Posting all of these old blogs about my little Kellen, or 'Special K' as he is often affectionately referred to, I got to thinking about all of the phases we've gone through in his 6 years of life. Such a short time to do so much, but he seems to be the master at really packing life in where he can. Good for him? Sometimes. Good for me? Not so much. (Honestly, every week or two I check my head for the gray hairs I keep expecting to find - not because i'm heading over the hill - but from sheer stress. To my utter amazement, I still have yet to be christened by that milestone.)
Believe it or not, I'd actually forgotten the fecal fetish. Let's take a moment and really think about that. I'd FORGOTTEN my young son's predilection for diaper diving. I'd completely BLOCKED the feelings associated with finding one's young genetic carrier smeared from head to toe in his own excrement. (For those of you new to this blog, you can find the expanded version of that particular stage here.) That must give you an inkling of just how on my toes he keeps me.
K has Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (among other things). When I tell people this, they just smile and nod and tell me that all kids have their "quirks" and things they focus on. Oh ho HO they really have no clue. That sort of response usually launches me into the, "Oh no. You don't understand..." And then I come out with some of my earliest hell. That when he was 18 months old, before he had hardly any words at all, he used to walk around every morning signing to me that he needed his: boots (rubber), jeans, hat, gloves, screwdriver and keys. And if I could not locate one of these essential things, the day could not start. He would follow me around screaming for the missing item (usually the keys or screwdriver as he was want to lay them down wherever he may have been - woods, dirt, in some obscure little box hidden in the house) until I could retrieve them for him. Sometimes this would last hours until his daily uniform was complete.
For a time, he would wear nothing but the same pair of jeans, boots and shirt. I mean, identical. He literally had 5 of the same shirts and jeans in his drawer so that his uniform could at least be clean every day. 95 degrees or 15 degrees, he wore the same jeans, rubber boots and long sleeved shirt. That quickly morphed into a pajama obsession which pinnacled in the summer of our first real family vacation to Washington D.C. (oh, but that is a different blog unto itself). There was the mailbox obsession, the tractor obsession, the dirtbike obsession, the helmet obsession, the fire obsession (oh, give me time)... I know there are more and if I really sit and force myself to relive the experiences I will probably just cry trying to list them all. That should suffice enough to give you the big picture for now without completely throwing me into a state of depression.
And of course, there is food. His entire life, food has been an overriding theme. Just to type this produces in me a rapid pulse, tightness in the neck and forehead (explaining the overabundance of premature forehead wrinkling, I should say), and a hot flush throughout my body as my blood pressure involuntarily shoots up. Or perhaps that could be because he's sitting beside me over and over begging for something I bought for him last night at the grocery to eat for lunch today.
You've seen the padlocks. Or, if you have not, stop, check out Adventures in Refrigeration and then come back here. My beautiful little K has the most infuriating inability to wait for anything, especially if it has to do with food. "I'm hungry" have become two of the most dreaded words in the English language to me. I'd rather hear, "I hate you!" screamed with passion at me at the top of his lungs than to hear him utter those other words. Because I know what is coming. 20 minutes of food negotiation, usually with a litany of impossible requests met with steadfast denial. Let me tell you, it is impossible to negotiate food with a 6 year-old boy in the throes of OCD hell. And if it so happens that I have made a trip to the grocery and purchased a favorite food, I will not hear the end of it until it is conumed and out of our lives. One night I made the mistake of purchasing hoagies for the kids to eat the next evening. What can I say? I was in a hurry, the kids were, no doubt, eating me alive with their demands and I caved. I'm alone with my homeschooled kids for 5 days a week without cease. What can I say? I'm weak. Sometimes I just need peace, any way I can get it. So I caved. And got the hoagies.
In the car, on the way home:
"We eat hogies tonight?"
"No. We already had dinner. They are for dinner tomorrow night."
"But I hungee now." (Did I mention he has speech and language disorders, too?)
"Then you can have a snack. The hoagies are for tomorrow."
10 minutes later:
"But I wanna eat hoagies. I hungeeeeeeeeeeee."
"No Kellen, the hoagies are for tomorrow. NOT TONIGHT."
"We eat hoagies tomommow?"
"Yes, Kellen."
5 minutes later:
"Tomommow we eat hoagies?"
"Yes, Kellen."
"And I eat my hoagie tomommow dinner?"
"Yes, Kellen."
And for the remainder of the trip home (a 45 minute drive if I'm unlucky and unable to pass all the slow drivers)and up until bedtime, some variation on these exchanges will occur about every 5 minutes. Assurances that the hoagie will be there tomorrow night are required upon bedtime tuck-in. A kiss, a hug, and a "Yes, Kellen, you get your hoagie tomorrow night for dinner."
1.5 hours after bedtime:
"Mommy? I STAHHHHVED! I have my hoagie PEASE?????"
