Have you ever seen a 16-month old bow up on a 28-year-old man? Well, I have. Let me give you a little bit of background. It appears that my son has inherited a lot of qualities from me – my obsession with television, my quick temper, and my impatience to name a few. But one thing that he has unquestionably inherited from his father is the crazy eye.
At this point, you might be asking, what’s the crazy eye, Kate? Well, I’ll tell you. The crazy eye is the look that Sutton gives me right before he blows up in an angry rage. Now, I don’t want to make him seem like a violent man, so let me explain that the crazy eye is something that the O’Neal household sees, at most, twice a year. I’ll admit that I’m a bit of nagger…and by bit of, I mean hell of. I nag 24/7, from dawn until dusk, 365 days a year (I like to take leap day off). It’s a talent that I’ve cultivated over the entirety of our relationship, and second to my eye for expensive clothing and weak work ethic, it’s one of my proudest accomplishments. You see, it’s hard to keep a good nag going. Take the trash for instance. You can’t just make a blameless remark that the trash needs to be taken out and be done with it. No. You have to say it twice within 30 minutes with an accusatory twinkle in your eye and then again at the hour mark. After that, you have to start leaving post-its in opportune places, like on the bottle of his depression medicine or the car steering wheel for when he’s almost got up the nerve to leave you. It takes dedication and a total disregard for the feelings of the nagged.
And ninety-nine times out of hundred, the trash ends up in the can, and we move on to the next naggable offense. But that one-hundredth time is where the crazy eye comes out. It’s a look that all at once says, “Stop right there…I’ve had enough… and I wonder what your head would look like stuffed and mounted.” When I see the crazy eye, I know that I have two options: the first is to give up and walk away (which never happens), and the second is the haymaker of every woman’s arsenal…I cry and blame it on hormones.
So the other day, Sutton, Suttie, and I were hanging out in the playroom. We had a Mickey DVD in because, to my one-year-old, Mickey is Nirvana. As we’re watching, Suttie saunters up to the DVD player and starts pushing buttons. So naturally, Sutton firmly tells him “No” and bats his little hand away. And this is the point where sh*t got real. Suttie squares up his shoulders so that he is standing face to face with his dad and bows up at him, as if to say, “Do you want some of this?” And of course, pasted on his formerly angelic face is the crazy eye. At this point, Sutton and I are doing everything we can to keep from laughing because the visual is priceless in its hilarity. But at the same time, we’re trying not to condone this street-fighter behavior. Suddenly, Suttie reaches his hand up slowly toward Sutton's face, and we're thinking "Is he going for the eyes or the throat?" He lets his chubby hand get about an inch from his dad's nose and then he swats it ever-so-gently, as if he was flicking away a fly. Luckily, that was the only damage done that day, because, at that moment, Suttie saw a cracker remnant in the corner of the room. That Wheat Thin may have saved his father’s life; I guess we’ll never know.
So, what’s the moral of this particular post? There isn’t one. I’m just telling you that if we have a play date, my kid’s using prison rules so try not to get shanked.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Sunday, July 11, 2010
A cavity is really the least of our problems
My blog is the only spontaneous thing in my life. Just when you started to be thankful that you no longer had to politely read about Suttie’s first pudding cup and other mundance adventures—BAM! You see a link on Facebook and can’t help but to slide your mouse toward the abyss to see if I’m finally writing about something interesting. Well, the joke’s on you because this latest and greatest post is about Suttie’s first trip to the dentist…not exactly Stephanie Meyer material. Although there was a certain life-sucking quality to the experience, with Suttie shaving off a few more of my golden years.
When we arrived, I had to fill out new patient forms at the front desk. So, I introduced Suttie to the nearby play area and started handing over our insurance information. A minute and twenty-four seconds later, I saw Suttie out of the corner of my eye as he dashed toward a pane of glass that looked into one of the employee’s offices. Before I could get there and yank him away, Suttie had placed two greasy hands and his lips on the window and was in the process of blowing a giant raspberry at the unfortunate soul inside.
After de-suctioning my little bottom-feeder and wiping off, or rather smearing around, his spit with my hand, I escorted him back to the play center, which was shaped like a school bus and had an activity table attached to the front. In the two seconds that it took me to set down my purse and turn back around, Suttie had managed to climb on top of this table, where he was now calmly sitting Indian-style and blocking the toys from the other children. I don’t mean to brag, but I smell a future military strategist because it was one of the most effective blockades I’ve ever seen.
At this point, a woman came out and called his name, giving us a providential exit from a sticky situation. Unfortunately, she only needed him for about five minutes to take a picture. It would have taken one minute, but the first two times that I set him in front of the camera, he started running as soon as his feet hit the ground. For the final attempt, I held him in place by both arms, and the end result was a mug shot in front of a celestial background. They gave us a photo magnet to remember the occasion, and I asked for some drugs to help me forget. The nurse laughed. I didn’t.
So back to the waiting area we went…with lots of little and big eyes following us as the children clutched their toys closer and the moms put down their copies of In Touch Weekly, ready to intervene if a fight broke out. Thankfully, Suttie’s interest was captivated by a large wooden bead maze that he proceeded to carry across the room. I have a feeling that it’s easier to parent when you’re stronger than your child is. I wouldn’t know.
During his trek from one end of the room to the other, Suttie fell approximately eighty-seven times. Every time, the parents and people working at the desk would look down and say, “Oooohhhh…is he okay?” At which point, Suttie would look up at me and give a deep goofy laugh. I told them that he was fine and that his shins were mostly callouses by now.
