"Hello, Dr. Stewart. Welcome to the Gun Show."

I’d like to know what kind of sadist goes to school for 8+ years to stick babies with needles? As you might have guessed, Suttie went to the doctor yesterday and received not one, but two shots, each of which fights against a rare condition – infantile comfort and contentedness. Luckily, the shots were immediately followed by an oral vaccine, which meant that Suttie became more interested in the prospect of food than in his recent trauma. His most tearful and anguished cries didn’t result from the pain of the shots, but from the fact that the sweet-tasting medicine had run out. So it would seem that my son has one chink in his armor of fussiness…he’s a sucker for a full belly. Now, my favorite part of any visit to the pediatrician’s office is when they put him on the scale. We really should form a betting pool for guessing how much our son weighs. It would be a nice jump start to his college fund. At this particular visit, Suttie weighed in at a whopping 18 lbs., which put him in the ….*drum roll, please*…97th weight percentile. So, while he may score an 820 on the SAT and be an eater of paste, only 3 kids out of 100 bested him in this. A few moments later, the doctor declared that he had good muscle tone, at which time I had to choke back a snort because the dimples in my son’s elbows and knees don’t really scream “Future Mr. Fitness.” All in all, Suttie is perfectly healthy, well-vaccinated, and not scheduled for another doctor’s visit for 2 months, which means that we’ve only got 8 weeks to overtake that other 3%.

"Sven is to play Mr. Mistoffelees, you don't say!"

Before Suttie’s arrival in this world, I had a serious plan for his life. It went something like this: moving into his own room at 6 weeks, losing the pacifier at 3 months, exhibiting a genius-level vocabulary at one year, starting private school at 5, attending Columbia at 18, graduating from Harvard Medicine at 28, and buying me a house in the south of France at 36. But not 3 and half months into his life, that plan has already suffered some major setbacks. First of all, Suttie still sleeps in our room, and I don’t want that to change anytime soon. While I was pregnant, I read numerous parenting books by Dr. Know-It-All and Professor Never-Had-Kids that suggested that a child shouldn’t stay in his or her parents’ room past two months because of attachment issues. And it seems that they were partly right. For, while I think Suttie could sleep anywhere and care very little, I am panicked by the thought of him sleeping more than a foot away. So, he’s stayed…to the point that he only has inches before he outgrows his bassinet. Now, before you give me some sage, oh so cliché advice about letting him spread his wings and explore the world apart from Mom and Dad, I must tell you that I don’t care, so don’t waste your keystrokes. I may be a new mom, but I’ve quickly discovered what is perhaps the most important thing that anyone can understand about parenthood. It’s fleeting. One day, he’s laying in his bassinet, clutching a burp cloth and saying a word that sounds like “leg” but obviously means something else entirely, and the next he’s driving away from me in car that his father and I bought with the hopes that it would see him through the next four years of college. So, I’m done listening to the books. He may not need to lie beside me to sleep, but I need him to. And for now, that’s reason enough.

The same goes for his pacifier. I read somewhere that I should take his passy away before his 4-month birthday to prevent him from developing a relationship with it that would be hard to break. And again, with a few months of motherhood under my belt, I cry “Fie!” There are many times in the course of the day when I literally need to stick a plug in my child. If it weren’t for his silicone friends, we would have no groceries, never attend a church service, avoid group gatherings, and, for all extensive purposes, be veritable shut-ins. If you see my son with a passy in his mouth at age 5, then, by all means, pull me aside and gently tell me that I’ve missed my cue. But, until then, the passy lives to comfort and quiet for another day.

So, I have a new plan for my son’s future: play it by ear. If the only words that he can get out at his first birthday are “more” and “food” (a likely verbal combination), then great! At least he’s clearly expressing what is most important to him. And, if at 18, he tells Sutton and me that he wants to go to a state school or barber college or join a traveling revival of Cats with his boyfriend, Sven, then that’s fine, too. The point is that any plans that you make for your children are, at best, tentative. And you better start being flexible, or you’re sure to break.

For Betty...

Of the hundreds of things that I didn’t expect about becoming a parent, one of the most unexpected was the insane degree to which other children would be attracted to my son. Some of these children we know; others we don’t. Such as the little, pig-tailed girl in Walmart, who peeked her smiling face inside my two-month old’s stroller, and then subsequently sneezed on him. Luckily, her mother was there to lead her away, or she and I would still be going rounds. Similarly, it seems that nowadays church not only functions as a time of worship, but it’s also the perfect storm for children swarming around Suttie’s face, hands, feet, and any other body part they can manage to get a hold of. It’s really rather cannibalistic as he becomes an object for consumption, helping them to realize one of their playtime fantasies…a doll come to life. For instance, my goddaughter, Katie, whom I love dearly, will come up to me with arms outstretched, silently and expectantly awaiting the handoff of “Bobby Tut Tut” as if saying, “I’ll take him; I know you need a break.” The poor dear doesn’t realize that her 30-pound frame would be instantly toppled over by his 20 pounds of mass.