"DAMMIT NO YOU MAY NOT HAVE YOUR HOAGIE STOP ASKING AND GO. TO. SLEEP!"
4 a.m.
"I hungee. I have my hoagie now?"
"GO TO SLEEP Kellen!"
Silence.
And a whimper. "But I hungeeeeeeeee. I have my hoagie now I no be hungee."
Ahhhhh, the negotiation. Followed rapidly by the smackdown.
"If you don't go to sleep RIGHT NOW I am going down and feeding your hoagie to the dogs and then you won't even have it tomorrow night." That should do it.
"Gahhhhhhhhhh!" he growls in a huff and I feel him roll over. Then, blessedly, silence. Usually it takes me a good hour to get the blood pressure to return to normal so that I might sleep again.
7:30 a.m.
"I have my hoagie bekfast?"
"NO KELLEN YOU MAY NOT HAVE YOUR HOAGIE FOR BREAKFAST! IF YOU ASK ME AGAIN I'M GOING TO STOMP UP AND DOWN ON YOUR HOAGIE AND LET THE ROACHES EAT IT!"
9:00 a.m.
"Is it dinner time now I have my hoagie???"
"OH GOD HELP ME NO YOU CAN'T HAVE YOUR DAMN HOAGIE!!!!"
11:15 a.m.
"I eat my hoagie dis time?"
"JESUS CHRIST EAT YOUR DAMN HOAGIE I DON'T CARE YOU AREN'T EATING ANYTHING EVER AGAIN AND I'M NEVER BUYING YOU ANOTHER HOAGIE EVER!!!!"
Ok. So I probably don't handle it as well as I should. If it is a Monday when something like this occurs I can usually go for many many hours, if not all day, before resorting to empty threats. If it happens to occur on a Thursday, after 4 days alone with them, it will probably sound more like the above exchange. Or I may just pull out the duct tape and chase him around like a lunatic. Depends on the week.
Sometimes, it is ramen, or a can of Chef Boyardee. Sometimes it is some special sweet treat. Often, it is the prized hoagie. Whatever it may be, each time I swear I will never put myself in this position again, but then I think how awful it would be to never experience anything special as a kid and I take pity. This morning, as he begs for last night's grocery score (a little lunchbox from the deli with a turkey sandwich, cheese stick, little bag of chips, apple and a juice box - it is the little things in life I suppose) I am falling somewhere inbetween Patience of a Saint and Call Social Services, and cursing my weakness. For those of you who have ever wished for Friday, you have no idea.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Ch- ch- ch- cha- changes
I am a word lover. My first journal was started when I was a mere 6-year-old lass and my early journal entries went something like this: "Went to school. Came home. Ate." I even have my first kiss documented. First grade, Jon Mattox. If and when my memory starts going, I am blessed that I can always crack open a journal and find myself in it again.
I don't remember why I decided to start keeping a diary. I think, perhaps, someone gave one to me and I ran with it. I had unlocked the mysteries of reading the year before, hunched over a book about bedtime in a darkened kindergarten classroom, and in that instant a lifelong love affair with words was begun. Reading, writing, spelling: if it had a letter in it, you can be sure that I was on it.
My diaries were my soulmates and if I filled up one and didn't have time to get to the store for a new one, I'd start suffering withdrawal. They were my closest confidants, my way to make sense of the world, my very soul in word format. When, as a young teen, I found out that my little sister had been reading my journals, I felt violated in a way that even sexual assault couldn't touch. All the angst of growing up, of finding myself (and losing myself and finding myself again), can be found in the pages of those journals. In fact, I still don't know what I want to happen to them when I die. To know that who I am, in the complete, unabridged format, may be exposed to anyone is a sobering thought.
Somewhere along the way, I lost my words. I got a job, fell in love, got married, and the time that was just my own - mine and my journal's - somehow got pushed aside. I attempted to journal many times, but somehow I had lost that intimacy with them. For some reason, I couldn't put my soul into words anymore. In some ways, I think that I was afraid to have a document attesting to any of the tumult or darkness going on in my head. I couldn't even face it myself, at times.
But in the past couple of years, as I've found myself faced with the trials and tribulations of raising 3 rambunctious, often inhumanly challenging children mostly on my own and doing a complete internal remodel (no, this is NOT a mid-life crisis... I won't be mid-life for another good 5 years or so, thank you), my need for the solace of words has reared its head again and I find myself retreating to the comfort of writing when I need to cope, make sense (or fun) of the world, or just myself. Sometimes it happens in the form of (often bad) poetry, and sometimes it happens like this... a blog.
And as I move through this year, I don't want to lose the lessons I learn from it and all of the changes that are hovering over the horizon for me. For some reason, for me, if it is written, it IS. Life is a series of beginnings and endings, often overlapping, and my life is no exception. Like a caterpillar in metamorphosis, this is my ending, and it is my beginning.
Should be interesting.