Finally…and by finally, I mean after ten minutes that seemed like ten years, we were called back to see the dentist. The hygenist was extremely friendly, even when Suttie tried to grab the overhead light and rubbed a slobbery toothbrush down her arm. For the most part, he was fairly reserved, looking curiously around at all of the children who were laying on their backs with their mouths wide open. But when it was his turn to lay horizontal, he got the most hiliarousily horrified look on his face that I had to laugh out loud. With his brow furrowed and his mouth in a kind of petrified “O,” he looked from me to the hygenist to the dentist as if he was trying to figure out a way to take down all three of us at once. When the dentist started to poke and prod at his teeth, he moved on to Plan B, which was to scream bloody murder.
The exam was quick. In fact, I’m pretty sure they rushed through it so that he would stop terrifying the other children, which was fine with me because I’d been ready to go since the beginning of his Bronx cheer in the waiting room. He snagged a new toothbrush and a rubber snake, and I snagged him and made double-time for the parking lot. However, the experience was not without merit because I learned some important things, like space between baby teeth is good because it gives them room to grow and the highest rate of decay comes from putting a baby to bed with a bottle…Oh, and daddies should be in charge of all future dental appointments. I wrote that one down.
When we arrived, I had to fill out new patient forms at the front desk. So, I introduced Suttie to the nearby play area and started handing over our insurance information. A minute and twenty-four seconds later, I saw Suttie out of the corner of my eye as he dashed toward a pane of glass that looked into one of the employee’s offices. Before I could get there and yank him away, Suttie had placed two greasy hands and his lips on the window and was in the process of blowing a giant raspberry at the unfortunate soul inside.
After de-suctioning my little bottom-feeder and wiping off, or rather smearing around, his spit with my hand, I escorted him back to the play center, which was shaped like a school bus and had an activity table attached to the front. In the two seconds that it took me to set down my purse and turn back around, Suttie had managed to climb on top of this table, where he was now calmly sitting Indian-style and blocking the toys from the other children. I don’t mean to brag, but I smell a future military strategist because it was one of the most effective blockades I’ve ever seen.
At this point, a woman came out and called his name, giving us a providential exit from a sticky situation. Unfortunately, she only needed him for about five minutes to take a picture. It would have taken one minute, but the first two times that I set him in front of the camera, he started running as soon as his feet hit the ground. For the final attempt, I held him in place by both arms, and the end result was a mug shot in front of a celestial background. They gave us a photo magnet to remember the occasion, and I asked for some drugs to help me forget. The nurse laughed. I didn’t.
So back to the waiting area we went…with lots of little and big eyes following us as the children clutched their toys closer and the moms put down their copies of In Touch Weekly, ready to intervene if a fight broke out. Thankfully, Suttie’s interest was captivated by a large wooden bead maze that he proceeded to carry across the room. I have a feeling that it’s easier to parent when you’re stronger than your child is. I wouldn’t know.
During his trek from one end of the room to the other, Suttie fell approximately eighty-seven times. Every time, the parents and people working at the desk would look down and say, “Oooohhhh…is he okay?” At which point, Suttie would look up at me and give a deep goofy laugh. I told them that he was fine and that his shins were mostly callouses by now.
Finally…and by finally, I mean after ten minutes that seemed like ten years, we were called back to see the dentist. The hygenist was extremely friendly, even when Suttie tried to grab the overhead light and rubbed a slobbery toothbrush down her arm. For the most part, he was fairly reserved, looking curiously around at all of the children who were laying on their backs with their mouths wide open. But when it was his turn to lay horizontal, he got the most hiliarousily horrified look on his face that I had to laugh out loud. With his brow furrowed and his mouth in a kind of petrified “O,” he looked from me to the hygenist to the dentist as if he was trying to figure out a way to take down all three of us at once. When the dentist started to poke and prod at his teeth, he moved on to Plan B, which was to scream bloody murder.
The exam was quick. In fact, I’m pretty sure they rushed through it so that he would stop terrifying the other children, which was fine with me because I’d been ready to go since the beginning of his Bronx cheer in the waiting room. He snagged a new toothbrush and a rubber snake, and I snagged him and made double-time for the parking lot. However, the experience was not without merit because I learned some important things, like space between baby teeth is good because it gives them room to grow and the highest rate of decay comes from putting a baby to bed with a bottle…Oh, and daddies should be in charge of all future dental appointments. I wrote that one down.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Where can I find a white baby wig and star-spangled pants?
It seems like Suttie has a new trick every day. Some of them are cuter than others. Clicking his tongue was cool; feeding the dog food off his tray was less cool. The most recent addition to his resume is pointing. But not just simple, exploratory pointing; it’s pointing in a way that makes the person on the other end of the finger feel about 8 inches tall. It’s demand pointing, and, man, is it effective.
At his last checkup in March, Dr. Stewart asked if he was pointing yet. As I stood there blank-faced, trying to remember what exactly he did and did not do, Suttie started to reach his hand toward the doctor, who immediately said, “Yes, that right there…that’s pointing.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that my klepto-kid was just trying to snag his stethoscope, so I kept my mouth shut as he marked down “pointing” on his developmental progress sheet.
But a couple of weeks ago, Suttie started to point – real, honest-to-God, finger-extended pointing…and now it’s all he does. He sees the dog; he points at him. He watches TV; he points at it. He hears a plane; he points at the sky and says “booo” (your guess is as good as mine). This has become such an everyday thing that he’s starting to remind me of a tiny Uncle Sam recruiting for WWII soldiers. He even wears the same scowl and furrowed brow as that stern icon and points as if he’s saying, “I WANT YOU…to give me a cookie” or “I WANT YOU…to change my diaper; it’s rank.”
