So 2010 was my first full calendar year as a mom. I guess there's no turning back now. I'm in it for the long haul.
And since Mr. Long Haul will no doubt get up at 6:00 tomorrow morning (or, if we're lucky, a little earlier), I'm going to bed. Happy New Year!
Friday, December 31, 2010
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
December 28, 2010: Pump up the jams
Gavin's doctor's appointment yesterday went well. He's healthy and happy. He was in a really good mood for the most part and was very smiley with his doctor. At one point she went after his "piggies," which are, of course, his toes, but that isn't something we ever call them. However, when she said, "Where are your piggies?" he responded by holding up his bare foot (having taken his socks off moments before since socks are something he seems to have ideological problems with). Perhaps "piggies" is part of the vernacular babies are born with. In any case, he's now about 26 and a half pounds (last time I took him to the doctor he weighed in at 28. I don't think he's dieting or anything, though he does get pickier and pickier every day. He was sick and thus clingy when I took him in last and he didn't stand on the scale for very long and the time he was on there he wasn't especially still) and about 33 inches tall. He's in the upper percentile for height and the 70-90 percentile for weight and head circumference. So he's a big guy, but not freaky-big.
Everything was great at the doctor's until the shots. He got four, which he did not like for some reason. Stacy held his legs, I was up by his head. All up in his face, actually, in a loving way. I wanted to distract him from what was going on with his adorably chubby and impossibly soft baby thighs. This means I got to see the exact moment the pain of being stabbed registered on his face. The grimace followed by screaming and tears. It was hard. For both of us. More so for him, I'm sure. But after the shots Stacy scooped him up and he quieted down right away.
On our way out the receptionist gave him stickers, one of a kitty and one of some puppies, which she stuck on his jacket and he liked very much. But then he turned and tripped and face planted on the industrial unpadded carpet. So he'll probably have a complex surrounding stickers on his clothing for the rest of his life. I can relate since I hate wearing name tags at events. I often don't put it on at all and because I am a grown up and name tag-wearing events are typically grown up affairs, rarely does someone ever call me out about it. When I was little I loved stickers. I remember skunk-scented Berenstain Bears stickers that were affixed to the ladder of the bunk bed I shared with my twin sister. First question: Why did anyone ever make skunk-scented Berenstain Bears scratch and sniff stickers? Second question: Why did anyone ever buy such a thing for a child (as I was much too young to buy them for myself)? Third question: Why did I think it was a good idea to stick skunk-scented stickers on my bunk bed, where I slept? Later in life I didn't like to stick stickers so much as collect them obsessively, although I never amassed a collection like our babysitter who would sometimes let my sister and I each have a sticker. (I hasten to add that some one with a sticker collection is probably too young to be trusted with your children.) In high school I would go on to put a small fingernail-sized sticker on the brown leather collar of my beloved jean jacket and later I would remove that sticker only to also remove the soft brown layer or leather beneath it. This would make me very disappointed, but I would grow up to become an adult who could look back at pictures of myself in that jean jacket and think, "Seriously? No one knew I was gay?"
In the late afternoon we went to a birthday party at what Gavin would probably deem the most funnest place in the world, Pump It Up: The Inflatable Party Zone. We had to sign a form saying we were cool if our son suffered "contusions, fractures, scrapes, cuts, bumps, paralysis, or death" there. I am, of course, totally not cool with that and to even sign such a thing seems unconscionable, but we did (or Stacy did, at least) and Gavin had so much fun there I'm sure he thought he'd already died and gone to heaven, as if heaven would be a building located in an industrial park filled with inflatable bounce houses and slides decorated in a hideously garish color scheme (and seeing as Gavin has no concept of death or heaven, this is a stretch). For a kid who got four shots yesterday, Gavin was tearing all over the place. He loved all of it. Bouncing in the bounce house, going through the obstacle course, climbing on the benches (these weren't part of the Pump It Up experience as they are metal and not filled with air. He just has a thing for benches). He was delirious with joy. In fact, he loved it so much that I even suggested to Stacy that we might want to think about having his 2nd birthday party there. Who knows? Crazier shit has happened. And anyway his birthday is toward the end of July and although it's summer it's really hot outside. For his first birthday it was super hot and rainy. Our house is just too small for big parties. Anyway, it's something I'm considering even though part of me fears that Pump It Up is just a giant inflatable staph infection waiting to happen. With that many people bouncing on and jumping in and touching everything I have to doubt how they can possibly keep the place disinfected. I hope Gavin doesn't wake up with pink eye.
Everything was great at the doctor's until the shots. He got four, which he did not like for some reason. Stacy held his legs, I was up by his head. All up in his face, actually, in a loving way. I wanted to distract him from what was going on with his adorably chubby and impossibly soft baby thighs. This means I got to see the exact moment the pain of being stabbed registered on his face. The grimace followed by screaming and tears. It was hard. For both of us. More so for him, I'm sure. But after the shots Stacy scooped him up and he quieted down right away.
On our way out the receptionist gave him stickers, one of a kitty and one of some puppies, which she stuck on his jacket and he liked very much. But then he turned and tripped and face planted on the industrial unpadded carpet. So he'll probably have a complex surrounding stickers on his clothing for the rest of his life. I can relate since I hate wearing name tags at events. I often don't put it on at all and because I am a grown up and name tag-wearing events are typically grown up affairs, rarely does someone ever call me out about it. When I was little I loved stickers. I remember skunk-scented Berenstain Bears stickers that were affixed to the ladder of the bunk bed I shared with my twin sister. First question: Why did anyone ever make skunk-scented Berenstain Bears scratch and sniff stickers? Second question: Why did anyone ever buy such a thing for a child (as I was much too young to buy them for myself)? Third question: Why did I think it was a good idea to stick skunk-scented stickers on my bunk bed, where I slept? Later in life I didn't like to stick stickers so much as collect them obsessively, although I never amassed a collection like our babysitter who would sometimes let my sister and I each have a sticker. (I hasten to add that some one with a sticker collection is probably too young to be trusted with your children.) In high school I would go on to put a small fingernail-sized sticker on the brown leather collar of my beloved jean jacket and later I would remove that sticker only to also remove the soft brown layer or leather beneath it. This would make me very disappointed, but I would grow up to become an adult who could look back at pictures of myself in that jean jacket and think, "Seriously? No one knew I was gay?"
Monday, December 27, 2010
December 27, 2010: Christmas is so over
Well, we made it back to Michigan safe and sound. Mostly sound. On our last day in Florida I developed a sore throat. And now Gavin has a runny nose and is being especially clingy. The airplane was fine. Gavin was squirmy and got pissed off at one point because we put his sweater back on him, but other than that he's a model airplane citizen. On the way to Florida was a bit easier since he did sleep at least part of the way.
