Wednesday, April 27, 2011: Lock and roll

The fire station visit was not a hit. Well, it was and it wasn't. The guy who helped us was really nice. But also really long-winded. The plan was that we'd have him do a car seat safety check and then Gavin would get a tour of the fire station, with some up close and personal fire truck action. Initially the guy told us that a car seat check takes 45 minutes, though we'd need a little longer for two car seats. Fine. But an hour and a half into the thing we only had one car seat done (and for those of you who are dying to know, Gavin is now forward facing in the van because he's gotten too big to sit rear facing in that particular car seat). The car seat in my car, a Britax Marathon with a purple cover (which they apparently don't make any more. I got a really good deal on it new since they were discontinuing the cover. So now I guess it's a collector's item and you are jealous. If you're a car seat collector, which you probably aren't. Because that'd be weird. No offense. Though I do wonder what happens to old car seats since they "expire" after a few years and how you're never supposed to use a used car seat unless you hate your baby, etc. I shudder at the thought of all of those car seats in landfills. Does any car seat manufacturer have a recycling program? It doesn't look like it), turned out to be installed correctly. And he informed us of this after it had been completely uninstalled. And then the station got called on a run and since they're short staffed (thanks, budget cuts and anti-tax morons) he had to go. So no tour for Gavin. And no help reinstalling the big purple seat in my car. However, I managed to reinstall it myself yesterday and what I learned at the session made it much, much easier to install than it was the first time. So there's that. I should say, though, that this all took place in the fire station, so Gavin was literally only a couple of feet away from three huge fire trucks and when he first walked in there his jaw dropped and he kept saying in a hushed reverent tone, "Wow. Oh, wow." It was worth it.

These past two days have provided valuable lessons about child locks on car doors. Yesterday I picked Gavin up from daycare because Stacy had a meeting after work. When I opened the car door Gavin climbed in and instead of climbing into his purple seat, which is located in the middle of the back bench seat, he climbed over his car seat and settled his butt into the seat furthest from me. At about this time John, a child from his daycare, and his dad were getting into their car, parked next to ours on the passenger side and John's dad was buckling him into his car seat. "See?" I said to Gavin, "John is sitting in his car seat." And as I said this I pointed toward John and glanced at him at the same time. When I looked back at Gavin I saw the back of his curly blond head and the car door next to him flying open. My first instinct was to grab Gavin, which I did, and he was fine. It was a very windy day, however, and my car door whipped open like a 300 lb. trucker was on the other side of it, not a two year old child, right into the door of the car parked next to us on our driver's side. It left quite a ding. I didn't know what to do. My first instinct was to drive away. But someone recently did this to my car, though worse (it looks like Freddy Kruger painted his fingernails with White Out and then slashed at the corner of my bumper) and it really sucks. So I waited for awhile to see if the owner of the car was coming out. A lot of people were picking up their kids from the daycare right then and there weren't a lot of cars around. But no one came and Gavin was getting cranky and so I left a note. I left my name and phone number and and just said I was sorry and wanted to pay for whatever it cost to repair it. That's after I Googled "How much does it cost to repair a ding in a car door" on my phone. The prices that came up were between $75 and $500. Before I put the note under the windshield wiper I touched the ding and it really wasn't as bad as it looked at first. In fact, after I touched it you could barely see it. But I still left the note. No one has called.

Needless to say, I switched the child safety locks on the inside of each door to ON as soon as we got home.