And then there’s the sweet as pie, six-year-old girl, Colleen. She’s the kind of little girl you’d want to have if you had a little girl…possibly with one exception. She’s obsessed with my son. There’s no other word for it. She no longer sits with her parents during the service; she sits with my husband and me so that she will never be more than two-inches away from “Baby Suttie.” As the preacher works his way through the requisite prayers and affirmations, Colleen will sit quietly (well, as quietly as she can) and lovingly rub her face all over Suttie’s head, cheeks, and hair. This is her Nirvana. She is always careful to ask me for permission before kissing him, an act that I appreciate and am still shocked by. She also apparently has a sixth sense regarding my son’s needs and desires, which she exhibited the other day by telling me, “I feel that he wants me to hold him.” Not having a similar telepathic connection to him, I kindly obliged. Her little sister, Kaitlyn, is fast developing a powerful draw to Suttie as well. At a luncheon meeting after church yesterday, she covered him with a healthy coating of lemon bundt cake crumbs while tirelessly rubbing his face and head. For the rest of the day, it made kissing him a delicious treat.

So, at this point, you might be asking, “Well, Kate…what does all this have to do with today’s events?” Well, I’ll tell you. Today, Suttie took his first trip to the post office. At first, it was a very uneventful trip. He sat in his carrier on the floor, while I stood at the counter, filling out the necessary addresses and paying for the always elevating postage. Then, a mother and her son came in. Within seconds, the little boy, who appeared to be about four years old, was pushing back the sunshade of Suttie’s carrier and delivering kisses to his face and forehead. Please bear in mind that I do not know, nor have I ever known this overly friendly child who has a blatant disregard for personal space. But his interest didn’t stop there. He then noticed that Suttie’s pacifier was hanging loosely from his passy clip. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about children, it’s that they cannot stand for a pacifier to go unused. So, Mr. Too Friendly picked up the passy and tried to put it into Suttie’s mouth. As any well reasoning individual might have figured out from the fact that it wasn’t in his mouth to begin with, Suttie didn’t want the pacifier. So, the little boy starts yelling at him, “OPEN YOUR MOUTH! OPEN YOUR MOUTH!” as if delivering vital commands over a loudspeaker. During this time, Suttie had worked his still developing facial muscles into a menacing scowl and was clearly wishing that he had full control of his limbs so that he could rain down a world of hurt on the unsuspecting boy. Thankfully, the child’s mother, who stood laughing the entire time her son was molesting mine, had completed her transaction and was now ready to leave. As I watched them exit the building and walk slowly toward the parking lot, visions of sexual harassment lawsuits floated before my eyes, and I realized that Suttie was perhaps the first in a string of victims that would culminate with poor Betty So-and-so in the stockroom of some second rate Applebee’s. Speaking of, it’s time for dinner.

His card is in the mail

According to my 3-year-old niece, “Princesses don’t dig at their butts or their privates…it’s bad manners.” Well, someone needs to explain this to my son (not it!) because he spent most of the day doing his best Al Bundy impersonation with his hand down the front of his diaper. I noticed that it was a little warmer in the house than usual, so after Suttie had soaked his second outfit with his Exorcist-style puking, I thought to myself, “I can either turn the air down and face the mutterings of my annoyingly cheap husband, or I can put a shirt on him and let him Porky Pig it for a while.” I chose the latter. Within minutes, Suttie’s hand was half hidden, resting comfortably underneath the waistband of his diaper with his thumb hooked around the edge. I don’t know what it is about males that program them to do this. It’s like their hands and their manly bits are magnetically linked to each other. The same mystery surrounds their obsession with peeing outdoors. I will never understand why men and boys alike refuse to pay homage to the wonder that is indoor plumbing. Instead, they insist on making the world their own personal toilets. One day, twenty minutes before our friends were due to arrive for a BBQ, I look out the window to see my husband standing with his back to me (thank God!) in what is obviously an “I’m writing my name in the grass” pose. This was only slightly more mortifying than when I caught him drinking a can of beer in the shower.

So, it appears that my son is well on his way to fulfilling the innate destiny attached to his Y chromosome. Between the farting in public, the fact that it takes him at least 30 minutes to work out a poop, and the vacant look he has when I’m trying to talk to him, he most certainly qualifies for membership in the boy’s club.

Play gym meet Suttie, Suttie meet play gym...

