Saturday, September 29, 2012: Pancake Queen

I made pancakes for the first time ever this morning. Stacy, still recovering from the cold that has knocked us all on our asses the past two weeks, slept in while I got up with Gavin (who doesn't believe in sleeping in). Full disclosure: this does not usually happen. Stacy is usually the go-to parent in the morning because Mama D can sleep through almost anything through sheer force of will if I know that Gavin's health and safety are not threatened (i.e. if I know that Stacy is awake and on it). But because Stacy coughed much of the night away last night, I knew (from personal experience, albeit, second hand) that she hadn't gotten much sleep. And so it was that I found myself awake and asking a handsome boy with messy blonde curls what he wanted for breakfast. And he said, "Pancakes." Now, he has made this request before and I have always said, "I'm not making pancakes" because we either didn't have time or because, well, I had never made pancakes before and it seemed like an awful lot of work (if you're wondering how someone can make it 34 years without ever making pancakes I say worry about your own life for once, okay? Also see the previous reference to "an awful lot of work"). Stacy makes us pancakes pretty frequently, actually, on Saturday or Sunday mornings. And, well, they're not always very good. She has been experimenting with different recipes trying to find the best vegan pancakes (solely for my sake, because she wouldn't need to make them vegan if she and Gavin were the only ones eating them and this is but one of the many things I love about her). What I've learned about myself and pancakes: I don't like buckwheat pancakes. I don't like bananas in my pancakes. I don't like thick pancakes. I don't like burned pancakes. So when Gavin asked for pancakes this morning, my first instinct was to say, "How about cereal or toast?" But then I thought, "Hey, why not fucking try to make pancakes for your fucking kid? Would it fucking kill you? (I'm not a morning person, really). And so I said, "Sure" and got out my copy of Vegan Brunch and Gavin and I whipped up some pretty damn good pancakes if I do say so myself. Though glancing at the recipe now, I think we may have used a tablespoon of cinnamon instead of a teaspoon and I know we did not use vanilla extract. But it was before 7 a.m. and I was tired, plus my assistant was illiterate had to stand on a chair to reach the counter. Still, they were good, damn it, and mostly not burned. So I got to spend quality measuring and pouring and mixing time with my son this morning and Stacy got to sleep in and wake up to breakfast already made (points deposited in the Being Married To You Is Not A Miserable Experience Bank). A win-win-win.

Our street had a block party today and Gavin got to ride his bike in the street for the first time ever. He loved this, as did many of the other kids. I explained to him that today was the only day riding his bike in the street was okay because the street was blocked off. I don't want him getting any ideas and cruising down 8 Mile, even though I know he would wear his helmet. He is very safety conscious. He was concerned that not all of the kids in the bike parade, which kicked off the block party, were wearing helmets. That's a tricky thing to explain to kids -- when something they have been taught to do for safety, and indeed must do per parental demand, isn't something other kids have to do. The worst is when Gavin calls attention to this within earshot of the other parents because I can't be all, "Well, that boy is climbing up the slide after I told you not to do that very same thing because that kid's mom doesn't care if he gets kicked in the face." Wearing a helmet, however, is something so ingrained that whenever he sees a bicyclist or a motor cyclist he always remarks upon whether or not they are wearing a helmet. Michigan's brilliant repeal of the helmet law has only made this issue more confusing for Gavin (he follows state politics pretty closely). So Gavin's attitude toward the helmetless bike paraders wasn't, "How come I have to wear a helmet and they don't?" It was more, "Why on earth are they not wearing helmets?" But once the parade had started he forgot all about the potential for closed head injuries among the neighborhood kids and focused instead on riding as fast as he could down the street with his biker gang.

Gavin also loved jumping in the Spiderman bounce house set up on the Pool family's front lawn, which I think all of the kids agree should be a permanent staple. Especially Jim, a.k.a. Mr. Jim, a.k.a. Mr. Pool (psst: he's really a grown up). And he got to do a little sidewalk bowling, which I was absent for, but from this picture Jim took, it looks like my boy is a natural.

Thursday, Sept. 20, 2012: Homesick

Gavin has a cold, or, as he calls it, "a coughing sick" and did not go to preschool today or yesterday. I, too, am getting such a sick and I am not as happy as most people probably would be. I know I am alone in my dislike of colds, but if hating colds is wrong, I don't want to be right.

The good news, however, is that Gavin's behavior has been much better these past couple of days. Not perfect, mind you, but we never asked for, or expected, perfect. I think he's getting used to going to preschool and his new schedule (though being off for two days can't help). He's been a much happier kid (despite being sick) which means he's been more cooperative and much more polite. So I've decided he can stay.

That's not to say I won't still read Your Three-Year-Old: Friend of Enemy, which my mom bought for me as soon as she read my last post, even though I was joking about wanting it because it seemed so sad. Thankfully in real life it doesn't seem to be that depressing. It's even pink with a close up of a little girl in an ugly hat on the front, so it can't be all bad. I will read it and report back.