So, while my child does a daily impression of the evil monkey from Family Guy, I have to just sit back and laugh because, between you and me, that kid gets cooler by the minute.
At his last checkup in March, Dr. Stewart asked if he was pointing yet. As I stood there blank-faced, trying to remember what exactly he did and did not do, Suttie started to reach his hand toward the doctor, who immediately said, “Yes, that right there…that’s pointing.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that my klepto-kid was just trying to snag his stethoscope, so I kept my mouth shut as he marked down “pointing” on his developmental progress sheet.
But a couple of weeks ago, Suttie started to point – real, honest-to-God, finger-extended pointing…and now it’s all he does. He sees the dog; he points at him. He watches TV; he points at it. He hears a plane; he points at the sky and says “booo” (your guess is as good as mine). This has become such an everyday thing that he’s starting to remind me of a tiny Uncle Sam recruiting for WWII soldiers. He even wears the same scowl and furrowed brow as that stern icon and points as if he’s saying, “I WANT YOU…to give me a cookie” or “I WANT YOU…to change my diaper; it’s rank.”
So, while my child does a daily impression of the evil monkey from Family Guy, I have to just sit back and laugh because, between you and me, that kid gets cooler by the minute.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
"Son, if you want to mow that badly, we can make it happen..."
I’m not even going to comment on how long it’s been since I’ve posted to my blog. In fact, forget that you read that first sentence. Instead, I’m going to let you in on a little secret that I discovered recently…I have no idea how to parent. Not the providing food and shelter and love part or the spending an hour passing a ball back and forth part or even the changing dirty, steaming diapers part. No, my parenting weakness lies in the making him a well-mannered citizen of the world part. So, no biggie, right?
This realization was brought about by my son’s first real tantrum. I thought that I had at least 8 more months until the terrible twos, but if Suttie was going to pick anything to be precocious about, it was this. When he turned a year old, my mom got him a toy lawnmower, but since he wasn’t quite walking yet, we stored it until he got some balance. Now that he’s vertical, I decided that we’d give it a go. Luckily, he loved it! In fact, he loved it so much that he would freak out if I tried to touch it or play with it in anyway. At one point, he got it stuck in a corner, so I reached in to help. And this is where things went south. As I wheeled the mower around, Suttie sank to his knees, in full sob, and fell forward onto his face (on purpose). Then he started kicking his feet and screaming. It was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen, but, if there’s one thing that I do know about disciplining a child, it’s to not laugh.
So, I’m looking at my 14-month old son, who is now in a full hysterical fit, trying to decide what to do. I’ve tried mild spanks before – more like what I would call love taps – and he either just looks at me or giggles. Plus, at this age, I don’t think he has the ability to connect the misdeed with the spank. Instead, I decided to go with a good old-fashioned time out. I placed him in his toddler seat, held him there so that he’d stay, and said in a firm, loud voice, “You are in time out.” I’d like to say that he stopped crying, totally understood the situation, and learned a valuable lesson. But he actually wailed louder, tried to hit me in the face, and at the end of it, he still didn’t want me touching that mower.
And now it’s clear to me that I have no clue how to teach him right from wrong. Of course, I’ll try…..and fail….and try again, and in the mean time, I’ve c onstructed a Plan B that involves watching a whole lot of Sprout.
This realization was brought about by my son’s first real tantrum. I thought that I had at least 8 more months until the terrible twos, but if Suttie was going to pick anything to be precocious about, it was this. When he turned a year old, my mom got him a toy lawnmower, but since he wasn’t quite walking yet, we stored it until he got some balance. Now that he’s vertical, I decided that we’d give it a go. Luckily, he loved it! In fact, he loved it so much that he would freak out if I tried to touch it or play with it in anyway. At one point, he got it stuck in a corner, so I reached in to help. And this is where things went south. As I wheeled the mower around, Suttie sank to his knees, in full sob, and fell forward onto his face (on purpose). Then he started kicking his feet and screaming. It was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen, but, if there’s one thing that I do know about disciplining a child, it’s to not laugh.
So, I’m looking at my 14-month old son, who is now in a full hysterical fit, trying to decide what to do. I’ve tried mild spanks before – more like what I would call love taps – and he either just looks at me or giggles. Plus, at this age, I don’t think he has the ability to connect the misdeed with the spank. Instead, I decided to go with a good old-fashioned time out. I placed him in his toddler seat, held him there so that he’d stay, and said in a firm, loud voice, “You are in time out.” I’d like to say that he stopped crying, totally understood the situation, and learned a valuable lesson. But he actually wailed louder, tried to hit me in the face, and at the end of it, he still didn’t want me touching that mower.
And now it’s clear to me that I have no clue how to teach him right from wrong. Of course, I’ll try…..and fail….and try again, and in the mean time, I’ve c onstructed a Plan B that involves watching a whole lot of Sprout.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
That's one small step for a boy; one giant leap for his milestones calendar
Now that we’re almost two weeks out, I think that it’s an appropriate time to blog about Easter because two weeks after an event is usually the first spare minute that I have to write about it (and it usually involves Suttie sitting in his baby cage with a sleeve of cookies). The Easter egg hunting went well. Suttie saw an egg, he picked up the egg, and he put the egg in his basket, mastering the basic concept in a matter of minutes. Repeat about 30 times, and you’ve got our Easter experience. He also scored a major haul of foil-wrapped candies. Reason #12 to have kids: they’re excellent candy bait. When they’re young, all the candy goes to you because they’re toothless. When they get older, you have to be craftier, like telling them that a few pieces of their Halloween candy looked “suspect” or that not sharing their Christmas candy “makes Jesus sad.” Either way, kids are the gateway to the candy that you can’t openly buy for yourself. Except when some people (Mom) wisen up and give him raisins (Mom) so that we won’t steal his stuff (Mom).