I don't remember why I decided to start keeping a diary. I think, perhaps, someone gave one to me and I ran with it. I had unlocked the mysteries of reading the year before, hunched over a book about bedtime in a darkened kindergarten classroom, and in that instant a lifelong love affair with words was begun. Reading, writing, spelling: if it had a letter in it, you can be sure that I was on it.
My diaries were my soulmates and if I filled up one and didn't have time to get to the store for a new one, I'd start suffering withdrawal. They were my closest confidants, my way to make sense of the world, my very soul in word format. When, as a young teen, I found out that my little sister had been reading my journals, I felt violated in a way that even sexual assault couldn't touch. All the angst of growing up, of finding myself (and losing myself and finding myself again), can be found in the pages of those journals. In fact, I still don't know what I want to happen to them when I die. To know that who I am, in the complete, unabridged format, may be exposed to anyone is a sobering thought.
Somewhere along the way, I lost my words. I got a job, fell in love, got married, and the time that was just my own - mine and my journal's - somehow got pushed aside. I attempted to journal many times, but somehow I had lost that intimacy with them. For some reason, I couldn't put my soul into words anymore. In some ways, I think that I was afraid to have a document attesting to any of the tumult or darkness going on in my head. I couldn't even face it myself, at times.
But in the past couple of years, as I've found myself faced with the trials and tribulations of raising 3 rambunctious, often inhumanly challenging children mostly on my own and doing a complete internal remodel (no, this is NOT a mid-life crisis... I won't be mid-life for another good 5 years or so, thank you), my need for the solace of words has reared its head again and I find myself retreating to the comfort of writing when I need to cope, make sense (or fun) of the world, or just myself. Sometimes it happens in the form of (often bad) poetry, and sometimes it happens like this... a blog.
And as I move through this year, I don't want to lose the lessons I learn from it and all of the changes that are hovering over the horizon for me. For some reason, for me, if it is written, it IS. Life is a series of beginnings and endings, often overlapping, and my life is no exception. Like a caterpillar in metamorphosis, this is my ending, and it is my beginning.
Should be interesting.
The roller-coaster of life
Originally published Sept. 17, 2007
It has been a long time since I've blogged, despite the fact that a few of you have repeatedly begged for more tales of parenting woe (you know who you are and SHAME on you for wishing these things upon me). My lack of writing has not been due to a lack of material. In fact, the stories pile up so ridiculously fast that I can't even remember them all. Last night, as I was stripping duct tape off of a howling Kellen's (aka Dennis) little butt after he'd giddily let his big brother tape both sides of his cheeks together, I was wondering how many other parents have had similar experiences. I know I am blessed that I have these things to moan about. A lot of things have put that into perspective in my life this year.
This year was the first time in 36 years that my mother forgot my birthday. When I think I have the tears and this grief that lodges itself in my throat like a poorly chewed hunk of meat under control, an inevitable reminder throws itself in my face that this fate is hurtling at me faster than I feel I have the ability to cope with. Losing oneself to an illness like this is like watching a comedic tragedy. It is profoundly sad, but at the same time, one has to be able to laugh at the day-to-day craziness that is a natural result of the process of forgetting. I gather these little follies to myself and laugh until that inevitable sob creeps up and grabs me by the throat again.
The hardest part of all of this is that my mom lives 12 hours from me. When I was a young teenager, my mom and I talked a lot about growing old and I told her that I would always take care of her. And I meant it. Growing up, she was my best friend. I have only ever had one female friend in my life as close to my heart as a friend as my mother and in a way, I've lost her this year, too. My mom was the kind of mom that all my troubled teenaged friends would come to for advice. She was the kind of mom that I can only aspire to be. And to live 12 hours away and not be able to fulfill the promise I made to her is one of the hardest things I've had to live with. I can only hope that sometime soon my dad will decide to bring her up here so that I can do for her what my aunt does for my grandmother. Because of all the people on this earth, I am the one that that task belongs to.
Losing one close to you like this is a constant reminder that we only have the opportunity to do this thing called life once. If we don't tell the people we love how important they are to us, show them every single day, tomorrow we may wake up to find that it is too late and all we are left with is a pile of regrets. I'd like to think that my love for mom, the love that we have for each other, will somehow transcend this disease; that someday I will look in her eyes and, while she may not remember me, maybe she will feel a recognition, somewhere deep inside, of that love I hold for her and she for me. When that time comes, I hope to be able to move through the grief and just see the beautiful person that remains, as my aunt has done. I don't think that this crushing grief will ever go away, but I hope that at some point it hurts less.
And while I have cried so much more this year than I have in the past 10 combined, I have also discovered a newfound desire to live my life to the fullest and not to get to the end of it with a big bag of "wish I had's" and "should'ves." My mom won't have a chance to do all those things she kept putting off for one reason or another. So I'll pull the duct tape off of little butts with gusto (and quite possibly a flourish) and I'll celebrate life in the ways that make me happy. Because life's just too damn short not to.