Cut to today, post-grocery shopping with Gavin. Gavin climbs on up into the car and onto his car seat. Wanting to avoid a repeat of yesterday's crawl over maneuver, I actually get in the backseat with him, as opposed to just leaning into the car with one foot on the ground and one knee on the seat as I usually do, so that I can get him settled and strapped into his seat. And it's raining. So I close the door. Once I get Gavin in I try to open the door. It will not open. I try again, though this time my hand pulling the handle coincides with the words "child safety locks" in my head followed by the words, "Oh, shit." What I say out loud: "Uh, oh." Gavin looks at me a little puzzled. "Sit," he says, motioning behind him toward the front seat (remember, he's rear facing in his seat). "Do you want me to sit up front?" I ask. "Yeah," he says, followed by, "Open." Meaning, of course, "Open the door." He then says, "Go," and mimes putting the key in the ignition. "I can't," I say. "I can't open the door." He responds, "Open," and gives me a look like, "Of course you can open the door." "I really can't open it," I say. But, of course, that's not an acceptable answer. Because we can't just live in my car parked in front of the dollar store. Eventually the meter is going to run out of money, for one thing. "Okay," I say, mostly to myself, "Mama D needs to think." I am not without options and several things occur to me. The first, roll down a window and open the door via the outside handle. Except I have power windows and the key is in my pocket, not the ignition, so though I think of this, I think of it more as a sad irony than a possibility. The second, knock on the window to alert a passerby and then ask them to open the door from the outside. Two people pass who are candidates for this venture. One is an African American woman in maybe her 30s who is on a cell phone but is throwing something away in the trash can next to the parking meter my car is at. The other is a lumbering white dude wearing chunky leather sandals despite the rain. I rule both out for reasons that have nothing to do with them. Mainly, embarrassment. No way am I going to ask a stranger to let me out of my car. Gavin and I aren't in imminent danger or anything and that's a last resort kind of thing. The third thing I think of is crawling over Gavin's car seat and into the front without opening the doors at all.I pretty much know immediately that this is what I am going to do. I am not entirely sure, however, how I am going to do it. See, I have a Subaru Legacy and it is a pretty tight squeeze from floor to ceiling. From the headrest of the seat in front of me to the ceiling is even tighter. Remember that Gavin's car seat is in the middle seat, which means that crawling between the two front seats is not possible without removing his car seat, something I am unwilling to do. I think if I can just get the seat in front of me reclined back that'll give me more room between the ceiling and the chair backs. But the space between the chairs and the car itself is very tight, too. So reaching now to try to grab the lever to recline the chair is a struggle. I have to cram my arm in there and then I can just reach it. I manage to get the chair reclined and it gives me some much needed head room, but now I have to maneuver around the chair back to get my legs out and over. Anyway, I take off my shoes and toss them in the front. I am worried I will kick Gavin in the face and also my shoes are wet and dirty from the rain. This action confuses Gavin, I think. But I don't have time to explain. "I'm going over," I say, and then very inelegantly scramble over top of him and awkwardly into the front seat. Or seats, I should say, since I am now in front, but am sprawled over both seats and the console, wriggling around and trying to unknot myself enough to get into the driver's seat. Which I do. And I save us. I think Gavin even says, "Yea" and claps his hands, but I might have just inserted that memory into the story for morale's sake.

Now, I have gained some weight over the past couple of years. But I am thankful that I am still of a size where my up and over trick was a possibility. The whole thing made me really want to go to the gym, actually. And now that my grades are in and summer has officially begun, I can do that. These past few weeks have been really stressful, as the end of the semester usually is. I think I'll go to the gym tomorrow, though it depends on whether Gavin goes to daycare or not. He's got a cough and a runny nose and while we're hoping he'll feel better by tomorrow, right now I just heard him cough from his crib as if on cue. Poor little dude. Being sick sucks. Vote no.

Friday, April 22, 2011: Tugboat Elvis

I just bought a tugboat shaped sandbox from an Elvis impersonator. Thanks, Criagslist! Stacy's been saying that Gavin needs a sandbox and I knew there was probably someone wanting to part with a used one somewhere out there. That this someone would also sing "Bridge Over Troubled Water" in a white jumpsuit at casinos is just an added bonus. He was really nice and was able to get "Tuggy," as the name on the boat is written, into the back of my van. The lid to the sandbox does turn out to have a crack in it, which sucks, but I'm going to attack it with a little Gorilla Glue and see if that doesn't help seal it. Regardless, I think Gavin will be very excited when he finally sees it. I plan to fill it with sand so it's all ready to go before the big reveal. The weather was too crappy outside today to bother and besides, Gavin was not in the greatest of moods.