Gavin's favorite part of our Florida experience was the golf car. Marilyn (his granny) and Paul live in The Villages. It's a golf car community, which means that just about everyone tools around in golf cars. There are regular cars, too, but golf cars are just as prevalent. The Wal-Mart even has a golf car lot with tiny parking spaces. I knew that Marilyn would want to take Gavin in the golf car and I was initially against this until I saw that her golf car has seat belts. He sat on my lap or Stacy's lap and we put the belt over both of us. I mean, yeah, if we got hit by a car we'd probably all die, but at least he wouldn't fall out while it was moving, which was my main worry. But he LOVED it. After the first time he rode in it, every time he saw a golf car (and this was a very frequent occurrence) he would point and say, "Ungh, ungh" (which is his multi-purpose grunt at the moment, usually used to call your attention to something he finds particularly interesting). When we got in the car to go to the airport on our last day there he cried because we weren't getting in the golf car. Since The Villages is about an hour and a half away from the airport, I am very glad we didn't take the golf car there.
Gavin also got to feed and pet horses while we were there. I was not there for this experience as I was on my way back from Clearwater with Amanda. But Stacy took lots of pictures and videos, which I will one day upload once I get a new computer cord because mine is, sadly, melting (I'm using my sister's computer right now. Thanks, Christine!). No doubt next year he'll be asking us for a pony and a golf car for Christmas.
For this Christmas I gave Gavin a toy vacuum. Huge hit. My mom gave him a toy mop, which came with little lady gloves (which he will probably never wear. Sorry, Mom). Also a hit. What can I say, my son has a thing for cleaning. To say he got lots of stuff is an understatement. Puzzles, books, toy cars, stuffed animals, and a djembe. Laura is hell bent on making him a drummer. Truth be told, he likes to drum.
Throwing toys, etc. has become a problem. He likes to clear off shelves of books by sweeping them to the floor, some time selecting individual titles to chuck more purposefully to the floor. I took his puzzles away this morning because he was trying to sweep them all off the side table in the living room and onto the floor. So he knocked my water bottle onto the floor instead. It's like he instinctively knows how to be a brat. This goes hand in hand with his toddler resistance tactics, which he no doubt learned by watching YouTube videos of the WTO meetings in Seattle. This morning he reached out and swatted at Emma, more smacking than petting, all the while looking right at me like, "I know what I'm doing is not okay and am waiting for your reaction." I took his hand and guided it along her side saying, "Gentle, gentle. We are gentle with animals." This is something he already knows. But limits are so much fun to test.
Yesterday at my dad's every member of our family was in the same room at the same time which rarely happens any more since Christine lives in LA and Brian lives in Arizona. All of us together is quite cacophonous (i.e. insane) and he did very well amidst all of the noise and confusion and dogs (my dad's, Louie the pug and Rocket and Chihuahua mix, and Amanda's pug-mix Charlie). While we were opening gifts I managed to hit Gavin in the face with a box of stuff from my dad. Gavin was on my lap and I pulled the box closer to us and misjudged the depth between Gavin and the box. He wasn't managed or anything, but he did cry. Not the best way to endear him to Grandpa Mike. Or me. My dad was hell bent on Gavin playing with this sound block puzzle he gave him as soon as Gavin opened it but Gavin was busy playing with these little trucks my dad gave him so I had to deny my dad this one joy in life. I think my dad sometimes forgets that Gavin isn't even two years old and just doesn't have the ability to take on some many things at once. He's easily distracted even when people aren't shoving brightly colored boxes at him filled with toys. That he was upright (meaning not curled up in Stacy's arms sucking his thumb, one of his preferred states of being) and having fun was a miracle in itself. Let's not push it.
Gavin has a doctor's appointment this morning. I don't know if he'll get more shots or not. I should probably know this. I know he'll be weighed and measured, though. My estimate is that he'll be three feet tall and somewhere in the neighborhood of 50 lbs. And then we're going on Jerry Springer.
Gavin's favorite part of our Florida experience was the golf car. Marilyn (his granny) and Paul live in The Villages. It's a golf car community, which means that just about everyone tools around in golf cars. There are regular cars, too, but golf cars are just as prevalent. The Wal-Mart even has a golf car lot with tiny parking spaces. I knew that Marilyn would want to take Gavin in the golf car and I was initially against this until I saw that her golf car has seat belts. He sat on my lap or Stacy's lap and we put the belt over both of us. I mean, yeah, if we got hit by a car we'd probably all die, but at least he wouldn't fall out while it was moving, which was my main worry. But he LOVED it. After the first time he rode in it, every time he saw a golf car (and this was a very frequent occurrence) he would point and say, "Ungh, ungh" (which is his multi-purpose grunt at the moment, usually used to call your attention to something he finds particularly interesting). When we got in the car to go to the airport on our last day there he cried because we weren't getting in the golf car. Since The Villages is about an hour and a half away from the airport, I am very glad we didn't take the golf car there.
Gavin also got to feed and pet horses while we were there. I was not there for this experience as I was on my way back from Clearwater with Amanda. But Stacy took lots of pictures and videos, which I will one day upload once I get a new computer cord because mine is, sadly, melting (I'm using my sister's computer right now. Thanks, Christine!). No doubt next year he'll be asking us for a pony and a golf car for Christmas.
For this Christmas I gave Gavin a toy vacuum. Huge hit. My mom gave him a toy mop, which came with little lady gloves (which he will probably never wear. Sorry, Mom). Also a hit. What can I say, my son has a thing for cleaning. To say he got lots of stuff is an understatement. Puzzles, books, toy cars, stuffed animals, and a djembe. Laura is hell bent on making him a drummer. Truth be told, he likes to drum.
Throwing toys, etc. has become a problem. He likes to clear off shelves of books by sweeping them to the floor, some time selecting individual titles to chuck more purposefully to the floor. I took his puzzles away this morning because he was trying to sweep them all off the side table in the living room and onto the floor. So he knocked my water bottle onto the floor instead. It's like he instinctively knows how to be a brat. This goes hand in hand with his toddler resistance tactics, which he no doubt learned by watching YouTube videos of the WTO meetings in Seattle. This morning he reached out and swatted at Emma, more smacking than petting, all the while looking right at me like, "I know what I'm doing is not okay and am waiting for your reaction." I took his hand and guided it along her side saying, "Gentle, gentle. We are gentle with animals." This is something he already knows. But limits are so much fun to test.