Victoria and Thongs and Kids, Oh My!
Originally published June 27, 2006
My eldest son - we'll call him "Casanova" - loves the ladies. Since he was 3, he has been connecting with the girls on a level that no 3-year-old should connect on. His cousin was the first lady he showed his moves on. I'll never forget these two little 3-year-olds, sitting side by side on the steps, and he turns to her, cups the back of her head in his hand and leans in to plant a soft kiss on her lips. I don't think he'd ever seen anyone make that move before... I concluded he was a natural and that I was in for some big trouble down the road.
Most boys go through a "oooooooh, gross, girls!" phase. Casanova apparently decided early on to take a detour around that particular stage of life. His mission from age 5 on was to get the girls naked. (At this point, I feel I should add that he has always been a natural nudist and feels better out of clothes than in.) If any girl (especially a pretty one, but they are all fair game in his book... at least he's equal opportunity) came over to play, you could bet that it wouldn't be long before you'd see them both streaking around buck-naked. Thankfully, the people we tend to mingle with aren't uptight about nakedness and have never cared too much.
The blissful days of stripping down naked in an innocent quest to check out as much girl booty as possible has, sadly, about come to an end. Casanova recently turned 9 years old. These days, he spends his days pouring over the Victoria's Secret catalogs that come in the mail. He giggles and goggles over the acres of skin and his eyes miss nothing. He evaluates and assesses and pays particular attention to their attire.
Much to my chagrin, he has turned the same laser-sharp criticism to
I guess I should give a little background: I grew up with the subject of sex being a pretty approachable thing with my parents. Perhaps it was watching all of that Mutual of Omaha as a kid (for those of you who aren't familiar with the Mutual of Omaha, think Nature Channel in a show with a very, very old man similar to Bob Barker as the host), but mating was just something that animals did... and we are animals, so it just never phased me. I try to keep sex from becoming a mystery... I think that is why kids are so determined to check it all out so young - because it is this big mysterious thing that no one talks about. So I try to make myself approachable when it comes to relations with the opposite sex. And it seems to be working, because they don't seem to be afraid or embarrassed to ask me anything.
So anyway, back to Victoria and her tantalizing secrets. Over a period of weeks I see Casanova's interest in Victoria's little magazine turn into an all out obsession. As a woman, I'm against males expecting women to look like cover models. I try to celebrate the variety of shapes of women in all their beauty. So to watch my son become increasingly obsessed with the crème de la crème of youthly, womanly perfection was a bit distressing. I started throwing the catalogs directly into the recycling when they arrived. Then I started burying them under all the other magazines. My attempts were fruitless. More and more VS catalogs were making their way into my house... the bathroom, his room, his sister's room (his partner in crime, I should add), the kitchen table... no area was sacrosanct. Finally, I could stand it no longer.
"Hey Cas, what do you like so much about those magazines?" I asked.
"I like looking at all the women," he answered.
"What is so special about them? You've seen women naked before," was my curious reply.
"Yeah, but not like these. I like the ones with the thongs that don't wear a bra. But it is so frustrating because you can't see anything."
Oh my. I just was not prepared to deal with this... I thought I had a good 3 or 4 years before we really got into this stuff. Over a period of weeks, talk around the house centered on thongs. Casanova and his sister were obsessed with them. "I bet that feels weird." "Oooooh, gross, I bet they get poop stains on them." and I'd hear Casanova and his little sister dissolve into fits of raucous giggling. I prudently decided that making an issue out of it would only fuel the fire, so I took the only way out I knew. I ignored them, thinking this little obsession would burn itself out in a few weeks. Ummm.... no.
I was on the phone yesterday with a friend, doing the dishes, when my daughter came into the kitchen and grabbed the scissors.
"What do you need the scissors for?" I ask suspiciously.
"Oh, Cas is just making something," she answers innocently and exits stage left.
About 10 minutes later:
"Hey Mom, look!" I go out of the kitchen, where my son is flailing a little piece of white cloth in the air over the balcony railing. "I made E a thong!" he laughs wildly as I realize that the little scrap of cloth he is waving had spent its previous incarnation as a pair of my daughter's panties.
Today they are both proudly sporting the fruits of their labor, evaluating and discussing the merits versus the pitfalls of thong-wearing. My daughter's initial assessment is that thongs are gross. Casanova, on the other hand, seems to be enjoying his quite a bit. Needless to say, I worry about him.
Overcoming Adversity
Originally published March 2, 2006 Aside from his food predilection and toilet issues, my little guy is an avid climber. He can scale anything and if he can't, he is smart enough to figure out a way to get around that little inconvenience. He is a stealthy child, too, and can move a dining-room table chair to the counter or a stereo to gain access to his heart's desire without making a sound. Fast. Mostly, he is sneaking sweets or gum ("muh" as he calls it), but often enough he is shoving as many CDs as he can find into our 3-disc player and trying to force the drawer shut (the record held is 11 CDs with the drawer completely shut).