Not sure what his deal was today, but Gavin was very morose. Really quiet, really clingy (to Stacy, primarily. No surprise there). Had a really rough wake up from his nap. Stacy ended up cuddling with him for awhile in his room and they both ended up falling back to sleep together on his floor. Even seeing Jamie ("Jude!" is what he calls her) didn't perk him up today. I dare say that even the garbage truck would have done little to lift his spirits. Maybe he's getting sick. Stacy said she feels a lot like him today. Just really worn down and tired and crabby. Maybe they're both getting sick. I hope not.

Tomorrow morning we're scheduled for a tour of the Ferndale Fire Department. I'm not really sure how this works since Stacy arranged it, but I think it will blow Gavin's mind. In fact, she even said she's not sure what to expect tomorrow. I think they're going to inspect our car seat and make sure it's installed right. But I also think Gavin will get to see real firefighters (I have my fingers crossed that it will be firemen and firewomen) and a real fire truck up close.

Stacy is sitting next to me right now reading about toilet training. For Gavin, not herself. Gavin has been really interested in the whole going to the bathroom thing lately. He sometimes announces when he's about to fill his pants or right after he's done it. Although he says, "Poop," sometimes he actually means pee. He'll even say it while he grabbing his the crotch of his diaper as he goes. He knows the difference, though, and he says both words in relation to everything but his diaper. He's been peeing in the bathtub lately (and who can blame him, really? Who doesn't have the urge to pee as soon as they get in the shower? Mind you, peeing in the bath is different because then you're all soaking in it, but he's a baby, he hasn't thought this through. Did I mention that Stacy almost always bathes with him? A recent Stacy Facebook status: "Bathed in urine again. 2nd time this week. Still waiting for the fabulous results of this exclusive spa treatment" followed by the comment, "I heard this gives you softer, younger looking skin. So far it's only working on Gavin"). The other day he was standing in the tub and started peeing and it was clear he was pretty surprised by the whole thing, but also a little pleased.

Stacy just said, "Having read this, I don't think I'm ready to start toilet training. Meaning that I think it will be easier in the summer when it's just us instead of us and daycare." But then she said, "I think it would be nice to have him trained before our trips." We're going to Florida right before his 2nd birthday in July. And then at the beginning of August we're going to Riviera Maya where we're meeting up with Lisa and Brenden (and yes, I've already been warned about how we're all going to end up kidnapped and murdered by Mexican drug lords. My dad sends me links to articles about mass graves and bodies thrown in pools of lye on a daily basis. Though if one were to look at a map of Mexico, one would see that Riviera Maya is near Cancun, which is far away from and not the same as, say, Ciudad Juárez). So if Stacy wants to wait until she's done with school for the year, that puts us at Potty Training Day 1 around the middle of June. Since we leave around the middle or July for FL, I am worried she may have wildly misplaced expectations about how long this whole potty training thing takes or how easy it is. Granted, I haven't been involved in potty training for quite some time (I've been trained myself for at least a decade now) and I know that every kid is different, but I have my doubts that Gavin's going to be wearing big boy pants before our TransAir flight takes off for Orlando. It does occur to me, however, that we might be toilet training while in Mexico. Which is pretty much a vacation dream come true.

As I said, he knows the difference between "pee" and "poop" so long as it's IRL and not in relation to his diaper. If you say to him, "Uh oh. What did Emma do in the house?" he will say, "Poop. Uh oh." Because she goes in the house on a pretty regular basis, unfortunately. She's old. She can't help it. And Gavin seems to know this. He's very gentle with her. He puts a blanket over her when she's on her bed. The other day Laura saw him try to help her up and into the kitchen. She has a lot of trouble with her back legs and sometimes struggles to get up after she's been on her bed. We often have to help her. She was trying to get up and her legs were wobbling and Laura said Gavin went over and put his hands under her belly and kind of lifted and then walked behind her into the kitchen like that. He's seen all of us do something similar many times. It pretty much makes me want to cry just thinking about him doing that. If only Aunt Laura had gotten a video of it like any competent Aunt would have done.