When I was pregnant, anxiously awaiting the birth of the little UFC fighter that was assaulting my internal organs, I thought that it would be so much fun to play with a baby. And it is...for about 15 minutes. During those 15 minutes, I am a hardcore "good mom," making strange sounds and embarrassing faces, while pretending to eat his feet or do anything else that elicits his elusive smile. But at 14 minutes and 59 seconds, my brain starts to wander, and I begin to get bored. I used to feel guilty about this. Why should I wonder about the world outside of my baby's narrow, blurry vision? I'm a stay-at-home mom, which means that this baby is not only the epicenter of my life, but he's also my full-time job. So one day, I told myself that, for one straight hour, I was going to do nothing else but play with him and coo at him and basically flood his senses with stimulation. And, to this day, that was the longest hour of my life. I kept looking at my watch, only to find that two, maybe three minutes had passed since the last time I'd checked it. But after about 20 mintues, I started to notice something...Suttie was getting tired of playing with me, too. His eyes were glazing over, and he was no longer interested in the hilarious antics that I was showcasing for his enjoyment. I have to admit that my ego was a little hurt. I thought I was much more entertaining than his glassy-eyed daze suggested. But, I discovered something important...we both needed a break. So, he went onto his infant play gym, and I turned on CNN (and shortly thereafter switched over to E!). Now, if I start to get bored while we're playing, but I think he needs more mommy time, I talk to him about the upcoming election in Iran or, more often, about Lindsey Lohan's downward, drug-induced spiral...albeit in a funny voice that sounds like Julia Child with a lisp. This is how we compromise and, more importantly, how we keep mommy from wearing one of those backwards white coats that buckles securely in the rear.

In closing, I'd like to say a brief thank you to Baby Einstein, Bright Starts, and Fisher Price for your tireless efforts at entertaining my child. It might look like I'm purchasing your products for their developmental value, but we all know that, without you, I would have lost my tentative grasp on reality long ago.

He's Coming for Their Quarters...

So, it's been a week since my last post. New mom tip #1278 - you rarely have time for the nonessentials. Today, Suttie went swimming for the first time. New mom tip #4756 - Pampers Splashers do hold in poop, but it smears all over their wet little butts, resulting in a Class H Hazardous Waste emergency. New mom tip #4757 - DON'T dip said poopy butt in the pool for a quick wash. People will notice, and they will ask you to leave.

Suttie loves the water; I assume it reminds him of happier, carefree days in a land far, far away called the womb. In fact, he's so comfortable in the water that he sat in a float and almost immediately fell asleep. That's my son - a whole new aquatic world to explore, and, if there's not a bottle in sight, he'd rather pass out than waste valuable calories splashing around needlessly. Of course, his swim shirt rolled up over his large catfish belly. All he needed was a can of Natural Light and a NASCAR tattoo,and he would have been the epitome of the white trash pool-goer.

An aside: When I was buying his swim suit, I discovered that my 3 month old now wears a 12 month size. So now when people ask what "developmental level" he's at, I confidently say one year. If they don't distinguish between mental and physical development, then I don't see why I should. I mean, it can't all be up to me to get the facts straight, and I'm sorry if your child is still in the clothing size that matches his or her age. We can't all win the race. At any rate, my son is clearly taking after his father, who, at his age, had more rolls than Sister Shubert. You might call it fat, I might call it healthy, but, regardless, my kid is stealing your kid's lunch money, and that's all there is to it.

I had no idea there would be so much pee!

I knew when I had a baby that there would be a lot of poop and pee to deal with. All jobs come with a catch, and messy diapers is the ultimate catch of motherhood...although at my other jobs I've at least had the perk of occassionally stealing pens and printer paper. What I wasn't prepared for was the renegade peeing that would occur as soon as Suttie's (that's my son...yeah, I know it's a strange name) diaper was cracked open. For example, today I was changing his diaper and, of course, as soon as the air hit his man parts, he was shooting a solid stream of yellow back toward the wall behind his playpen. Okay, I've dealt with this before. I wipe down the wall and the adjacent console table and floor lamp that have also fallen victm to his golden shower. It appears that my son is the R. Kelly of the southeast corner of our living room. A multitude of wipes and a slathering of Desitin later, I'm closing the clasps of his diaper, but before I can get the second clasp secure, he's peeing again. No shower this time, just a steadily growing pool that my son is laying in the middle of. Now we need a bath and an entire outfit change. I'm on a mission to prevent my excrement-covered boy from becoming the "smelly kid."

Flash forward to a bath scene. Suttie is lounging in his blue plastic tub, looking quizzically at his mom like he always does. I constantly get the feeling that he's judging me, but that's fodder for a different post. He's been lathered with Johnson's products, shampooed and rinsed. Just as I'm moving to turn off the water, he's peeing upward and onto his newly clean bod. It's like he's repellent to cleanliness. So, while I totally expected to be elbow-deep in dirty diapers, I'm apparently at war with a guerrilla-style terrorist - the blitzpee.