Saturday, Nov. 27, 2010: Thanks a lot

Gavin and Stacy are in the bathroom giggling. He's getting a bath. She might be in the bathtub with him. I don't know, because I'm in the living room not grading essays. I have a hole in my sock. I am tired. These are the things I do know.

Gavin can do so much for himself now. Well, he wants to do more than he can actually do, but even when he can't actually do something, he gets it. He's also a total monkey these days, climbing on and over and under everything. Stacy's taken to putting the kitchen chairs sideways on the floor to keep him from climbing up onto them. He likes to sit at the kitchen table and draw. Scribble, I guess. Still, he's got an artistic streak. But he wants to sit at the table all of the time and he can't be trusted not to chair surf, i.e. stand on the chair. "Chairs are for sitting" and "Sitting please," are very common phrases around these parts. Gavin's response is to either sit down, pretend like he's going to sit down and laugh maniacally, or to ignore us all together opting for a physical correction by default. And by "physical correction" I don't mean we beat him or something (although yesterday my dad was over and he saw the book Easy to Love, Difficult to Discipline on the kitchen table and asked, "Are you going to smack him around?" Um, no, Dad. We aren't. Anyway, he was kidding, I think). I just mean we have to pick him up and take him off of the chair or gently encourage him to sit.

I took Gavin to the doctor on Tuesday because he'd had a cold for about three weeks. She gave him some antibiotics - nasty cherry-flavored pink goo that I can barely stand the smell of but that Gavin sucks down like it's candy. He doesn't know any better. And that's really to our benefit when it comes to giving him medicine, I guess. We've never given him anything besides baby acetaminophen before, so this was Gavin's first prescription. Unfortunately, his cold seems to be going on four weeks now, since it doesn't seem to have cleared up by now. I don't know if it should be cleared up by now or not, though. Stacy called the doctor this morning and left a message asking if we should give him another dose of the meds since we have enough left for one more. So we shall see.

Gavin's first Thanksgiving as a conscious being went really well. I mean, he was conscious last year, too, but not eating anything besides boobie milk and the occasional helping of cereal. Last year we were at Grandpa Gary's where Gavin got to cruise around in Great Grandma Mary's wheelchair. This year we went to Grandma Kathy's new place (see photo at left, taken by Laura's girlfriend at Grandma's), but had we gone to Grandpa Gary's no doubt he would have been pushing the wheelchair around the house rather than riding in it. Grandma Kathy has no wheelchairs, but she does have a piano and a harp and Gavin played solos on each. It took him awhile to get comfortable over there since he hasn't been very often, but once he was acclimated and could detach himself from Stacy he was very confident and curious.

Stacy made apple pie and Gavin got to have some. He was a very enthusiastic apple pie eater. He never gets to eat stuff like this since we are terribly mean moms. Stacy makes a damn good apple pie, too. Part of me wishes she would make it every day, but another part of me, the part that doesn't want to spend my life confined to a motor scooter to cart around my girth, is glad she doesn't.

Sunday, November 21, 2010: Look out! Flying babies!

"Ohshh, ohshh," is one of Gavin's new favorite sayings. He says it whenever he, say, drops something, or knocks something down when he didn't intend to, or falls on his butt. I am, of course, worried that what he's actually saying is, "Oh shit, oh shit," and, if so, that I am definitely to blame. Recently another mother told me about when her daughter was about three and one day blurted out, "Shit, shit, shit!" She went right to her husband and said, "You've got to stop swearing in the house! Did you hear what she said?" And then, a few days later, upset about something, she heard herself say, "Shit, shit, shit!" It was, in fact, her all along. I, myself, need no revelation. I am under no illusion that I have a clean mouth. And I do try not to swear in front of Gavin. But "Oh, shit" has been one of my go-to phrases for years. It's a hard habit to break.

Speaking of swearing in front of children, my friend Lisa and her son Brenden (he's six weeks older than Gavin and Gavin just turned 16 months -- I almost wrote 16 weeks. Not quite -- yesterday) were on a plane last weekend headed from Los Angeles to Oregon. She had him on her lap in the window seat and a woman came down the aisle -- an older woman, a grandma type, Lisa said, "The kind of woman you'd expect to love the shit out of kids" -- and found she was seated next to them. Now keep in mind that Brenden was being really good, he wasn't crying, he hadn't shit his pants or anything. He was excited to be on the plane and was looking out the window. This woman sat down and was seated for maybe two seconds when she sprung up and went to talk to the flight attendant. "I want a new seat," she said. "I am not sitting next to a fucking baby. I paid over $300 fucking dollars for this ticket and I can't believe this..." And on and on. Now, keep in mind, it's not a big plane and she's only a few rows away making no real effort to be discrete. Lisa was mortified. She said all eyes in the plane alternated between this woman and her. The flight attendant informed the woman that it was a full flight and there were no other seats available and I don't know what she would have done if some man up near the front didn't spring up and say, "You can have my seat. I'd love to sit next to the baby." And thus Lisa sat next to a man who told Lisa he had four kids and apologized on the woman's behalf calling her, "Pure evil." So thank goodness for this guy.