Yesterday at my dad's every member of our family was in the same room at the same time which rarely happens any more since Christine lives in LA and Brian lives in Arizona. All of us together is quite cacophonous (i.e. insane) and he did very well amidst all of the noise and confusion and dogs (my dad's, Louie the pug and Rocket and Chihuahua mix, and Amanda's pug-mix Charlie). While we were opening gifts I managed to hit Gavin in the face with a box of stuff from my dad. Gavin was on my lap and I pulled the box closer to us and misjudged the depth between Gavin and the box. He wasn't managed or anything, but he did cry. Not the best way to endear him to Grandpa Mike. Or me. My dad was hell bent on Gavin playing with this sound block puzzle he gave him as soon as Gavin opened it but Gavin was busy playing with these little trucks my dad gave him so I had to deny my dad this one joy in life. I think my dad sometimes forgets that Gavin isn't even two years old and just doesn't have the ability to take on some many things at once. He's easily distracted even when people aren't shoving brightly colored boxes at him filled with toys. That he was upright (meaning not curled up in Stacy's arms sucking his thumb, one of his preferred states of being) and having fun was a miracle in itself. Let's not push it.
Gavin has a doctor's appointment this morning. I don't know if he'll get more shots or not. I should probably know this. I know he'll be weighed and measured, though. My estimate is that he'll be three feet tall and somewhere in the neighborhood of 50 lbs. And then we're going on Jerry Springer.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Wednesday, Dec. 22, 2010: Away Bear
I am at Amanda Carver's house in Clearwater, Florida. My son is a couple of hours away in The Villages with Stacy and his Granny Marilyn and her husband Paul. He's in good hands. I am sure of it. But this is the furthest away from him I've ever been. I wonder what he's doing right now. Surely something cute.
Stacy got over her illness in about 24 hours just like Gavin, though it took her several days to get her appetite back. I never got the bug, thank god, but I did pass a kidney stone. It hurt, but not that badly all things considered. It must have been right there, teetering on the edge, ready to dive into my bladder. I am not complaining. I am glad I didn't have to go to the hospital in The Villages. They don't even let anyone under 30 into the swimming pools. I can only imagine what the age requirement is for the emergency room.
Gavin went on a golf car ride with Stacy and his Granny yesterday. This was originally something I was against, but Marilyn and Paul's new golf car has seatbelts, so Stacy was able to sit Gavin on her lap and belt them both in. Apparently he loved it. I didn't go because I needed to get work done for school. Getting my grades in and ordering textbooks for next term.
Paul's been showing Gavin various tools and stuff in the garage. Gavin seems to be digging it. Yesterday he took Gavin up into the attic. It made me a little nervous, but I trusted that Paul wouldn't let him fall. Paul was on the ladder the whole time with his torso above the ceiling and his legs below, so there was never a chance that Gavin would stumble through the opening or anything. Paul also showed Gavin how to sommersault yesterday (not related to the attic in any way, thank god), and watching Gavin try to do it was pretty much the cutest thing ever.
Amanda is hollering at me to get in the shower so we can go to lunch and Big Lots. You know what they say, "When in Clearwater, go to the Clearwater Big Lots." I am happy to be here. Will be happy to see my Bear again tomorrow though, too.
Stacy got over her illness in about 24 hours just like Gavin, though it took her several days to get her appetite back. I never got the bug, thank god, but I did pass a kidney stone. It hurt, but not that badly all things considered. It must have been right there, teetering on the edge, ready to dive into my bladder. I am not complaining. I am glad I didn't have to go to the hospital in The Villages. They don't even let anyone under 30 into the swimming pools. I can only imagine what the age requirement is for the emergency room.
Gavin went on a golf car ride with Stacy and his Granny yesterday. This was originally something I was against, but Marilyn and Paul's new golf car has seatbelts, so Stacy was able to sit Gavin on her lap and belt them both in. Apparently he loved it. I didn't go because I needed to get work done for school. Getting my grades in and ordering textbooks for next term.
Paul's been showing Gavin various tools and stuff in the garage. Gavin seems to be digging it. Yesterday he took Gavin up into the attic. It made me a little nervous, but I trusted that Paul wouldn't let him fall. Paul was on the ladder the whole time with his torso above the ceiling and his legs below, so there was never a chance that Gavin would stumble through the opening or anything. Paul also showed Gavin how to sommersault yesterday (not related to the attic in any way, thank god), and watching Gavin try to do it was pretty much the cutest thing ever.
Amanda is hollering at me to get in the shower so we can go to lunch and Big Lots. You know what they say, "When in Clearwater, go to the Clearwater Big Lots." I am happy to be here. Will be happy to see my Bear again tomorrow though, too.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Sunday, December 19, 2010: Florida bug
We made it to Florida. Gavin was miraculously better yesterday. No more puking. He was tired and a little weak and took a three hour nap, but he was by all indications good to go. So on a plane we went. He loved being on the plane. He was looking out the window at all of the equipment trucks and the airplane next to ours. It was a Frontier plane with a big bear on the tail. Very appropriate. He was very animated and excited. When we took off Stacy nursed him. We figured that he'd fall asleep after that. But he was awake for the majority of the flight. Once he did fall asleep he was curled up koala style against Stacy's chest where he became a 28 lb. sweat lodge.
But the good news is we're here safely. The bad news? When I woke up this morning the first thing Stacy said to me was, "I've got it."
"You've got what?" I asked foggily.
"What Gavin had. I've got it."
Oh, Jesus. She spent the day today completely miserable alternately wrapped up in blankets and bathrobes like we were in Michigan and running to the bathroom.
Gavin spent today playing with a toy golf club set his Granny borrowed from a friend who has grand kids of her own. He had a pretty good day today. He was happy and adorable. And of course he wanted Mommy, who wanted to die (figuratively, of course).
So far I don't have it. And I want very much to keep it that way. Cross my heart and hope to live.
But the good news is we're here safely. The bad news? When I woke up this morning the first thing Stacy said to me was, "I've got it."
"You've got what?" I asked foggily.
"What Gavin had. I've got it."
Oh, Jesus. She spent the day today completely miserable alternately wrapped up in blankets and bathrobes like we were in Michigan and running to the bathroom.
Gavin spent today playing with a toy golf club set his Granny borrowed from a friend who has grand kids of her own. He had a pretty good day today. He was happy and adorable. And of course he wanted Mommy, who wanted to die (figuratively, of course).
So far I don't have it. And I want very much to keep it that way. Cross my heart and hope to live.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Friday December 17, 2010: Pukey McPukerton
Puke. So much puke today. So much sad "Mama why is this happening to me and why can't I wrap my arms around your neck while it's happening?"
I should begin by saying that I am not okay with puke. And by "not okay" I don't mean I have some kind of moral misgivings like, "I am not okay with kidnapping" or "I'm not okay with Sarah Palin." Now, no one likes vomit. Wait, I take that back. There are some people who like vomit very, very much. I learned about them in my undergrad human sexuality class. But most people who do not have some kind of weird vomit fetish do not like vomit. I have, ever since I was little, had a particular aversion to the stuff, specifically other people's. Not that I've ever liked puking myself, mind you. But I can't even begin to describe the level of anxiety that vomit has caused me my entire life. When I was in elementary school I had nightmares about it. Actually, that was all through grade school. Great. Now that I'm writing this I'm totally going to have vomit nightmares again.