So Easter was a calm, enjoyable day, but the real magic happened a week later when…wait for it…Suttie took his first real steps. Nope, that’s not a typo; the child can walk! It started off as any normal attempt to get him to walk in which we place him on his feet, he stands there, an hour passes, then we get bored and take him inside. But this time, when we put him on his feet and stepped back, he started stepping, too. Sutton and I were both in a state of honest disbelief. After months of unsuccessful goading and bribing, Suttie was incredibly nonchalant about the whole thing, heading toward Sutton like he’d been walking (albeit unsteadily) for years. Apparently the key was to put him in an environment where he didn’t want to crawl, i.e., the spiky grass. He repeated this feat several times that day – reaching a personal best of 16 steps in a row. Since then, he’s walked some, but not a lot. He’s started to figure out that blades of grass really aren’t barbs designed for his special torment, so he’s reverted to crawling mostly. But he takes a few steps a day, which, for now, is more than enough. As a dear friend pointed out, the important thing is that, at his next checkup, when the doctor asks if he’s walking yet, I can just smile and nod.
So Easter was a calm, enjoyable day, but the real magic happened a week later when…wait for it…Suttie took his first real steps. Nope, that’s not a typo; the child can walk! It started off as any normal attempt to get him to walk in which we place him on his feet, he stands there, an hour passes, then we get bored and take him inside. But this time, when we put him on his feet and stepped back, he started stepping, too. Sutton and I were both in a state of honest disbelief. After months of unsuccessful goading and bribing, Suttie was incredibly nonchalant about the whole thing, heading toward Sutton like he’d been walking (albeit unsteadily) for years. Apparently the key was to put him in an environment where he didn’t want to crawl, i.e., the spiky grass. He repeated this feat several times that day – reaching a personal best of 16 steps in a row. Since then, he’s walked some, but not a lot. He’s started to figure out that blades of grass really aren’t barbs designed for his special torment, so he’s reverted to crawling mostly. But he takes a few steps a day, which, for now, is more than enough. As a dear friend pointed out, the important thing is that, at his next checkup, when the doctor asks if he’s walking yet, I can just smile and nod.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
"Now, if we could get him to chew gum at the same time..."
It’s no secret that Sutton and I are both fairly anxious for our son to start walking – although our motivations are slightly different. Sutton’s afraid, like any working mom or dad, that he won’t be here to see it, so he practices walking with him every night and on the weekends in the hopes that he’ll get to witness those first few elusive steps. In fact, he’s instructed me to push Suttie down every time he tries to stand up during the day. My motivations are slightly less honorable. Do I want him reach important milestones? Sure. But what I really want is to not have to shop in the men’s big and tall section this time next year. There’s a rumor afloat that, when children start to walk, they shed some of those extra baby pounds. We’re looking to lose about twelve.
In all seriousness, it is hard to buy clothes for a child that has consistently reached the 98th percentile in height and the 99th percentile in weight. He just turned one and is currently rocking a size 3T (requiring the pants to be hemmed up about a foot). So, we’ve been working on the walking thing as the only alternative to making his clothes, and, if they can’t be put together with a hot-glue gun, then it ain’t happening. Now, we’ve gotten lots of advice on the subject (some solicited, some not), and so far, nothing has worked. We tried the most obvious choice first – bribing him with food. First, we get him to stand up using one of his play tables, and then one of us holds out a cracker or cookie just in front of him and high enough that he can’t reach it sitting down. We wait with bated breath as he rises onto his toes and shifts his weight…and that’s when he starts to scream. As he stands there, wailing for whatever Gerber bait we have, his feet remain cemented to the floor. We’ve tried this several times, all of which end with zero steps taken and Suttie eating the cookie.
The next trick was to position ourselves so close to each other that he wouldn’t have room to go down into a crawling stance. So, he’d be forced to walk, right? Wrong. Instead of walking from his dad into my waiting arms, he just fell forward, straight into my lap, since the distance was short enough that he could fall and still reach me. The kid’s vertically impaired, but he ain’t no dummy.
We’ve worked on the walking thing every day for at least a month, and a few days ago, I was certain that I’d be carrying him into kindergarten. But yesterday, the unexpected happened. We were in the playroom – Suttie was moving from toy to toy and I was on the elliptical, trying to set a good fitness example for him because, at the rate we’re going, he’ll need it. He pulled up at his activity table, something he's done a million times at least, and then he noticed a Mother Goose book that he wanted, laying a foot or so in front of him. So, he let go of the table, took a single step, realized what he was doing, and quickly plopped down onto his butt.
Here I was, on the elliptical, not in front of him coaxing him along or dangling treats. There he was, not in his Stride Rite shoes, which I thought were crucial to moving those feet, but in a one-piece sleeper with legs that were too long and footies that didn’t quite fit – taking his very first step. I got him to do it once more immediately after that, but not since. And while he may be Easter egg hunting on all fours this year, I have a renewed sense of hope that, by the end of the summer, he’ll be running away from me in public.