Because of this predilection, we find ourselves childproofing our house *more* as he gets older, rather than less as you would expect (or at least *I* would expect) at this age. We purchased, for the first time in our parenting careers, door knob lock thingies. He finally figured out how to open the doors a couple of months ago and began inviting our dogs into the house for unsupervised refrigerator parties. You'd be amazed at how quickly two 100 pound dogs can empty the bottom shelf of a refrigerator when given the chance (hence, the need for previously mentioned fridge locks).
One of our current challenges is keeping him off of the countertops. When he first began his exceptional climbing career, we had no child-proofing on the upper cabinets. I literally walked into the kitchen one afternoon to find my not-quite-two-year old standing naked (have you noticed this particular characteristic?) on the countertop, surrounded by a random assortment of wine glasses and coffee mugs, and wielding two very large butcher knives. The sense of accomplishment he felt that day must have been intoxicating because he has since become unstoppable. Needless to say, this new development required a mass re-organization and serious childproofing of the upper kitchen level.
Since all of the drawer stacks in our kitchen are roped together to prevent drawer vaulting, and we have all but bolted down chairs from around the house, to minimize access as much as possible, it was only a matter of time before he found an alternate scaling option. His current route to Nirvana is by way of our oven door. Think "springboard." Down goes the oven door, up goes child and voila - he has gained access to the entire upper kitchen area. I actually believe that he cases the kitchen, looking for open locks, watching for that time we slip and and then BAM! He slips in and wreaks havoc. We have tried the child-locks they make for oven doors. However, I don't think those were designed with the average 3.5 year old in mind. Stick on clips are just not much of a deterrent for an analytical child with excellent fine motor skills and an uncanny ability with tools (he must be the only 3.5 year old child with his own 18-volt cordless drill... which I admit, in hindsight, probably wasn't a particularly brilliant idea). Obviously, this oven issue is causing me a bit of angst.
Two weeks ago I walked into the kitchen to find dear, dear Dennis planted firmly in the center of the stove-top, oven door open and an amazing amount of heat emanating from said opening. He had apparently decided that playing with the buttons on the back of the stove would be an interesting thing to do and had managed to not only turn on the oven, but two of the four burners as well. He did manage to sit strategically on the stovetop so as to escape what surely could have been a horrible burn. But like I've said before, I'm a silver-lining kind of gal. At least he hasn't figured out that he can put things on the stove and catch them on fire. It *could* be worse...
I really want to know if there is truly something fundamentally *wrong* with duct-taping a child? Because in my heart of hearts, it seems like a good idea. Surely a case can be made that it is for his own safety... I would do it with only the greatest loving kindness, I swear.
The World Is My Toilet
Originally published March 2, 2006.
My son just peed on the floor.
To the casual observer, this may not be a big deal. A 3-year-old - still in diapers, running around naked - bound to happen, right? Children learning to control their bodily functions often misgauge their capacity.... But, as with all things associated with Dennis, it is never quite that easy. It is where he peed that makes this little tale remarkable. You see, my son, in his ever burgeoning quest to become big, has decided that it is much more entertaining to pee in random locations that catch his fancy around the house than to do so in the rather boring toilet. After all, the magic of the flush, the allure of the swirling waters and the mysterious departure of bowl contents has been plumbed by this intrepid young person ad infinitum. Old hat.
For example, we already know what happens when an entire roll of toilet paper is shoved intact into the bowl (in fact, we know what happens when the beginning of the roll is attached to the back of a tricycle and driven swiftly and without mercy through the house, too). We know that casino chips don't flush well, but that screwdrivers apparently do... at least until they hit that pesky bend in the pipe. Toilet fishing is almost considered a sport in our house. We even have specially designated toilet retrieval skewers. If you ever plan on making shish kebabs in my house, I would suggest asking before using the skewers...
Initially it was exciting for my little man to use the toilet for its intended purpose. But as I mentioned, apparently it is not quite exciting enough. As his mastery over bowels and bladder has grown, one no longer hears the sudden intake of breath and calls of distress, "Pee! Pee!" nor sees the familiar rapid duck walk toward the bathroom with hands clutching groin in an attempt to staunch the flow. Rather, in my house, one might come upon a naked child glancing about over his shoulder shiftily as he assumes "the stance" (you know the one: legs shoulder width apart, hands in place to conduct the flow). One might happen upon him on the stairs, gleefully peeing between the steps into the murky depths below. Or one might find him, in perfect stance, at the gate of our wood-burning stove, happily trying to hit it through the bars. One can only assume that the satisfying sizzle attained on a direct hit is what makes this a favorite watering hole.