Now, Lisa's experience is not a common one, I don't think. I have never seen anyone raise a fuss about sitting next to a baby on a plane before. Gavin has been on a plane twice, once to Florida last year at Christmas time, and once to California. No one gave us any problems. I've heard plenty of people say they inwardly groan when they get on a plane and are seated near a baby, but no one ever go ape shit out loud about it. But try telling that to Lisa. Because the woman on the plane to Oregon was the second time this kind of thing has happened to her. On a flight from Los Angeles to Detroit another grandmotherly-looking woman asked to change seats so she wouldn't have to sit next to Lisa and Brenden. This woman didn't drop F-bombs all over the plane, but she still was rude and insistent. Luckily there was another available seat and Lisa and Brenden ended up having the whole row to themselves. And Brenden slept like an angel the entire flight.

So considering Lisa's travails, it was with much interest that I read the New York Times article "Passengers Push for Child-Free Flights." Apparently there's a vocal minority who claim they'd "gladly pay more" for flights sans children. I have a couple of responses to this. First of all, never tell airlines that you'd "gladly pay more" for anything because they are already gladly charging more for everything. Want to bring luggage? Open your wallet. Want something to drink, even water? Get out your credit card. Hell, Spirit even charges you for carry on bags. Pretty soon they'll charge you to use the restrooms and add an extra fee if you want to actually sit in a seat as opposed to standing in the aisle holding onto a goddamn strap like you're on a city bus.

As far as proposals go, child-free flights really aren't feasible. It would make traveling more of a logistical nightmare than it already is. The NYT article mentions a Facebook group called "Airlines Should Have Kid-Free Flights" (over 400 members now) where people kvetch and moan about kids kicking their seats and babies screaming and children throwing temper tantrums from one side of the globe to the other. I guess I've just been lucky, but I've never been on a flight with one of these terror-babies that folks are describing. Most of the posts on the Facebook group's wall blame the parents, which is probably fair in many instances (although it's important to point out that sometimes kids freak the fuck out for reasons even the best parent can't figure out or fix right away). Of course, it would be even more impractical to bar bad parents from flights because babies and toddlers flying alone are notorious for missing their connecting flights, never mind the barely comprehensible directions they give to cab drivers once they've reached their destination.

For the record I think Stacy and I are fairly good parents, though that doesn't mean I'm not nervous about our upcoming flight to Florida at Christmas time (I'm going to check out Jet With Kids before we fly and hopefully find something useful). Last year Gavin couldn't even sit up by himself, let alone walk and talk. But we're bringing a totally different kid this time. Last year he was a baby, now he's a toddler. And toddlers are capable of a lot more havoc on a plane. I mean, I don't know exactly what's going to happen, but I think he'll be pretty good. I hope so, anyway. I plan to be armed to the teeth with snacks, toys, and other diversions and can only do the best I can. Still, it's possible that my son might annoy some of his fellow travelers. Especially if we have Lisa's luck and end up sitting next to child-hating grannies from hell. But you know, fuck those kinds of people. I've got enough to worry about with the TSA insisting on either zapping my body in a microwave or rooting around in my ass crack before I board the plane.

Saturday, November 13, 2010: Gavin on my back

Gavin is sick. Lots of snot and coughing. He did go to daycare yesterday (you're welcome, parents of Gavin's friends!), but in our defense we thought he was better. He sure acted like he was. He woke up on Friday morning in such a good mood I half expected him to start singing "Zippity Do Dah" and clicking his heels together. Truth be told, that would have really freaked me out.

Last night while I was waiting for the bus to take me from campus to the commuter lot I was reading Slate.com on my Blackberry, which I so often do, and I came across Shankar Vedantam's "Parents Are Junkies: If parenthood sucks, why do we love it? Because we're addicted." He talks about recent studies that found becoming parents doesn't make people happier. If anything, having kids makes you less happy. But, of course, people still do it. And some people do it more than once (I am one of 5 kids, by the way. WTF Mom and Dad?). He argues that the highs of parenting are like a drug and, like a lab rat receiving a reward for pushing a lever, we endure an awful lot of unpleasantness in between highs. It's totally true. So much of being a mom sucks. I do not like interacting with snot, poop, urine, and spit on a never-ending rotation. I don't like crying and screaming and whining. I do not like the ever-lengthening TO DO list of parenting-related chores. Like right now, for example. Gavin's shoes are out on the deck because while we were playing in the yard he managed to step in dog shit. I need to clean them or throw them away. Those are my options (I'm still weighing them).

