Simon to be a jock and I’ll be frankly delighted if he’s on the brainy/artsy/sensitive side, but man alive it’s time for him to progress in the gross motor arena and get up, get up, GET UP already.

I’ve been reading Michael Pollan’s In Defense of Food, an eater’s manifesto. Anyone who read The Omnivore’s Dilemma won’t be surprised by Pollan’s suggestions, summed up simply as Eat Food (whole foods, not processed food-like substances), Not Too Much, Mostly Plants.

I’m not there, but I’m working on it. I don’t eat fast food. I eat limited processed/junk food. I’m upping my plant and whole grain intake.

Then this week’s business travel happened. Tuesday’s dinner came from the snack aisle at Walmart (thanks to Mom for telling me how to spell this. I’m clearly not too familiar with the nation’s leading retailer!) due to road troubles. Wednesday I had only mini-muffins and fruit to eat at breakfast, only cheese cubes and dessert for lunch, and our dinner was comprised of hors d’ouvres at Casino Night. They had chicken, beef, and pork. Very inviting. Clearly, our Indianapolis office is not brimming with vegetarians.

Thursday was more of the same. Mini muffins and fruit for breakfast. Cheese cubes and watery iceberg lettuce for lunch. And I got home too late to eat the home-cooked meal my mother-in-law Evie made for me. So far as I can tell, I ate one real meal (a very late second dinner Wednesday night) in a 60-hour period. The rest-seriously-could have all been eaten off of tooth-picks. A big yuck to that.

On the other hand, the trip itself was a pleasant surprise. I forgot how much I enjoy mingling with most of my coworkers and what a funny, invigorating crew they are. I was up until midnight hanging out the first night, and went to an even later 1:00 a.m. the second. With email to check and morning sessions that began at 8:00 a.m., that didn’t leave much time for sleeping. Thanks to the new Laura Mercier highlighter I have, I don’t even think you could tell how sleep deprived I was.

Better still, I got home to a baby who was cute as a button, talking up a streak, and did not seem to realize I had been away. He wasn’t unhappy to see me, but he didn’t register any particular surprise or happiness either. And why should he? I don’t think babies Simon’s age have any sense of time, and he was with people he loves and has a good time with. All of which means I have no real excuses for not exercising my newfound freedom. A prospect that is equally exhilarating (I can do more of what I want!) and terrifying (What do I want?).

I’m beginning to realize that motherhood can create a cocoon that is limiting but also reassuring. It restricts you, but also gives you an excuse to restrict yourself–sort of an emotional swaddle. In an odd way, I am beginning to understand now how newly released prisoners must feel. Freedom. Terrible, terrible freedom.