So. Today I went to visit Gavin at daycare because I didn't have to work today and they were throwing (no pun intended!) a little party for the kids and Santa was coming. I got there right about the time Santa did. Gavin was very happy to see me. Much less happy to see Santa (there are no pictures with Santa). He was very clingy while I was there but seemed to be in good spirits. I had him give gifts to Ms. Shelly, Ms. Beth, and Ms. Debbie and then I went on my way. He cried when I left, but Shelly assured me that she'd distract him and get him to calm down after I was gone and I had no doubt this was true. They are good to him there. In fact, before I left Shelly told me that she loved watching Gavin because he was a really easy kid.
I was home for maybe an hour or two when my phone rang and it was Debbie. "Gavin threw up," she said. I am fairly certain that I said, "Oh, no."
"I'm going to need you to come get him," she said. "You're going to want to give him a bath. We cleaned him up as best we could."
So I quickly got the tub ready (meaning that I made sure there wasn't a headful of hair in it and that the rubber bath mat was down and towels were nearby) and set out his pumpkin sweatsuit to dress him in after his bath. On my way out the door my phone rang again. It was Shelly. "Are you still at home?" she asked. "Bring him a change of clothes. He threw up again." I grabbed the pumpkin sweats and headed out, feeling pretty freaked out.
When I got there he was sitting in the high chair table with a white plastic bowl in front of him. Shelly was sitting right by him. He'd puked three times, the first time while he was in his cot napping. (Shelly warned me that the clothes he was wearing and the sheet he was using were probably not even worth saving. Stacy, however, scrubbed them and washed them later and made them okay. If it had been up to me they would have been pitched because there's no way I could handle that.) The room smelled very strongly of "some one just threw up in here" cleaning agents. Gavin was wearing his skelesweats (black sweats with a skeleton design on them. Clearly for Halloween. As are his pumpkin sweats. So sue me), which were his back up day care clothes. The skelesweats were covered in puke. Real, human puke. Not spit up, which I always thought was gross but for which, at that moment, I longed. To make things worse, he'd eaten pizza for lunch. Honestly, I might never be able to eat pizza again.
When he saw me he started to cry. Shelly lifted him out of his seat and kind of held him up hovering above the table so that I could peel his pants off of him. Only that didn't really register at first so I didn't move to do so until she did, struggling with one hand to hold my son and the other to take off his puke sweats. I grabbed the cuff of his pants between my thumb and forefinger and tugged. They were wet. Thank God the lights were dim in there since kids were sleeping and I didn't have to see Gavin covered in puke under fluorescent lighting. I don't know that I would have been able to make it.
We eased him into his clean pumpkin sweats and into his coat. I apologized. Shelly said that it was okay and Debbie wished me a Merry Christmas. Another kid was sick there, too, I think, being picked up by her dad. I don't know in what way she was sick, but she wasn't covered in puke. "My kids are dropping like flies," I heard Shelly say. Shelly warned me that Gavin's puking was coming on suddenly and indicated that I probably wouldn't make it home before he puked again. I had feared this so I brought some baby blankets and put one over him in the car seat and one on the seat beside him. He smelled terrible. His hair. Oh, God. His beautiful blonde curly hair was one of the circles of Hell. They did a really good job cleaning him up. There wasn't any visible puke on him, but the smell. Oh, the smell.
The good news: we made it home without puking. He fell asleep in the car which apparently turned off his vomit sensor. But as soon as we got in the door he started to hurk. Hurking, of course, is not throwing up, but the sound someone makes immediately prior to throwing up. I hustled him into the bathroom and positioned him face first over the bath tub, which he didn't like at all. See, puking is scary and Gavin clearly wanted me to be holding him and hugging him and telling him everything was okay, not restricting his head movement and pushing his body away from mine while saying, "Lean forward, lean forward" (thanks for the tip, MSNBC). I'm sure I've shattered his sense of trust and safety and messed up his attachment patterns for life. Especially when I screamed after he was done puking. "Screamed" isn't the right word. Neither is yelled. But I did make some kind of fairly primal sounding, "Aarrrrrrggggg" sound. Because as I mentioned, I am not good with vomit. And no, not even my own child's. The child I love more than anything and anyone ever. The child whose stinky feet I can't get enough of, whose lip smacking sounds while he eats peanut butter are like music to me. No. Puke is another thing all together.
Thankfully he got most of it in the tub, a little bit on his winter jacket, which I made a mental note to set fire to later on. I wiped his mouth and took him into the kitchen where I paced and then placed him in his highchair so I could decide what to do. I was freaking out a little. I figured his highchair was a place that would be relatively easy to clean and the kitchen didn't have any rugs or carpeting of any concern to worry about. I called my mom. She told me not to give him anything to eat or drink and wait until it'd been awhile since he'd puked and give him some water. I wanted Stacy to come home. Now. I called her at work and thankfully she was able to leave. I needed back up. Am I am bad mom for needing back up while on puke patrol? Perhaps. But I didn't want to be doing this alone. For one thing, I didn't know what was wrong with my son who was clearly very sick. And for another thing, puke. Gavin started to hurk again. I positioned him over the sink, repeating the previously mentioned bath tub nightmare.
By the time Stacy came home he'd puked three more times. Once in the tub, once in the kitchen sink, and once in a metal mixing bowl I'd brought into his bedroom for this purpose. By that time he was so tired that while he was hurking he was trying to lay his head down inside the bowl, and I would say, firmly but gently, "Lift your face!" and he would for a moment before putting his chubby cheek down again on the cool metal bowl. It was the saddest thing on earth. Thankfully he raised his head in time to hurl.
Now, I am not a cold unfeeling person. I realize I am portraying myself as a monster incapable of loving and comforting her son while he's sick. Not true. I loved him and comforted him. There was a lot of cuddling and hugs and back patting and, "You're okay, Bear. You're going to be okay." But I am incapable of looking past puke. So it was hard on both of us. Harder on him, yes. For sure. No doubt.
When Stacy got home she took over the comforting. He puked at least another four times. We were worried about him getting dehydrated since he hadn't had a wet diaper in hours and couldn't keep any liquids down. We were about to take him to the after hours pediatricians clinic at Beaumont when I said to Stacy, "Try one more time. One more sip. Let's see if he can keep it down. If he can't, then we'll go." I didn't want to have to take him. I didn't want to see an I.V. in his arm. He was so tired and had been through enough. So Stacy gave him another sip. And we waited. He kept it down. She gave him another one. We waited. He kept it down. We repeated this several times. Then Stacy decided to nurse him and put him to bed. Fingers are crossed.
Did I mention that we're supposed to leave for Florida tomorrow?