I have never been one to push toilet usage. I do not believe in "toilet training." I find the idea that we can actually teach another human being how to master control over their bodily functions a bit absurd. In fact, at this point, I would happily see him wearing diapers until he was 20 so long as he did it in the diaper and not around my house like an errant puppy.
As if this wasn't... challenging enough, he seems to have taken an interest in his *other* bodily function as of late. Oh yes (you guessed this was coming, didn't you?). Doo doo, caca, poop... by whatever name you refer to it, it still boils down to one very smelly mess. Good 'ole fecal matter. Back in the good old days, he used to deposit his load in his diaper and then advise me that it was time for a change. Somewhere along the way, he seems to have decided that I am no longer a necessary component to that equation and has begun to remove the diapers himself after aforementioned load is deposited. Usually, he is kind enough to leave it in some location either visibly apparent or, if nothing else, in an area with high foot-traffic. One way or the other, we find it. (I should take a moment to add that I'm a "silver lining" kind of gal and I have to look on the bright side of this: he could very well hide them.) Usually the culprit can be found not too far away on our living room area rug, sitting and happily trying to wipe himself. Considering that usually he has fecal matter plastered to both butt cheeks and his entire groin area, he doesn't do too badly. However, he usually sits before trying to wipe himself... And yes, if you find yourself thinking, "I will never sit on *her* carpet," I certainly will not hold it against you.
The other day, little Dennis was upstairs playing with his sister. At least, that is what he was doing when I walked into my office to work for a bit. After about 10 minutes, though, I heard Dennis making these gagging, retching noises. I called out to his big sister, "What are you doing to your brother?" (This is actually quite an honest mistake because I swear that 9 times out of 10, she actually *is* doing something to him.) The answer comes back in the negative (and I do have to admit that at this point I don't quite believe her). Seconds later, however, big brother is sounding the alarm: "Poop! Poop! AGGHHHHHHHH POOOOOOP!!!!!!!!!" I'm out of my office like an Olympic Sprinter only to come upon my sweet, wonderful, youngest child, hands raised in the air much like a doctor, scrubbed and waiting for gloves. At first glance it appears that he has been playing in mud - to the wrists his hands are a dark, dark brown. He looks at me like a deer caught in the headlights, brown streaks smearing his forehead, cheeks and torso like so much war paint. Meekly, he declares, "Chocolate poop."
It is only later on that I realize his penchant for sweets must have finally caught up with him and that the dark brown mess must have resembled dark chocolate so much that he couldn't resist the temptation. Hence the horrible retching I had heard. We may go through the above scenarios many times over in the months to come as he works his way through this particular milestone, but something tells me he won't be making *that* particular mistake again.
My son just peed on the floor.
To the casual observer, this may not be a big deal. A 3-year-old - still in diapers, running around naked - bound to happen, right? Children learning to control their bodily functions often misgauge their capacity.... But, as with all things associated with Dennis, it is never quite that easy. It is where he peed that makes this little tale remarkable. You see, my son, in his ever burgeoning quest to become big, has decided that it is much more entertaining to pee in random locations that catch his fancy around the house than to do so in the rather boring toilet. After all, the magic of the flush, the allure of the swirling waters and the mysterious departure of bowl contents has been plumbed by this intrepid young person ad infinitum. Old hat.
For example, we already know what happens when an entire roll of toilet paper is shoved intact into the bowl (in fact, we know what happens when the beginning of the roll is attached to the back of a tricycle and driven swiftly and without mercy through the house, too). We know that casino chips don't flush well, but that screwdrivers apparently do... at least until they hit that pesky bend in the pipe. Toilet fishing is almost considered a sport in our house. We even have specially designated toilet retrieval skewers. If you ever plan on making shish kebabs in my house, I would suggest asking before using the skewers...
Initially it was exciting for my little man to use the toilet for its intended purpose. But as I mentioned, apparently it is not quite exciting enough. As his mastery over bowels and bladder has grown, one no longer hears the sudden intake of breath and calls of distress, "Pee! Pee!" nor sees the familiar rapid duck walk toward the bathroom with hands clutching groin in an attempt to staunch the flow. Rather, in my house, one might come upon a naked child glancing about over his shoulder shiftily as he assumes "the stance" (you know the one: legs shoulder width apart, hands in place to conduct the flow). One might happen upon him on the stairs, gleefully peeing between the steps into the murky depths below. Or one might find him, in perfect stance, at the gate of our wood-burning stove, happily trying to hit it through the bars. One can only assume that the satisfying sizzle attained on a direct hit is what makes this a favorite watering hole.
I have never been one to push toilet usage. I do not believe in "toilet training." I find the idea that we can actually teach another human being how to master control over their bodily functions a bit absurd. In fact, at this point, I would happily see him wearing diapers until he was 20 so long as he did it in the diaper and not around my house like an errant puppy.