In all seriousness, it is hard to buy clothes for a child that has consistently reached the 98th percentile in height and the 99th percentile in weight. He just turned one and is currently rocking a size 3T (requiring the pants to be hemmed up about a foot). So, we’ve been working on the walking thing as the only alternative to making his clothes, and, if they can’t be put together with a hot-glue gun, then it ain’t happening. Now, we’ve gotten lots of advice on the subject (some solicited, some not), and so far, nothing has worked. We tried the most obvious choice first – bribing him with food. First, we get him to stand up using one of his play tables, and then one of us holds out a cracker or cookie just in front of him and high enough that he can’t reach it sitting down. We wait with bated breath as he rises onto his toes and shifts his weight…and that’s when he starts to scream. As he stands there, wailing for whatever Gerber bait we have, his feet remain cemented to the floor. We’ve tried this several times, all of which end with zero steps taken and Suttie eating the cookie.
The next trick was to position ourselves so close to each other that he wouldn’t have room to go down into a crawling stance. So, he’d be forced to walk, right? Wrong. Instead of walking from his dad into my waiting arms, he just fell forward, straight into my lap, since the distance was short enough that he could fall and still reach me. The kid’s vertically impaired, but he ain’t no dummy.
We’ve worked on the walking thing every day for at least a month, and a few days ago, I was certain that I’d be carrying him into kindergarten. But yesterday, the unexpected happened. We were in the playroom – Suttie was moving from toy to toy and I was on the elliptical, trying to set a good fitness example for him because, at the rate we’re going, he’ll need it. He pulled up at his activity table, something he's done a million times at least, and then he noticed a Mother Goose book that he wanted, laying a foot or so in front of him. So, he let go of the table, took a single step, realized what he was doing, and quickly plopped down onto his butt.
Here I was, on the elliptical, not in front of him coaxing him along or dangling treats. There he was, not in his Stride Rite shoes, which I thought were crucial to moving those feet, but in a one-piece sleeper with legs that were too long and footies that didn’t quite fit – taking his very first step. I got him to do it once more immediately after that, but not since. And while he may be Easter egg hunting on all fours this year, I have a renewed sense of hope that, by the end of the summer, he’ll be running away from me in public.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
"Bailey, you have to sign the ballot or else it's no good..."
Naptime Update: Well, Operation 2 Naps to 1 has failed. Suttie still requires a morning nap unless we all want to be miserable until 1:00pm. Bailey (our dog) and I have both voted, and the morning nap has been reinstated (let the band play and the confetti fly). At first, I thought that we were taking a step back, but then I realized that we never really took a step forward. He wasn’t ready to move to one nap a day; instead, his schedule just got out of whack for a week. But that’s okay. I’m happy to be a passive observer as my son decides for himself when and if he’s going to do certain things. Take walking for instance. When I say “we never really took a step forward,” I mean that literally. Sure, he has the capability to walk, but he’s figured out that being carried around all day isn’t a bad gig. I mean, why else would we have Hoverounds, with their bad-ass commercials, or Segways. If anything, it just shows that, while his language-development is on the low end of “poor,” his manipulation skills are hitting genius level. And say, in a year, he totally rejects potty training as a matter of principle. That’s cool, too. So what if he doesn’t conform to a society of lemmings bent on disposing of waste properly? While your kids are eagerly waving their hands for the bathroom pass, trying to hold it in, Suttie will calmly look them in the eye and crap his pants with authority. And when his father and I get that call telling us that he needs yet another change of clothes, we’ll be proud of our little individual...completely mortified….but proud.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Where's the Baby Book Page for "First ER Visit"?
For most people, when they imagine the first time that their children have to go to the emergency room, they think about broken bones or cuts that need stitches. But in the O’Neal household, we know that, if something bizarre is gonna happen, it’s gonna happen to us. Which is why, on Thursday afternoon, Sutton and I found ourselves racing to the hospital, as our one-year old was strapped in the back seat with his top lip stuck between his teeth.
It all started when Suttie woke up from his nap. I went upstairs with a basketful of laundry to put away in his room. As I was hanging up his clothes, he stood in his crib, like he’s done at least 200 times before, and started to cruise around the rails. However, if my son is anything, it’s definitely not sure-footed because, within a few moments, he had face planted into the end railing. As soon as I picked him up, I noticed that his mouth was bleeding, and, man, was it bleeding! He looked like an extra from Roadhouse. Now, I know that everyone thinks that their kids are tough, but my kid is really pretty tough. I mean, he’ll wail if you try to eat something in front of him, but he crawls over piles of hard plastic toys instead of going around them (I said tough, not smart). Within a few minutes, he stopped crying, and I thought that he had just busted his lip. But, on further examination, we realized that his frenulum (the bit of skin that attaches your lips to your gums) was actually caught in the gap between his two front teeth.
So, off we went to the ER, with Mommy riding in the back with Suttie while he seemed totally unconcerned about the whole affair. And thank God for it because, if he had been freaking out and crying hysterically, I would have been forced to morph into my ugly cry face, and nobody wants to see that. Instead, my time was spent trying to keep him from sticking things into his mouth, which, if you know my son, is a lost cause.
The emergency room was pretty standard – people moaning in corners, guys with dislocated kneecaps watching Judge Judy, and a kid with his lip stuck in his teeth – you know, the usual. When we got back to the exam room, Suttie started to get a little antsy because he recognized the doctor-visit setting, having had his one-year check up the week before. Of course, he cried when the doctor laid him down and started checking out his mouth, but it was more of a heartbreaking, “I wish I was strong enough to stop this” cry than a “I’m gonna tear you up when the nurse lets go of my arms” cry. And the diagnosis? In the time between the waiting room and the doctor arriving in the exam room, his lip had torn free, and he was fine. No stitches, no medicine required. So, essentially, Suttie ended up with a $150 popsicle. It was grape, and, according to him, it was totally worth it. We think so, too, because, at the end of the day, if a trip to the ER is what stands between us and peace of mind about our kid, we’ll pay for that popsicle all day long.