I should begin by saying that I am not okay with puke. And by "not okay" I don't mean I have some kind of moral misgivings like, "I am not okay with kidnapping" or "I'm not okay with Sarah Palin." Now, no one likes vomit. Wait, I take that back. There are some people who like vomit very, very much. I learned about them in my undergrad human sexuality class. But most people who do not have some kind of weird vomit fetish do not like vomit. I have, ever since I was little, had a particular aversion to the stuff, specifically other people's. Not that I've ever liked puking myself, mind you. But I can't even begin to describe the level of anxiety that vomit has caused me my entire life. When I was in elementary school I had nightmares about it. Actually, that was all through grade school. Great. Now that I'm writing this I'm totally going to have vomit nightmares again.
So. Today I went to visit Gavin at daycare because I didn't have to work today and they were throwing (no pun intended!) a little party for the kids and Santa was coming. I got there right about the time Santa did. Gavin was very happy to see me. Much less happy to see Santa (there are no pictures with Santa). He was very clingy while I was there but seemed to be in good spirits. I had him give gifts to Ms. Shelly, Ms. Beth, and Ms. Debbie and then I went on my way. He cried when I left, but Shelly assured me that she'd distract him and get him to calm down after I was gone and I had no doubt this was true. They are good to him there. In fact, before I left Shelly told me that she loved watching Gavin because he was a really easy kid.
I was home for maybe an hour or two when my phone rang and it was Debbie. "Gavin threw up," she said. I am fairly certain that I said, "Oh, no."
"I'm going to need you to come get him," she said. "You're going to want to give him a bath. We cleaned him up as best we could."
So I quickly got the tub ready (meaning that I made sure there wasn't a headful of hair in it and that the rubber bath mat was down and towels were nearby) and set out his pumpkin sweatsuit to dress him in after his bath. On my way out the door my phone rang again. It was Shelly. "Are you still at home?" she asked. "Bring him a change of clothes. He threw up again." I grabbed the pumpkin sweats and headed out, feeling pretty freaked out.
When I got there he was sitting in the high chair table with a white plastic bowl in front of him. Shelly was sitting right by him. He'd puked three times, the first time while he was in his cot napping. (Shelly warned me that the clothes he was wearing and the sheet he was using were probably not even worth saving. Stacy, however, scrubbed them and washed them later and made them okay. If it had been up to me they would have been pitched because there's no way I could handle that.) The room smelled very strongly of "some one just threw up in here" cleaning agents. Gavin was wearing his skelesweats (black sweats with a skeleton design on them. Clearly for Halloween. As are his pumpkin sweats. So sue me), which were his back up day care clothes. The skelesweats were covered in puke. Real, human puke. Not spit up, which I always thought was gross but for which, at that moment, I longed. To make things worse, he'd eaten pizza for lunch. Honestly, I might never be able to eat pizza again.
When he saw me he started to cry. Shelly lifted him out of his seat and kind of held him up hovering above the table so that I could peel his pants off of him. Only that didn't really register at first so I didn't move to do so until she did, struggling with one hand to hold my son and the other to take off his puke sweats. I grabbed the cuff of his pants between my thumb and forefinger and tugged. They were wet. Thank God the lights were dim in there since kids were sleeping and I didn't have to see Gavin covered in puke under fluorescent lighting. I don't know that I would have been able to make it.
We eased him into his clean pumpkin sweats and into his coat. I apologized. Shelly said that it was okay and Debbie wished me a Merry Christmas. Another kid was sick there, too, I think, being picked up by her dad. I don't know in what way she was sick, but she wasn't covered in puke. "My kids are dropping like flies," I heard Shelly say. Shelly warned me that Gavin's puking was coming on suddenly and indicated that I probably wouldn't make it home before he puked again. I had feared this so I brought some baby blankets and put one over him in the car seat and one on the seat beside him. He smelled terrible. His hair. Oh, God. His beautiful blonde curly hair was one of the circles of Hell. They did a really good job cleaning him up. There wasn't any visible puke on him, but the smell. Oh, the smell.
The good news: we made it home without puking. He fell asleep in the car which apparently turned off his vomit sensor. But as soon as we got in the door he started to hurk. Hurking, of course, is not throwing up, but the sound someone makes immediately prior to throwing up. I hustled him into the bathroom and positioned him face first over the bath tub, which he didn't like at all. See, puking is scary and Gavin clearly wanted me to be holding him and hugging him and telling him everything was okay, not restricting his head movement and pushing his body away from mine while saying, "Lean forward, lean forward" (thanks for the tip, MSNBC). I'm sure I've shattered his sense of trust and safety and messed up his attachment patterns for life. Especially when I screamed after he was done puking. "Screamed" isn't the right word. Neither is yelled. But I did make some kind of fairly primal sounding, "Aarrrrrrggggg" sound. Because as I mentioned, I am not good with vomit. And no, not even my own child's. The child I love more than anything and anyone ever. The child whose stinky feet I can't get enough of, whose lip smacking sounds while he eats peanut butter are like music to me. No. Puke is another thing all together.
Thankfully he got most of it in the tub, a little bit on his winter jacket, which I made a mental note to set fire to later on. I wiped his mouth and took him into the kitchen where I paced and then placed him in his highchair so I could decide what to do. I was freaking out a little. I figured his highchair was a place that would be relatively easy to clean and the kitchen didn't have any rugs or carpeting of any concern to worry about. I called my mom. She told me not to give him anything to eat or drink and wait until it'd been awhile since he'd puked and give him some water. I wanted Stacy to come home. Now. I called her at work and thankfully she was able to leave. I needed back up. Am I am bad mom for needing back up while on puke patrol? Perhaps. But I didn't want to be doing this alone. For one thing, I didn't know what was wrong with my son who was clearly very sick. And for another thing, puke. Gavin started to hurk again. I positioned him over the sink, repeating the previously mentioned bath tub nightmare.
By the time Stacy came home he'd puked three more times. Once in the tub, once in the kitchen sink, and once in a metal mixing bowl I'd brought into his bedroom for this purpose. By that time he was so tired that while he was hurking he was trying to lay his head down inside the bowl, and I would say, firmly but gently, "Lift your face!" and he would for a moment before putting his chubby cheek down again on the cool metal bowl. It was the saddest thing on earth. Thankfully he raised his head in time to hurl.
Now, I am not a cold unfeeling person. I realize I am portraying myself as a monster incapable of loving and comforting her son while he's sick. Not true. I loved him and comforted him. There was a lot of cuddling and hugs and back patting and, "You're okay, Bear. You're going to be okay." But I am incapable of looking past puke. So it was hard on both of us. Harder on him, yes. For sure. No doubt.
When Stacy got home she took over the comforting. He puked at least another four times. We were worried about him getting dehydrated since he hadn't had a wet diaper in hours and couldn't keep any liquids down. We were about to take him to the after hours pediatricians clinic at Beaumont when I said to Stacy, "Try one more time. One more sip. Let's see if he can keep it down. If he can't, then we'll go." I didn't want to have to take him. I didn't want to see an I.V. in his arm. He was so tired and had been through enough. So Stacy gave him another sip. And we waited. He kept it down. She gave him another one. We waited. He kept it down. We repeated this several times. Then Stacy decided to nurse him and put him to bed. Fingers are crossed.