Speaking of things Laura should have gotten on video, on Wednesday I was in Ann Arbor and Stacy called me around 4:30 as she often does when I'm not going to get home before Gavin goes to bed. She put the phone on speaker phone and asked Gavin what happened today to somebody's shoes (Stacy is saying this all in Spanish, mind you). Gavin said, "Dirt," which means, of course, "Mama D." So I said, "What happened to my shoes?" And Gavin said, "Uh oh," and then, "Emma," and then, "Poop," and then, "Uh oh," again. "What?" I said. "Emma pooped in my shoes?" I am thinking this is a joke, and a pretty sophisticated one for a kid who isn't even two yet. But it wasn't a joke. Emma had explosive diarrhea directly over a pair of off-white Sketchers with orange laces that I had left by the front door. This happened just a few feet away from Laura and Gavin who had just finished watching the garbage truck out the front door. Laura said she and Gavin had about the same reaction of shock and that Gavin was very good while she was cleaning it up, staying out of the way repeating, "Uh oh," over and over again. Laura attempted to wash my shoes. I have not yet been brave enough to investigate the results. It was truly one of those rare life lessons for Gavin who had no doubt never even considered pooping into shoes as possible before that day. It's better that he learn now, however, than wait to learn it from some drunk frat boy in college like so many other kids do.

Monday, April 18, 2011: Balls

I woke up this morning to a smiling little boy kneeling next to me on the bed saying, "Hi, Mama D." This, of course, sounded like, "Hi, Dirt," which is even better, really. That smiling boy, in case there's any confusion, was Gavin. Otherwise I think my account would have gone more like, "I woke up this morning with some random kid looming over me. WTF?"

I love when Gavin wakes up in a good mood. It's very gratifying. But he wakes up in a bad mood, too. I'm not sure if it's more often a bad or good mood, though it might just feel like there are more rough wake ups because it's easier to remember unpleasant things.

In any case, Gavin can be really bratty, which I feel bad even saying since it feels like I'm calling him names. But it's true. A not uncommon scene:

Me: "Gavin, let's put your jacket on."
Gavin: "No!" (Collapses at knees to the ground, kicks legs, scrunches face up, cries).

Good times.

He also likes to throw things. He is allowed to throw balls, not any of his other toys. He knows this, but throwing stuff is infinitely more awesome than not throwing stuff and so that's usually the option that wins out. Sometimes he'll pick something up and look right at you as he chucks it, clearly looking for a reaction. Ignoring him means he'll throw more stuff. My way of dealing with this is to take his throwing arm and hold gently but firmly so he can't throw anything else or hit me in the face and say, "Gavin, what do we throw?" And he'll say,"Balls," the level of remorse in his voice differing depending on how conscious he was of the throwing. Often when he's done it intentionally for the benefit of attention there is no remorse. But sometimes he just has the urge to throw stuff and will be quite peacefully looking at books one minute and the next he's chucking a stack of books to the floor. He knows he isn't supposed to do this, though. On more than one occasion before I could even say anything he looked at me and said apologetically, "Balls," anticipating my question.

Speaking of balls, that's not the slang word for testicles in our house. We use huevos (Spanish for "eggs"). So it's fun to ask him, "Gavin are there balls in your diaper?" Because he'll look at you like you're crazy and say, "Noooooo!" in the same way he answers the question, "Does Mommy eat cat food?" or "Does Aunt Laura have a penis?" He's very consistent with the answer to both questions now. The penis question was tricky at first. Not because Laura has short hair, but because the whole concept of some people have penises and some don't is still very new territory for him. It has less to do with gender and more to do with the fact that we taught him parts of the body by asking him to find our noses and our hands and our hair and then have him touch his own. He's quite expert at this now and needs no leading. And his skill is not restricted to humans. Animal, vegetable, mineral, he can find its nose, eyes, mouth, you name it (this is, of course, provided that the vegetables or minerals in question have been heavily anthropomorphized). He's figuring the whole male/female thing out, though he is much more inclined to say, "Man," when he sees a man, especially if that man is doing especially manly things like driving a garbage truck or just being very tall. He does not say, "Woman" really at all, and certainly not in the same awestruck way.