But then there's the times when he nuzzles his head into my shoulder and wraps his arms around my neck. Or looks up at me while he's nursing in the morning and smile and wave. Or waking up to his beaming face over mine. There's this voice mail message I have saved where he apparently called my cell phone (he loves to play with the phone). The bulk of the message is just noise, Gavin running around with the phone or whatever. But at the very end before he hangs up, he puts the phone up to his mouth and says, very briefly, "Ah." And I LOVE this message. I play it all the time. It's just this second of my son's voice and I get all warm and fuzzy every time I hear it. So, yeah, addict sounds about right.

Alas, it sounds like Gavin is up from his nap. He sounds very unhappy. I don't think he slept well at all. Coughing kept waking him up. Poor little dude. I suppose it's possible he'll go back to sleep. But I doubt it. God, I would love a nap. Maybe that's what I'll request for Christmas.

Oh, did I mention that the other day he napped for THREE AND A HALF HOURS? This, of course, happened while I wasn't home. Heaven forbid he should sleep even two full hours while I'm watching him. When I got home I was shocked when Stacy said he was still sleeping. "Are you sure he's alive?" I asked. She looked at me in horror. "Don't even say that," she said. "That's not even funny." I responded, "I'm not trying to be funny. Just paranoid and reactionary." And jealous. Definitely jealous. I mean, I love spending time with Gavin, but it's nice to get a break. Especially since that's so rarely an option. I've been exhausted for a few days shy of 16 months now with no end in sight (and, really, thank God for that).

Thursday, November 11: Sandpaper covered slide

It has been so long since my last update you probably figured that I'd given up on parenting and went to go live in some kind of Failure Palace for former moms. You would be wrong on at least one count. I am happy to announce that I am not a failure. I have given up on parenting, though. Gavin is clearly grown enough to take care of himself now as is clearly evident in his employee work badge school photo. I'm pretty sure I see the hint of a mustache. Is it necessary to mention that I screamed out loud when I saw this photo and then almost died from the cuteness? No it is not. It is the only sane reaction.

So, yeah, I've been wanting to write about all of the amazing things happening IRL (in real life), but I have been swamped with work, which is what pays the VRB (very real bills. Though soon Gavin's Initech salary will take care of that). Obviously a mother's love is measured by how much she blogs about her son -- so I would like to make clear that I have been BLOGGING IN MY MIND and yes, that counts.

Emma the greyhound, living large at 14-years-old, has been having a harder and harder time getting down the deck steps to go potty in the backyard. So the other night I bought her a ramp. It came via UPS today and she and Gavin both tried it out. Both ended up with bleeding feet. Emma had a difficult time grasping the concept of going up the ramp (going down was no problem) and slipped off the side near the bottom, scraping her paw. And Gavin thought it was a slide and tried to slide down it. The ramp has some pretty heavy duty grip surface and so his sliding ended up being more like a pants-shredding scooting. He was barefoot (yes, it's a little chilly today, but we were outside very briefly, I swear) and ended up scraping his heel and toes up.  I don't know why it didn't occur to me that he wouldn't get the "ramp" concept and just walk down it considering he'd never really seen or interacted with a ramp before. Apparently that's not a concept kids have from birth like wiping your dirty hands on your shirt or letting your body go all limp when you're throwing a tantrum making it physically impossible to be picked up. In any case, he was wearing these black leggings during the ramp incident (usually reserved for wearing under other things, like long johns, but Aunt Laura dressed him today after a Red Bull incident whereupon Gavin took her Red Bull and proceeded to dump it down the front of his chest while attempting to "get wings") and the crotch of his pants now looks like Swiss cheese. Oh well, they were ugly anyway. My dad called them his Peter Pan tights. Then again, they'd be really useful in the winter. Alas.

Gavin has a cold right now. Poor guy. It's time to bust out the humidifier. He's taking a nap right now -- although he did just start crying. Shit. I hope it passes. He really needs the rest. The last couple of nights he woke up late cry-screaming briefly before going back to bed. Night terrors, I guess, though I don't know what's causing them. He and Aunt Laura have been listening to a lot of Morrissey lately. That's probably it.

Dancing is still one of Gavin's latest and greatest tricks and he's only getting better. As I said, he and Laura have been listening to a lot of Morrissey. But he dances to good music, too. He will actually ask us to put music on. He'll go up to the cabinet the CD player is in and pull on the handle and look at us and bounce up and down a little bit. It's pretty much the most adorable thing ever.

"Dog" has seemingly left his vocabulary. In fact, most words have. He was racking up quite the little lexicon and now he's pretty mum. Well, at least in terms of actual decipherable English words. He babbles a lot. But he's apparently tucked his previous vocab away somewhere while he's busy working on other stuff. Like dancing and art. He's quite the artist, in fact. Here's a picture he and Aunt Laura drew while I was at the gym:

Laura drew the bird, cat, person and sun and Gavin drew their, um, environment. Laura said that the kitty is peeing all over everything, which she claims was Gavin's idea. Who am I to question my son's artistic intentions? Also, thank God for washable markers. Except Laura didn't have him use the washable ones. So that grey marker on his foot will be there awhile.