Did I mention that we're supposed to leave for Florida tomorrow?
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Tuesday, December 14, 2010: Another snow day
We tried to take advantage of the snow and the daylight and the time off to get a photo of Gavin in his Christmas sweater yesterday and today. No luck. He wasn't having it. I can't blame him. It was really cold outside. We got a few shots before he told us to shut it down. Mind you, they're cute, but they're not Christmas card cute. Because you're supposed to have the perfect photo to send out to show your friends and family, some of which hardly even remember that you had a baby let alone that you now have a toddler, because sending just any old snapshot is proof that you're a terrible parent.
We were supposed to go to his daycare holiday party tonight, but it was canceled because of the snow day. They're going to have a little pizza party on Friday for the kids during the day. Since I don't have to work I'm going to see if I can stop by. Santa is supposed to be there and everything. Maybe I can get some good photos.
Oh, and I got a job today. A last minute surprise appointment from the UofM. So I'll be teaching in the Winter. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. So we're going to see if we can switch his day care around. I would like to have him home with me on Fridays. In any case, this is ultimately good news for us, though for those of you who were hoping I'd get laid off so I could post here more often, I'm sorry. Also, don't be so selfish. Also, I'm doing the best I can.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Sunday, December 12, 2010: Bear with a shovel
I bought my son pink snow boots. It was an accident. They looked red and orange online. Instead they're more dark pink and light pink. No wonder they were on sale. Why can't companies just use regular color names like "pink and pink" instead of "persimmon and coral?" I'm not an interior designer or something. I just wanted to save $10 on a pair of boots. In any case, they're going back. I've ordered black ones instead. So that he can grow up and be a real man, which obviously would have been impossible after wearing pink boots for the winter he was one and a half, a winter he won't even remember when he's older.
On Wednesday Gavin got a bad day care report. His first. Usually, Shelly, his teacher, writes little notes like, "Great day today!" or "Went to the playground today and had a lot of fun" with a little smiley face beside it. But on his Wednesday report it said, "Gavin was very hurtful to another child today" complete with a frowning face. I can't even really begin to describe what it felt like to read that, but it was a lot like when you're eating something and you're liking it well enough and all of a sudden you just kerchunk a bite out of the inside of your cheek like your cheek just jumped in there between your molars for some reason and now you can't chew anything without re-biting your cheek because it's all lacerated and swollen. It was just like that, only substitute "heart" for "cheek." And scrap the eating metaphor because this isn't like a Hannibal Lecter thing. Anyway, it was intense.
So what did Gavin do, you ask? Well, he apparently pulled a teether out of a younger baby's mouth and then proceeded to hit the baby repeatedly in the face with it. Later, when that same baby was sucking on a pacifier, Gavin began smacking the pacifier with the palm of his hand while it was in the baby's face. Picture someone frantically testing a microphone by tapping it and you get the idea. At least that's what I think he did. I was getting the information from Stacy who got it from Shelly. Still. My son's a bully. I have clearly failed as a parent. It was probably the pink boots.
Actually, I don't believe Gavin is a bully. I think he's impulsive and curious and interested in testing boundaries, for better or worse. In this case, worse. He's getting interested in other kids, though he doesn't always know what to do with them. He's testing physical boundaries with us, too. And the toddler resistance tactics have begun in earnest: going limp, falling to the floor, arching his back, kicking his surprisingly powerful legs as hard as he can. Man, some days it feels like pulling a pair of sweatpants on another, much smaller, human being should be an Olympic sport. A sport I am forced to participate in and am judged by how well I complete the task at hand while keeping both myself and the tantrum thrower free of injury.
I am glad to report, however, that he had a good day care report on Friday and am keeping my fingers crossed for next week.
Gavin is actually a very giving kid who loves to help (did I mention that I bought in a vacuum for Christmas? I totally bought him a vacuum for Christmas. I know it sounds like something a terrible husband would buy for his wife, but Gavin is going to love it. I am sure of this). In fact, he helped out at the families in need program at Stacy's school yesterday even if he doesn't know that it was for the greater good. I was not there, but Stacy said he had a blast. The job involved a lot of putting canned goods in boxes and pushing around a utility cart. These are his big skillz right now, so he was all about it. Apparently the cart he and Stacy were using would get quite full and, no duh, canned goods are heavy, but Gavin was just huffin' and puffin' and pushing his cart down the line. And he didn't even hit anyone in the face while he was there.
As I mentioned, Gavin's been saying new words. Yesterday he said "bib" as he pulled his bib off. Then later on I heard him say, "Hi" to Jota (the cat). He also says down, up, drop, jump, and woo-woo when he hears a dog. Here's a video from two days ago of Gavin "jumping" on a manhole cover while saying, "Jump, jump." Stacy took this video and without her translation I don't think I would have understood what he was saying. Especially since he isn't really jumping (but don't tell him that).
Today's big adventure was shoveling snow. We shoveled our walk and then headed down to our elderly neighbor's house and helped shovel her driveway. Her husband died recently and while helping her shovel snow was helpful, Gavin was the best part, I think. She really likes him. I mean, who wouldn't? He didn't do a lot of shoveling at her house. He mostly walked up and down the driveway between Stacy, who was at the bottom, and me, at the top shoveling away. But we were all outside for quite some time. Definitely his longest time being out in the snow ever in his life. And certainly his first time in the snow with a shovel.
On Wednesday Gavin got a bad day care report. His first. Usually, Shelly, his teacher, writes little notes like, "Great day today!" or "Went to the playground today and had a lot of fun" with a little smiley face beside it. But on his Wednesday report it said, "Gavin was very hurtful to another child today" complete with a frowning face. I can't even really begin to describe what it felt like to read that, but it was a lot like when you're eating something and you're liking it well enough and all of a sudden you just kerchunk a bite out of the inside of your cheek like your cheek just jumped in there between your molars for some reason and now you can't chew anything without re-biting your cheek because it's all lacerated and swollen. It was just like that, only substitute "heart" for "cheek." And scrap the eating metaphor because this isn't like a Hannibal Lecter thing. Anyway, it was intense.
So what did Gavin do, you ask? Well, he apparently pulled a teether out of a younger baby's mouth and then proceeded to hit the baby repeatedly in the face with it. Later, when that same baby was sucking on a pacifier, Gavin began smacking the pacifier with the palm of his hand while it was in the baby's face. Picture someone frantically testing a microphone by tapping it and you get the idea. At least that's what I think he did. I was getting the information from Stacy who got it from Shelly. Still. My son's a bully. I have clearly failed as a parent. It was probably the pink boots.