I would like to state for the record that the only way Gavin will ever see me as "cool" is if I were to be a garbage man. Sanitation worker, I suppose, if we want to be gender neutral. The boy loves himself some garbage trucks. More than once the driver has waved at him and honked the horn, which pretty much blows Gavin's mind. The trash truck is pretty much Gavin's Justin Bieber. It's a crush from afar. It'll never work out in real life, but it's fun to pretend. I freely admit that I've encouraged this obsession. Not because I have any particular interest in garbage trucks (in fact, I have no affinity at all for garbage trucks because they smell terrible. I don't have the kind of fortitude needed to be a garbage woman), but because Gavin really digs them and it's awesome to see how awe struck he gets. Standing at the window, fogging up the glass with the heavy breathing emanating from his slack-jawed face. He's a wonder to behold. I love it, even if I know I cannot compete with garbage trucks at this stage. If he had a life raft that only had one additional space and he had to choose between Mama D and Waste Management, I have a pretty good idea what he'd pick. And I try not to take that personally.

Friday, April 8, 2011: Ain't nothin' but a number

It's official. Gavin is allergic to tree nuts. This is not a surprise considering the crazy take-me-to-the-emergency-room reaction he had when he had some cashews. But we took him to an allergist so we could be sure. He did not like the allergy test, which consisted of inflicting little patches of his back with allergens and forcing him to stay still while they did their allergy-thing. Thankfully I was able to pull up a video of trucks on my phone and this pacified him long enough for the proof of his allergies to spring up on his back. So no cashews, no almonds, no Brazil nuts, no hazelnuts, no walnuts. And whatever other kinds of nuts are tree nuts. He was also tested for strawberries and peanut butter and he is not allergic to those. So let the PB&J begin! Actually, we still aren't giving him peanut butter right now just to be safe. And he's never had jelly before. As Stacy would surely point out, it's mostly sugar and he doesn't need it. But one day I will make him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and I hope he likes it. And I think he will since a PB&J sandwich is always better if someone else makes it for you. I don't know why that is, but it is. It's a fact.

It's my birthday tomorrow. I will be, I am fairly certain, 33. If you would have told me 20 or so years ago that I would one day lose track of exactly how old I am (much like how I am unable to remember how old my parents are or how old any of my grandparents were), not to mention that I would lose an awful lot of enthusiasm for my actual birthday, I would have thought you were insane. I would have probably said something like, "Shut up, you're retarded." Forgive me, but I was only 13ish and kind of an asshole.

Now, when I say I've lost enthusiasm for my birthday, it's not in the "oh my god I am getting so old each day death is closer and closer and it totally freaks me out that my nose and ears will never stop growing and the longer I live the higher the chance I'll look like my great uncle Dom even though we are not blood related" way. No. It's in the "one more fucking thing to do" way. I have Rosemary to thank for this. Not for my attitude, but for naming that attitude. See, years ago I asked her what she was doing for her birthday and she was less than enthusiastic. Worried I had touched a nerve (because, let's face it, birthdays are touchy subjects for some, especially the kind of people who say, "I'm turning 21 for the 19th time," and then force an overly jocular laugh as they surreptitiously dab at a tear using a napkin with an illustration of a tombstone on it because their friends are so hilarious! To be clear, Rosemary is not one of these people) I asked, "Do you hate birthdays?" To which she sighed and replied that no, she didn't, it was just that her birthday was "one more fucking thing to do." I will admit I was a little taken aback by this, even a little hurt since I was especially happy she was born found that fact very worthy of celebrating. That was before I had a kid. Now I am lucky if I can remember what day it is, keep track of the diaper bag (it's actually not in our possession right now. We left it behind at the Bat Zone where we went to celebrate Mo the sloth's 10th birthday on April 1st. No joke), have clean clothes for me or for Gavin or for Stacy, get to work on time, grade student essays, go to the bathroom alone, eat actual food, clean my house, do any kind of writing, read (other than scanning ingredient labels for tree nut warnings), shower, go to the gym, walk the dog, watch a movie, have conversations with my wife that are not about Gavin's diaper content, sleep, keep the surfaces of the kitchen table and counters visible let alone clean, make and keep a doctor's appointment, see or talk to friends, or sleep (I know I already mentioned sleep, but it really cannot be mentioned enough). So, yeah, my birthday. Whoop-de-do. Wake me up when it's over. Just kidding. Gavin will no doubt have already woken me up.