As if this wasn't... challenging enough, he seems to have taken an interest in his *other* bodily function as of late. Oh yes (you guessed this was coming, didn't you?). Doo doo, caca, poop... by whatever name you refer to it, it still boils down to one very smelly mess. Good 'ole fecal matter. Back in the good old days, he used to deposit his load in his diaper and then advise me that it was time for a change. Somewhere along the way, he seems to have decided that I am no longer a necessary component to that equation and has begun to remove the diapers himself after aforementioned load is deposited. Usually, he is kind enough to leave it in some location either visibly apparent or, if nothing else, in an area with high foot-traffic. One way or the other, we find it. (I should take a moment to add that I'm a "silver lining" kind of gal and I have to look on the bright side of this: he could very well hide them.) Usually the culprit can be found not too far away on our living room area rug, sitting and happily trying to wipe himself. Considering that usually he has fecal matter plastered to both butt cheeks and his entire groin area, he doesn't do too badly. However, he usually sits before trying to wipe himself... And yes, if you find yourself thinking, "I will never sit on *her* carpet," I certainly will not hold it against you.
The other day, little Dennis was upstairs playing with his sister. At least, that is what he was doing when I walked into my office to work for a bit. After about 10 minutes, though, I heard Dennis making these gagging, retching noises. I called out to his big sister, "What are you doing to your brother?" (This is actually quite an honest mistake because I swear that 9 times out of 10, she actually *is* doing something to him.) The answer comes back in the negative (and I do have to admit that at this point I don't quite believe her). Seconds later, however, big brother is sounding the alarm: "Poop! Poop! AGGHHHHHHHH POOOOOOP!!!!!!!!!" I'm out of my office like an Olympic Sprinter only to come upon my sweet, wonderful, youngest child, hands raised in the air much like a doctor, scrubbed and waiting for gloves. At first glance it appears that he has been playing in mud - to the wrists his hands are a dark, dark brown. He looks at me like a deer caught in the headlights, brown streaks smearing his forehead, cheeks and torso like so much war paint. Meekly, he declares, "Chocolate poop."
It is only later on that I realize his penchant for sweets must have finally caught up with him and that the dark brown mess must have resembled dark chocolate so much that he couldn't resist the temptation. Hence the horrible retching I had heard. We may go through the above scenarios many times over in the months to come as he works his way through this particular milestone, but something tells me he won't be making *that* particular mistake again.
Adventures in Refrigeration
Originally published Jan. 25, 2006.
My wee one has an obsession with food. This is something that has been a recurring theme throughout his life. My first child was such an incredibly neat eater that I literally never even had to wipe his hands or mouth when he got up from the table. I never owned a bib. Yes, I was a "smug parent" about this... for a little while. Then my daughter came along and seemed to be making up for her neat brother. She had food stains on her clothing until she was 4 years old and to this day is an embarrassment at the table. I thought we'd paid for that little bit of parental pride. I obviously thought wrong. Rather than just wearing some spaghetti on his clothes, he will choose to dump the entire bowl on his head. At 10 months of age this is a novelty. At 3 years of age, it is, well.... not. If left at the table with his siblings while eating, he will initiate a food fight, throwing every morsel of food he can get his hands on. I have blueberry stains on the walls to prove it, if you don't believe me. If left alone with something saucy, he will plunge his hands and forearms into the dish and then try furiously to de-sauce his arms on his shirt. I have been pegged in the forehead with seemingly unsatisfactory bits of morsels. He sits at the table the better part of a day, demanding food, receiving it, eating a bit then discarding it in whatever manner seems most appropriate given the tools at hand. Usually it involves some sort of earth-moving machinery and a screwdriver. I have never felt dread over food until he came along.
The refrigerator was his playground (please note the purposeful use of the past tense). Of course, I had missed out on this lovely aspect of childhood with my other two. From the time he was 18 months old (when he was finally big enough to open it himself), he would help himself to whatever he could find that would make a satisfying mess. Mostly it was eggs and parmesan cheese. Have you ever had a 2 lb. can of parmesan cheese dumped on your rug? Let me tell you, that is a LOT of parmesan cheese and it smells disturbingly like vomit. In a 4 month period we would go through 1 can a week. Sometimes I would find him doing it, but most times he would abscond with it to some part of the house in which I, oddly enough, was not present to gleefully dump it everywhere.
Eggs are his other pleasure. He started his egg rampage by just cracking them in the middle of the kitchen floor. He quickly learned, however, that if he were going to get through a whole carton uninterrupted he needed to find a nice, private place in which to do it, so he moved to a little nook behind some cabinets. If the house suddenly went silent, it was a sure bet you'd find him back there, cracking away, usually naked. If you've never experienced the mess of raw eggs on the floor, I highly recommend trying it just once. In a good week he could go through 2 dozen, easy.