It all started when Suttie woke up from his nap. I went upstairs with a basketful of laundry to put away in his room. As I was hanging up his clothes, he stood in his crib, like he’s done at least 200 times before, and started to cruise around the rails. However, if my son is anything, it’s definitely not sure-footed because, within a few moments, he had face planted into the end railing. As soon as I picked him up, I noticed that his mouth was bleeding, and, man, was it bleeding! He looked like an extra from Roadhouse. Now, I know that everyone thinks that their kids are tough, but my kid is really pretty tough. I mean, he’ll wail if you try to eat something in front of him, but he crawls over piles of hard plastic toys instead of going around them (I said tough, not smart). Within a few minutes, he stopped crying, and I thought that he had just busted his lip. But, on further examination, we realized that his frenulum (the bit of skin that attaches your lips to your gums) was actually caught in the gap between his two front teeth.
So, off we went to the ER, with Mommy riding in the back with Suttie while he seemed totally unconcerned about the whole affair. And thank God for it because, if he had been freaking out and crying hysterically, I would have been forced to morph into my ugly cry face, and nobody wants to see that. Instead, my time was spent trying to keep him from sticking things into his mouth, which, if you know my son, is a lost cause.
The emergency room was pretty standard – people moaning in corners, guys with dislocated kneecaps watching Judge Judy, and a kid with his lip stuck in his teeth – you know, the usual. When we got back to the exam room, Suttie started to get a little antsy because he recognized the doctor-visit setting, having had his one-year check up the week before. Of course, he cried when the doctor laid him down and started checking out his mouth, but it was more of a heartbreaking, “I wish I was strong enough to stop this” cry than a “I’m gonna tear you up when the nurse lets go of my arms” cry. And the diagnosis? In the time between the waiting room and the doctor arriving in the exam room, his lip had torn free, and he was fine. No stitches, no medicine required. So, essentially, Suttie ended up with a $150 popsicle. It was grape, and, according to him, it was totally worth it. We think so, too, because, at the end of the day, if a trip to the ER is what stands between us and peace of mind about our kid, we’ll pay for that popsicle all day long.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Fare Thee Well, Morning Nap
I hate change. I think that I was the only kid who would wax sentimental when moving from third to fourth grade. So, this week has been a bit challenging for me as we transition Suttie from two naps to one and from bottles to sippy cups. It all started two days ago when my husband returned from a week-long business trip. If I haven’t mentioned it before, my husband and son are the same person, except that one’s less mature and in diapers and one is a year old (zing!). The entire time that Sutton was gone, Suttie got up at 6:00am on the dot, unless he decided that he had so much to do that he needed to wake up at 5:30am. But as soon as his father is home and starts handling morning routine again, my child decides to sleep until 8:00am as a sign of male solidarity. Now, because of this later start time, my child no longer wants to take an afternoon nap, even though he knows that Mommy has a date with General Hospital at 2:00pm. So, something has to give, and that something is his morning nap.
I knew that this day would come when I had to entertain my child for more than a two-hour block of time. Was I prepared? No. Was I willing? No; that’s why we invested in the playroom TV. But I was going to give it the old college try and see if, for one day, I could do nothing but play with a dancing Mickey Mouse and hammer a peg board. And after a day that felt like a week, it was finally the hour of salvation, 1:00 pm – time for the afternoon nap. Two and a half hours later, he was ready to go again, but we were both refreshed enough to survive until his dad made it home.
So, today, we’re taking it easy. He’s crawling around the playroom and entertaining himself, while I blog and occasionally turn around to say things like, “Be careful…Get down from there…Let go of the dog!” In a minute, I’ll shut down the computer and go help him destroy the place, but in this moment, we’re doing our own things and that’s okay. And at 1:00pm, I’ll regather my marbles and maybe even work in a shower.
Disclaimer: When I say, “we’re doing our own things,” I mean, “we’re doing our own things in a safe, child-proofed environment.” Please do not let your kid loose in a McDonald’s play area while you get a mani-pedi and then say, “Well, Kate did it.”
I knew that this day would come when I had to entertain my child for more than a two-hour block of time. Was I prepared? No. Was I willing? No; that’s why we invested in the playroom TV. But I was going to give it the old college try and see if, for one day, I could do nothing but play with a dancing Mickey Mouse and hammer a peg board. And after a day that felt like a week, it was finally the hour of salvation, 1:00 pm – time for the afternoon nap. Two and a half hours later, he was ready to go again, but we were both refreshed enough to survive until his dad made it home.
So, today, we’re taking it easy. He’s crawling around the playroom and entertaining himself, while I blog and occasionally turn around to say things like, “Be careful…Get down from there…Let go of the dog!” In a minute, I’ll shut down the computer and go help him destroy the place, but in this moment, we’re doing our own things and that’s okay. And at 1:00pm, I’ll regather my marbles and maybe even work in a shower.
Disclaimer: When I say, “we’re doing our own things,” I mean, “we’re doing our own things in a safe, child-proofed environment.” Please do not let your kid loose in a McDonald’s play area while you get a mani-pedi and then say, “Well, Kate did it.”
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Raise your Juice Boxes...
Well, we made it! Suttie is now an entire year old. Suck it, SIDS…bring on the blankets and the pillows! Yes, not only did March 4th mark my son’s big day, but it also celebrated a whole year that his father and I have managed to keep him alive - well fed (as if you doubted), well clothed, well loved, and moderately cleaned. So to commemorate our achievement, we decided to add a final trial to our first-year parenting stress test - we had a party.