So many new words every day. Stacy's been keeping track of them as best she can but he's saying so many new things even she can't keep track of them all. He now points to himself and says, "Me." Like when you pick up the two halves of Laura's now broken cell phone and say to Gavin, "Who did this?" He will point at his chest and say, "Me." And then, if he's feeling especially conciliatory, he might say, "Uh oh."

He mimics a lot. You can say, "Hey Gavin, say ________." And he'll try to say it. Unless you're asking him to say "Laura." Then he won't. I'm pretty sure he means this as a personal slight.

Stacy says Gavin says 100 words but I am not so sure. It just seems like so many words. I mean, not for a writing assignment or anything, but for a toddler maybe. So here are the words he knows and says: Bombero (firetruck), Emma, Mama D, Mommy, truck, dump truck, man, mas (more), please, thanks, duck, turtle, luna (moon), book, up, down, no, yes, drop, all done, poop, auga (water), taza (cup), pee, Granny, Jamie, Henri, shoe, sock, sit, hot, coat, green, blue, rojo (red), anaranjado (orange), amarillo (yellow), apple, calculator, clock, phone, food, nose, tea, what's this, three, dos (two), mamar (to nurse), penis, quack, bunny, ball, top, pap dulcae (sweet potato), Paul, pompas (bubbles), hand, go, goodbye, hi, boot, pantufla (slipper), estrella (star), eye, me, bath, bata (bathrobe), dance, Gavin, blueberry, pepper, bolsa (purse), giraffe, dragon, dump, jump, push, Colin, John, Santa, rana (frog), dog, trash, tractor, pan (bread), naked, pie (foot), bowl, plate, loud, sucio (dirty), take, bus, push, pants, on, sharks, car, doctor, uh-oh, knock, pajamas, balloon, sauce, blasters, fall, hole, djembe, peas, pineapple, circulo (circle), tube, pajaro (bird), cake, puzzle, flower, key, kiwi, helmet, bombilla (light bulb), reloj (watch), pezones (nipples), pata (paw), blanket, cochecito (stroller), camera, cold, hat, caqui (khaki), cacahuate (peanut), white, mine, kid, mop, broom, gone, button, bib, oh's (which is what we call Cheerios), open, help.

Sounds he makes in lieu of words: Shhh (quiet), fffffffwwwwaaaahhhh (airplane), vroom (car), meow (cat), neigh (horse), woof woof (dog), rarrrrr (tiger, lion, bears, etc.), a kissing sound (for smoochin'), wheee (slide), mmmm (yummy).

So that's about 140 words. I stand corrected. Mind you, these are all words that he has said unprompted and more than once. It's not like he uses all of these words every day, but these are the words we're willing to put in writing that he knows how to say (and I say "we" because I enlisted Stacy's help with this list. She's been keeping a diary since his birth and has been recording new words in it for the past few months). He understands probably 1,000 words, in English and Spanish.

His language skills even enabled him to come to Emma's rescue by telling me she needed help. Emma has a hard time standing these days, especially on the hardwood floors. Her poor back legs just give out and she's often left in what we've started calling "the C shape," because that's what her body resembles when she's in this sad pose. She cannot get up by herself once she gets like this. So the other day Emma was in the living room, I was in the kitchen, and Gavin was in the hallway. I saw Emma stick her head over the baby gate and sniff Gavin. He said, "Emma," and then I went into the kitchen. Shortly thereafter Gavin started to fuss. He started making the same noise he makes when Henri barks, a sound he strongly dislikes to say the least. So I say, "Gavin, what's up?" And he points over the baby gate and says, "Emma. Uh-oh. Sit." And sure enough, poor Emma is in the C shape on the other side of the gate. Poor girl. Like I said, she's been having a hard time. She's been having accidents in the house. If you'd like to know how frequently, just ask Gavin, "Who pooped on the floor?" And without missing a beat he'll say, "Emma."