Actually, I don't believe Gavin is a bully. I think he's impulsive and curious and interested in testing boundaries, for better or worse. In this case, worse. He's getting interested in other kids, though he doesn't always know what to do with them. He's testing physical boundaries with us, too. And the toddler resistance tactics have begun in earnest: going limp, falling to the floor, arching his back, kicking his surprisingly powerful legs as hard as he can. Man, some days it feels like pulling a pair of sweatpants on another, much smaller, human being should be an Olympic sport. A sport I am forced to participate in and am judged by how well I complete the task at hand while keeping both myself and the tantrum thrower free of injury.
I am glad to report, however, that he had a good day care report on Friday and am keeping my fingers crossed for next week.
Gavin is actually a very giving kid who loves to help (did I mention that I bought in a vacuum for Christmas? I totally bought him a vacuum for Christmas. I know it sounds like something a terrible husband would buy for his wife, but Gavin is going to love it. I am sure of this). In fact, he helped out at the families in need program at Stacy's school yesterday even if he doesn't know that it was for the greater good. I was not there, but Stacy said he had a blast. The job involved a lot of putting canned goods in boxes and pushing around a utility cart. These are his big skillz right now, so he was all about it. Apparently the cart he and Stacy were using would get quite full and, no duh, canned goods are heavy, but Gavin was just huffin' and puffin' and pushing his cart down the line. And he didn't even hit anyone in the face while he was there.
As I mentioned, Gavin's been saying new words. Yesterday he said "bib" as he pulled his bib off. Then later on I heard him say, "Hi" to Jota (the cat). He also says down, up, drop, jump, and woo-woo when he hears a dog. Here's a video from two days ago of Gavin "jumping" on a manhole cover while saying, "Jump, jump." Stacy took this video and without her translation I don't think I would have understood what he was saying. Especially since he isn't really jumping (but don't tell him that).
Today's big adventure was shoveling snow. We shoveled our walk and then headed down to our elderly neighbor's house and helped shovel her driveway. Her husband died recently and while helping her shovel snow was helpful, Gavin was the best part, I think. She really likes him. I mean, who wouldn't? He didn't do a lot of shoveling at her house. He mostly walked up and down the driveway between Stacy, who was at the bottom, and me, at the top shoveling away. But we were all outside for quite some time. Definitely his longest time being out in the snow ever in his life. And certainly his first time in the snow with a shovel.
Tuesday, Dec. 7: Chatty Cathy (or Garrulous Gavin, anyway)
Gavin's starting to talk up a storm. Okay, that's actually not accurate. But he's beginning to work some words into his speech. I wrote awhile back about how he used to say a few words (dog, diaper, glasses, and he'd make a "meow" sound when he saw the cat), but he's since stopped using them. But now, thanks to those little books I mentioned (complained about?) the last time I posted, he's building up his vocabulary powers again. I, unfortunately, have not had the pleasure of hearing him point to a picture in the book and say the word, but Stacy and Laura are both witnesses. For Stacy he said "clock" and for Laura he's said "cat" and "bed." I did, however, see him do baby sign language for the first time today while I was feeding him his a.m. meal ("breakfast, lunch, and dinner" aren't really accurate terms for his feeding times since they don't really coincide with when regular people eat). He wanted more puffs and when I asked him if he wanted more, I also signed it like I always do (Stacy and I had grand ambitions re: baby sign language before he was born, but I'm sad to report that I only ever use the signs for "more" and "drink." I think I might also know the sign for "all done" but I don't really use it). Then when he was finished with the puffs I gave him I asked him if he was all done and he started to whine a little because he didn't want to be all done, but I'd decided he'd had enough puffs and it was time to get out of the high chair and on with our lives, but he shook his head "no" and then he signed to me that he wanted more. It was very exciting for all of us. And even though I hadn't planned on giving him more puffs, I did anyway since how can you say no to something like that? You can't. Which is why I'm destined to one day be on Maury Povich crying because my 2 and a half year old is morbidly obese and the camera will cut to footage of 70 lb. my child eating French fries and chocolate cupcakes while wearing an ill-fitting bikini top (because in this scenario my kid is a girl and also because thank god this scenario is not my life by the grace of Duncan Hines go I). So am I blaming childhood obesity on baby sign language? You bet I am. The moment you can ask for what you want you're bound to ask for something that isn't good for you. If Gavin could speak in complete sentences he would no doubt be saying things like, "I want to fling myself into the empty bathtub" and "I want to headbutt our mentally unstable dog" and "I want to put this pebble in my mouth" and "I want to try walking down the stairs head first." And "I don't want to eat baked tofu today even though I loved it yesterday because I know it frustrates you and it is my job to push you to your breaking point or at least to the point where you're about to break but are still able to safely take care of me because p.s. it's all about me now here's a book I want you to read to me and here's a pair of sandals that no longer even come close to fitting me that I insist you put on over my sweatsocks and failure to do so will result in complete meltdown starting in 5, 4, 3, 2..."
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Thursday, Dec. 2, 2010: Kewpie Bear
There comes a time in every mother's life when she has to make an agonizing decision: update her blog or watch more episodes of Teen Mom season one? It's a tough choice! But someone's got to make it. For the children, I'm sure.
But just because I'm writing this, don't think that I didn't watch myself any Teen Mom. I did, after all, watch season one of 16 and Pregnant, so it only makes sense that I would want to continue to follow Farrah, Amber, Catelynn, and Kaci. I watched an episode while Gavin was taking his nap -- a three hour nap! (not to be confused with a "three hour tour") -- and when he woke up he started to cry as he sometimes does. I've learned not to go to him at these times because sometimes he's crying because he doesn't want to be awake and is pissed off about it and soon goes back to sleep. Soon after he started crying, Laura poked her head into the living room and said, "He's probably waking from a night terror in which one of those girls is his mom."
Do I watch Teen Mom because it makes me feel good about the job I'm doing as a mom? Yes. Obviously my skills should always be measured by comparing myself to teenagers performing badly something they shouldn't be doing in the first place and are far too immature to handle. By using these standards I am very excellent at many things, especially being a mom.
I took Gavin to Romp and Stomp today at the Kulick Community Center. We went on Tuesday, too. He had so much fun. Watching him in the bounce house was one of the best things ever. At first he was in it by himself, but then two other kids, ages 3ish and 4, climbed in and started jumping. As you can imagine, Gavin went flying and fell on his butt and had a hell of a time staying upright. I braced myself for the tears and was fully prepared to say to the older kids, "All right you guys, please stop jumping for a minute so I can get him out." But Gavin LOVED it, gravity problems and all. He was literally squealing with joy. I'm totally buying Gavin a bounce house for Christmas and renting a 3 and 4-year old to jump in it with him.