Now, being a card-carrying Type A personality, I booked this party at the local children’s museum when Suttie was 5 months old and came to set up on Saturday with a pre-designed room layout and a flowchart of objectives. However, my careful planning did not account for the fact that another 1 year old’s party was running late. Obviously, they did not have a room layout or a flowchart. So, we sat impatiently in the lobby waiting for little Skippy or Dana or whatever his name was to blow out his candle and mosey his Strausburg-covered butt out of the space. Finally, the museum workers had to ask them to vacate, leaving us 15 whole minutes to set up 6-months worth of party planning. Thanks, guys.
Now, I’m going to skip over the parts where I lost my cool, snapped at almost everyone, and dropped a bowl of goldfish on the carpet. With help from my parents and a couple of friends, the party was back on track and guests started to arrive. Then came the standard party run-down: we ate, Suttie massacred a piece of cake and his face in the process, he opened presents, he cried about opening presents – you know the drill. Finally, it was time for the kids to go into the museum and completely wear themselves out, which is the whole reason why anyone takes their kids to birthday parties to begin with. At this point, I’m going to plug Biscuit’s Backyard, which is the toddler-specific area at Early Works. It is an awesome play place for little ones! And I’m not anywhere near important enough to get paid for plugs, so you know it’s true. Since my child refuses to walk on the principle that it burns too many calories, he and a couple of the other tiny littles crawled amongst and over each other in a padded playpen, which seemed to be a form of Nirvana for them. He also pretended to be a farmer in a potato patch, getting back to his poor Irish roots and rode a life-size cow. If that doesn’t spell “Happy Birthday,” I honestly don’t know what does.
The only hiccup was when we visited a large talking tree, which completely freaked him out and, coupled with the fact that he was exhausted, signaled that the ship was beginning to list and the party was nearing an end. So, am I glad it’s over? Hell, yes! Have I thought about next year? Of course, I have – who do you think this is. But, no matter what we do, I’m going to be looking to farm the whole thing out, so prepare yourself, Chuck E., cause we may be heading your way. You better start stocking up on pizza now.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Tony Horton is a spandex-laced devil!
It’s January, people, which means that sometime in the next 6 months, I’ll be forced to shed my chunky sweaters and baggy jeans and put on a pair of shorts and a tank top or even (God forbid!) a bathing suit. For the last ten months, I’ve been actively avoiding any type of workout because I knew that once I got back into it, there would be no more cheese dip dinners or late night Krystal runs. But, alas, with the rapid approach of my son’s first birthday, I’ve realized (reluctantly) that the baby weight grace period has come to any end, and I must get back into a less lumpy shape.
To this end, I restarted a P90X regime (if you don’t know what it is, don’t look into it; it’s intriguing at first, but then it just becomes really, really painful). I also began to watch what I eat to a point (and that point ends when we have ice cream in the house). Now, I used to be somewhat of a gym rat. I enjoyed working out and felt that my day was not complete without it. But along with my bustline and waist size (one went down, one went up…I’ll leave you to cipher out which is which), this love of exercise has changed since I’ve had a baby. In addition to a marked lack of energy for anything besides playing with blocks and cleaning up poop, I now dread the workout because I know that I have to get it done in whatever length of time my child chooses to nap for that day. Yesterday, I read a friend’s Facebook status (Hey Sally, what’s up?), and she nailed it when she said that she had x, y, and z to get done during her kids’ nap time and “the clock was ticking.” That’s exactly how I feel during my workouts...I can hear the naptime clock tick-tocking away before I even get my sneakers on. Because of this imaginary timepiece, I fast forward during the “water breaks” and, much to my heart rate’s displeasure, I have little time for warm ups and cool downs. The pressure to get it done by the time my son wakes up and starts gnawing on his crib is completely counterproductive to any endorphin high I could hope to have.
But, as all moms do, I soldier on…and on…and on…with surprisingly little results. I used to be able to do a few crunches and have at least a two-pack. Now, I work my abs until they scream (really, each one of them lets out a groan and then throws up a tiny white flag), but it doesn’t seem to make much difference. I can only assume that I have been cursed with a “mom pooch” – you know, the extra bit of somethin’ somethin’ around the midsection that you can only cover with an acid-wash denim fanny pack (another mom staple; I got mine at Penny’s if you’re looking). So, what can I do? Make a defeated return to Chili Con Queso Tuesdays? Nah; I figure if I’m gonna go down, I might as well go down fighting.
To this end, I restarted a P90X regime (if you don’t know what it is, don’t look into it; it’s intriguing at first, but then it just becomes really, really painful). I also began to watch what I eat to a point (and that point ends when we have ice cream in the house). Now, I used to be somewhat of a gym rat. I enjoyed working out and felt that my day was not complete without it. But along with my bustline and waist size (one went down, one went up…I’ll leave you to cipher out which is which), this love of exercise has changed since I’ve had a baby. In addition to a marked lack of energy for anything besides playing with blocks and cleaning up poop, I now dread the workout because I know that I have to get it done in whatever length of time my child chooses to nap for that day. Yesterday, I read a friend’s Facebook status (Hey Sally, what’s up?), and she nailed it when she said that she had x, y, and z to get done during her kids’ nap time and “the clock was ticking.” That’s exactly how I feel during my workouts...I can hear the naptime clock tick-tocking away before I even get my sneakers on. Because of this imaginary timepiece, I fast forward during the “water breaks” and, much to my heart rate’s displeasure, I have little time for warm ups and cool downs. The pressure to get it done by the time my son wakes up and starts gnawing on his crib is completely counterproductive to any endorphin high I could hope to have.
