"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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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?

"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.