Today we played in the Kids Korner, which is across the hall from Romp and Stomp (I noticed today that Kulick Kids Korner has a most unfortunate acronym). He got all of the trucks off of the shelves and pushed them around. By far his favorite toy was the vacuum, which I knew he would love. He loves our vacuum. Sure enough, he spent an inordinate amount of time vacuuming the corner of the room where the chalk easel is. Granted, the only chalk dust he actually picked up was with his socks and pants, but I assure you that corner had less chalk dust in it after Gavin left. I'm totally planning on buying him a toy vacuum for Christmas. He's going to love it. And the one I'm looking at really picks stuff up. Mind you, it's not going to replace our grown-up vacuum, but every little bit helps.
Gavin's hair is so curly. He's got some ringlet-style curls on the back of his head and the longer his hair gets the curlier it gets. It's crazy adorable. For so long he had no hair. Just fuzz, really. Now his little curls stick out from behind on either side of his head. Today his hair was all Kewpie doll style, with a big wave of curl on top his head. I took some pictures, but I just don't think I captured it right. You had to be there. Luckily I was. :)
When we're at home one of Gavin's favorite things to do is to read books. Specifically to have us read books to him. It's something I love because he sits on my lap which means I get to snuggle with him. I only wish his tastes in books was a little more varied, if not advanced. Last year for Christmas (or it could have been Gavin's birthday, I don't remember), my dad gave him this little set of board books. He wasn't that into them at first but now he's in love with them and it's all he wants to read. Each page has a photo of an object and the word for that object. That's it. It's perfect for babies, but a little mind-numbing for grownups, especially those of us who like narrative. But Gavin loves them beyond all reason and I have read each one to him maybe 100 times now. Except for one particular title: Food, a paragon of children's literature. That one I've read maybe 1,000 times. I can practically recite the text by heart: "Apple, orange, banana, strawberry, watermelon, gingerbread man, jam tart, corn, orange juice, bread, cookies, soup, pasta, donut, cheese, milk, tomato, candy." Obviously not a primer for a low-carb diet. I totally understand why he loves these books, and though Stacy encouraged me to "change it up" when I read them to him, and though I do often include the color of the food, doubling the book's instructive dollar, I like to be pretty consistent. I'm hoping that one day he'll be walking around the house and just spontaneously say, "Jam tart, corn, orange juice."
Stacy always reads these and all other books to Gavin in Spanish. So he's got quite the vocabulary, just that the bulk of it is in understanding rather than saying. He's not big on words right now, and while I guess that might worry some parents, I think he's fine. I mean, he did, after all, say word in the past. Dog, glasses, and diaper, for example. But now he's working on other things, I guess. And since he has such a wide vocabulary of understanding, in Spanish and English, no less, I'm not worried. I'm amazed by him every day. Eventually he'll be smarter than I am. It's just a matter of months.
But just because I'm writing this, don't think that I didn't watch myself any Teen Mom. I did, after all, watch season one of 16 and Pregnant, so it only makes sense that I would want to continue to follow Farrah, Amber, Catelynn, and Kaci. I watched an episode while Gavin was taking his nap -- a three hour nap! (not to be confused with a "three hour tour") -- and when he woke up he started to cry as he sometimes does. I've learned not to go to him at these times because sometimes he's crying because he doesn't want to be awake and is pissed off about it and soon goes back to sleep. Soon after he started crying, Laura poked her head into the living room and said, "He's probably waking from a night terror in which one of those girls is his mom."
Do I watch Teen Mom because it makes me feel good about the job I'm doing as a mom? Yes. Obviously my skills should always be measured by comparing myself to teenagers performing badly something they shouldn't be doing in the first place and are far too immature to handle. By using these standards I am very excellent at many things, especially being a mom.
I took Gavin to Romp and Stomp today at the Kulick Community Center. We went on Tuesday, too. He had so much fun. Watching him in the bounce house was one of the best things ever. At first he was in it by himself, but then two other kids, ages 3ish and 4, climbed in and started jumping. As you can imagine, Gavin went flying and fell on his butt and had a hell of a time staying upright. I braced myself for the tears and was fully prepared to say to the older kids, "All right you guys, please stop jumping for a minute so I can get him out." But Gavin LOVED it, gravity problems and all. He was literally squealing with joy. I'm totally buying Gavin a bounce house for Christmas and renting a 3 and 4-year old to jump in it with him.
Today we played in the Kids Korner, which is across the hall from Romp and Stomp (I noticed today that Kulick Kids Korner has a most unfortunate acronym). He got all of the trucks off of the shelves and pushed them around. By far his favorite toy was the vacuum, which I knew he would love. He loves our vacuum. Sure enough, he spent an inordinate amount of time vacuuming the corner of the room where the chalk easel is. Granted, the only chalk dust he actually picked up was with his socks and pants, but I assure you that corner had less chalk dust in it after Gavin left. I'm totally planning on buying him a toy vacuum for Christmas. He's going to love it. And the one I'm looking at really picks stuff up. Mind you, it's not going to replace our grown-up vacuum, but every little bit helps.
Gavin's hair is so curly. He's got some ringlet-style curls on the back of his head and the longer his hair gets the curlier it gets. It's crazy adorable. For so long he had no hair. Just fuzz, really. Now his little curls stick out from behind on either side of his head. Today his hair was all Kewpie doll style, with a big wave of curl on top his head. I took some pictures, but I just don't think I captured it right. You had to be there. Luckily I was. :)
When we're at home one of Gavin's favorite things to do is to read books. Specifically to have us read books to him. It's something I love because he sits on my lap which means I get to snuggle with him. I only wish his tastes in books was a little more varied, if not advanced. Last year for Christmas (or it could have been Gavin's birthday, I don't remember), my dad gave him this little set of board books. He wasn't that into them at first but now he's in love with them and it's all he wants to read. Each page has a photo of an object and the word for that object. That's it. It's perfect for babies, but a little mind-numbing for grownups, especially those of us who like narrative. But Gavin loves them beyond all reason and I have read each one to him maybe 100 times now. Except for one particular title: Food, a paragon of children's literature. That one I've read maybe 1,000 times. I can practically recite the text by heart: "Apple, orange, banana, strawberry, watermelon, gingerbread man, jam tart, corn, orange juice, bread, cookies, soup, pasta, donut, cheese, milk, tomato, candy." Obviously not a primer for a low-carb diet. I totally understand why he loves these books, and though Stacy encouraged me to "change it up" when I read them to him, and though I do often include the color of the food, doubling the book's instructive dollar, I like to be pretty consistent. I'm hoping that one day he'll be walking around the house and just spontaneously say, "Jam tart, corn, orange juice."
Stacy always reads these and all other books to Gavin in Spanish. So he's got quite the vocabulary, just that the bulk of it is in understanding rather than saying. He's not big on words right now, and while I guess that might worry some parents, I think he's fine. I mean, he did, after all, say word in the past. Dog, glasses, and diaper, for example. But now he's working on other things, I guess. And since he has such a wide vocabulary of understanding, in Spanish and English, no less, I'm not worried. I'm amazed by him every day. Eventually he'll be smarter than I am. It's just a matter of months.
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