But, as all moms do, I soldier on…and on…and on…with surprisingly little results. I used to be able to do a few crunches and have at least a two-pack. Now, I work my abs until they scream (really, each one of them lets out a groan and then throws up a tiny white flag), but it doesn’t seem to make much difference. I can only assume that I have been cursed with a “mom pooch” – you know, the extra bit of somethin’ somethin’ around the midsection that you can only cover with an acid-wash denim fanny pack (another mom staple; I got mine at Penny’s if you’re looking). So, what can I do? Make a defeated return to Chili Con Queso Tuesdays? Nah; I figure if I’m gonna go down, I might as well go down fighting.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
We live in a house of mouse
I never appreciated the monopolizing quality of the Walt Disney Company until I became a mother. Not that it’s a bad thing. The shows mesmerize my son and are bearable for me (some are even entertaining – I’m looking at you, Phineas and Ferb). But I didn’t realize how hooked my son was on the Disney drug until I tried to put in a Thomas the Train DVD today. As the DVD went through its twelve-million piracy warnings, Suttie showed his usual level of excitement – lots of squealing and “giving it up to Jesus,” a motion in which he raises his arms up and looks to the heavens (patent-pending). But as soon as he figured out that this was NOT a Mickey Mouse Clubhouse DVD, he picked up a nearby wooden block, threw it down with all his might, and looked at me with more contempt than his father ever has…and believe me, that’s saying something.
Needless to say our TV stays on the Disney Channel…which is why I noticed something pretty interesting. Disney is launching a new cartoon called “Chuggington,” which is about…trains. Now, I am willing to bet anyone any amount of money that my son will watch that Disney-sponsored train show without the least hesitation, despite his earlier rejection of poor Thomas. And, in thinking about these two train shows, I started to recognize other Disney rip-offs. My son has never looked twice at Bob the Builder, but Handy Manny is a can’t miss. The Wiggles creep me out, but no more so than the Imagination Movers. There is just something about Disney that pulls you in, that makes you side with the mouse every time…no matter how many of his ideas are borrowed.
What was that theory about Disney and subliminal messaging? Was that ever disproven?
Needless to say our TV stays on the Disney Channel…which is why I noticed something pretty interesting. Disney is launching a new cartoon called “Chuggington,” which is about…trains. Now, I am willing to bet anyone any amount of money that my son will watch that Disney-sponsored train show without the least hesitation, despite his earlier rejection of poor Thomas. And, in thinking about these two train shows, I started to recognize other Disney rip-offs. My son has never looked twice at Bob the Builder, but Handy Manny is a can’t miss. The Wiggles creep me out, but no more so than the Imagination Movers. There is just something about Disney that pulls you in, that makes you side with the mouse every time…no matter how many of his ideas are borrowed.
What was that theory about Disney and subliminal messaging? Was that ever disproven?
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
"I'm a paper chaser..."
Well, Suttie’s first Christmas was as much a hit as a 9-month old’s Christmas can be. He got everything that he didn’t even know he wanted and was able to try a least three different kinds of lard-based gravy. The only problem spot was the vicious cycle of excitement and then misery that we had to go through every time he opened a present. Was he so overjoyed with his gifts that each opening sent him into a bipolar spiral, first being delighted by the acquisition and then disillusioned by the reality that life was unlikely to get any better than this? Good guess, but, no, that wasn’t it. What caused each present opening to end with my son in a torrent of tears was the fact that, more than all of his presents, he wanted and was determined to have the wrapping paper that we insisted on throwing away.
Did he care about the TV for his playroom that I carried to my car in the dark, alone with mace in hand and keys at the ready like a tiger claw? No. But the red and white Santa Claus paper was the coolest thing he’d seen since birth. Did he oooh and awww at the little red wagon that his dad and I froze off our tookuses for during the Black Friday midnight sale at Toys ‘R Us? No. But he was willing to fight to the death for the curly gold ribbon that was tied around it.
So, every time he opened a present, Suttie would grab a huge hunk of wrapping paper, just as we were prompting him to do. However, unlike our instructions, he wouldn’t let it go. Instead, he would tear off smaller and smaller pieces until he found one that looked especially tasty and then tried to quickly shove it into his mouth before anyone noticed. At which point, we would dive in and wrestle the paper from him, thus instigating his next tearful outburst. A few minutes later, it was time to go through the whole process again.
With this experience still fresh in my mind, I’m already on the lookout for an empty refrigerator box and a gently-used grocery sack for next year’s big gifts.
Did he care about the TV for his playroom that I carried to my car in the dark, alone with mace in hand and keys at the ready like a tiger claw? No. But the red and white Santa Claus paper was the coolest thing he’d seen since birth. Did he oooh and awww at the little red wagon that his dad and I froze off our tookuses for during the Black Friday midnight sale at Toys ‘R Us? No. But he was willing to fight to the death for the curly gold ribbon that was tied around it.
So, every time he opened a present, Suttie would grab a huge hunk of wrapping paper, just as we were prompting him to do. However, unlike our instructions, he wouldn’t let it go. Instead, he would tear off smaller and smaller pieces until he found one that looked especially tasty and then tried to quickly shove it into his mouth before anyone noticed. At which point, we would dive in and wrestle the paper from him, thus instigating his next tearful outburst. A few minutes later, it was time to go through the whole process again.
With this experience still fresh in my mind, I’m already on the lookout for an empty refrigerator box and a gently-used grocery sack for next year’s big gifts.
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