From wanton cracking, he quickly progressed to cracking eggs into his toy kitchen's pans. I have to admit that I was suitably impressed by his egg cracking skills at this point, though I would rather have my eye-teeth pulled out than admit that to him. Most recently, just passed the age of 3, he decided he was ready for bigger stuff. Just before we got radical, I found my naked chef surrounded with freshly buttered pans (mine), eggs cracked in them sans shells (mostly), with one on the stove and him furiously trying to turn on the stove-top, spatula at the ready.
We tried everything to keep him out of the fridge, to no avail. This past weekend, however, we finally (FINALLY) nipped little Dennis's Adventures in Refrigeration in the bud. After over 18 months of angst, frustration and countless dollars in lost food (mostly consisting of organic eggs, parmesan cheese, chive cream cheese and Hershey's dark chocolate syrup), as well as 3 previous attempts to bar said thief from our cold-food storage using conventional "child-proofing" methods, our aggravation is at an end. Until he figures out how to use the bolt cutters or work the combinations (either of which is quite plausible), we no longer have to worry about food loss.
3, the new 2? Parenting myths debunked.
Originally published Jan. 25th, 2006.
For those of you out there yet to experience the joys and not so joyous moments of parenthood, I'd like to quickly debunk a very popular myth for you. It isn't age 2 you need to worry about. The "terrible two's" are, to put it quite simply, a bunch of muck. Obviously the people who started perpetuating that myth either, A) had no grasp of child development, B) had nannies, C) gave their children away before they turned 3, or D) employed the Darwinian theory of "Survival of the Fittest" and obviously their children did not make the cut.
For those of you out there yet to experience the joys and not so joyous moments of parenthood, I'd like to quickly debunk a very popular myth for you. It isn't age 2 you need to worry about. The "terrible two's" are, to put it quite simply, a bunch of muck. Obviously the people who started perpetuating that myth either, A) had no grasp of child development, B) had nannies, C) gave their children away before they turned 3, or D) employed the Darwinian theory of "Survival of the Fittest" and obviously their children did not make the cut.
Ask any parent who is with their child all day and they will tell you. It is age 3 you need to afraid of. And I do mean afraid. Something happens right around the end of their 3rd year of life (usually around 33-34 months of age) - it is like a switch kicks on in their little developing brains - which makes them realize that not only are they their own autonomous human beings (which is where the "no" phase comes from in the 2's, understandably), but that they can do things over which we as parents have no control. The idea of "Parental Control" (and I use those quotes quite purposefully) is also, sadly, a myth, about which they are suddenly and quite painfully (for us parents) aware. Having a 3-year-old is like having a little poltergeist living with you. And as with poltergeists, so with 3-year-olds... some are playful and mischievous, but overall harmless and some... well. Let us just say that if your infant gives you cause for worry at this stage, I feel for you.
I have had 3 such experiences with age 3. "Good baby" and "easy" are not words applied to my children. I adopted the motto, "There is no such thing as a "bad" baby - just easy temperaments and not so easy temperaments" early on in my parenting adventure. (And let me debunk one more parenting myth for you right now. Temperament is luck of the draw. An "easy" baby is no more a reflection of your good parenting than a "difficult" baby is a reflection of it. If you look at your child now and think "I must be such a good parent, just look at my child!" I assure you this is not the case. Because at some point, no matter how good you are as a parent, your child will do *something* that will knock you off your high-horse. Better to start humble and stay humble. If not, your humbling will be all the more painful when it does happen. And it will, of that I am sure.)
I was blessed with 3 people who knew their minds from the moment they were born. They were also born with an uncanny ability to communicate their thoughts to me in no uncertain terms. I went through hell and back with my eldest (I'm holding my breath for the next trip, but for right now things are pretty good...) and experienced almost every parenting challenge you can imagine. You know, the kind that sends parents running in droves to the bookstore to read 1 of the thousands of books written about what in the world they must have done wrong along the way. It was those experiences with my eldest that felled me where I stood and humbled me in a way that I wish upon no parent. The words, "my child will *never* do that" will never, ever again cross my lips because as sure as they are released, my children *will* do it.
My daughter was "easy" by comparison (just don't compare her to other peoples' kids, lol). I thought I had been through my fair share of parenting challenges and surely anything else would be relatively smooth sailing by comparison. I was obviously mistaken. For whatever reason, when my youngest sought me out as a parent, he obviously felt that I had not yet learned whatever it is that I am fated to be taught in this life.
He is 3 now, with more than his fair share of obsessive-compulsive tendencies, and goes by the moniker "Dennis the Menace." Of course, to make matters worse, he is a largely non-verbal 3 (an experience I do not recommend to anyone). He has merrily latched on to the word "menace," happily referring to himself as "memace" while giving you his wicked "devil may care" grin. His is a larger-than-life personality with a wicked sense of humor and a grin that I imagine he will greatly need in the years to come as I think it will be his salvation. It is he who has prompted me to chronicle life with a 3-year-old. And the adventure continues...
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