Yesterday Stacy had to stay home from work to tend to Mr. Coughing Sick. Today I stayed home with him, but I don't go to campus on Thursdays anyway. He goes to morning preschool on Tues. and Thurs. and I go to the library to get some work done. Trying to cram an entire work week into the three days I am on campus (MWF) is impossible. I've tried it. Having a couple of hours in the morning to get work done on the days I am home with him is really helping be to stay employed and sane. Well, just employed, but still.

I accidentally taught Gavin to say, "I'm going to punch you in the face" today. Before you panic, no, I did not threaten to cold clock my son. I was getting him his car seat (because even though we are both feeling sick, there were some things that had to be done outside of the home today like going to the credit union so old women could gush over Gavin's gorgeous curls) and he, not paying attention, flung his arm outwards and upwards, his hand just grazing my chin. I, largely involuntarily, made some kind of sound akin to "whoa" and Gavin, the ever-curious gent that he is, asked why I made such a sound and I responded, "Because you almost punched me in the face." And then I hardly had myself in the car and my seat belt buckled before he said, kind of to me, kind of to himself, "I'm going to punch you in the face." I told him that was a terrible thing to say to someone, but I really didn't have much credibility on the subject at that point.

Gavin has been learning about time and is constantly asking questions about what day it is. Not as in what day of the week, but as in, "Is there another yesterday coming up?" which is what he asked Stacy yesterday and then me today. Other queries include, "Is today yesterday?" and "Yesterday will it be tomorrow?" I just asked him, "What day is it?" and he said, "What?" I repeated the question and he said, "I don't understand what you're saying." I repeated the question again and he said, with his most serious thinking face, "I thought today was tomorrow."

Hey, do you have $80 to spend on a gift for an awesome kid and you're about to blow it on some kind of plastic LeapFrog bullshit reading thing that you're totally going to regret buying because it is loud and eats batteries and even after you give it to your kid he will still prefer to steal your iPad and eventually will manage to break both? Don't do it! Subscribe instead to McMullens the children's book imprint by McSweeney's. Gavin is a subscriber (okay, I am and I somewhat reluctantly hand over the books to Gavin, so really this is a good gift for all ages) and we both really dig the books so far. In fact, a short while ago we were cuddled up together reading The Night Riders (which has no words so not only does it require imagination, it also can be read in any language including Gavish, a language he made up himself), and Benny's Brigade, which came in the mail today. All of the McMullens books I've read have ranged from good to excellent (the vast majority of children's books I read, and I read a lot of them, I deem merely okay) and for $80 you get 8 beautiful hardcover books (with bookjackets that, when unfolded, double as awesome posters) as they are released by writers and illustrators who are a testament to the craft. I realize I sound like I work for McSweeney's here (and let's be honest, I totally would), but I seriously love these books and what kid (or grown up) doesn't like to get packages in the mail? Especially when those packages contain children's books that are not about Elmo or giving things to a mouse/pig/cat that are unhealthy and inappropriate for their diets or a glasses-wearing aardvark who looks nothing like an aardvark or Disney Princesses singing "I'm too sexy" or whatever it is they do (get married mostly, I think). Amen.

Sunday, Sept. 16, 2012: Frenemies

I wish Gavin would stop telling me, "I don't love you" so much because it's kinda bumming me out. Oh, and hitting me. I am not digging that, either. Ever since Gavin started preschool at the beginning of this month, he's become a little terror. At first we chalked it up to the fact that he spent all summer home with both of his moms and now, BAM, he's in day care three full days and two half days a week and both of his moms are at work every day. I can totally understand how that might be a tough adjustment for a little dude. Hell, it's a tough adjustment for me, too. But this "I will no longer listen to you and will, in fact, hit and spit at you while saying hurtful things" shtick is really wearing me out. I did a Google search for "my three year old has turned into a nightmare" and I came across a discussion page that recommends a book called Your Three-Year-Old: Friend or Enemy. Even the title is depressing. But from what I understand and what I've read, Gavin is not beyond the range of normal, but he is beyond the range of pleasant too much of the time.

He has also stepped backwards in toilet learning. Right before preschool and perhaps the first week in even, Gavin had been using the toilet like a boss. He even slept in underwear one night last week and woke up dry. We had reached what I thought was a turning point and I thought I could see the light at the end of the diaper tunnel. There was even a nearly two week stretch when I couldn't even remember the last time he'd pooped in his pants. He was wearing underwear during the day, often backwards so he could see the picture on the rear, but still. And he was trying really hard. He'd spring up from the table or his room and say, "I've got to go poop!" or "I've got to go pee!" A couple of weeks ago he had an accident at Laura and Jamie's but he tried so hard to make it to the toilet. I wasn't there, but Laura reported that he ran like hell from the living room to the bathroom but just couldn't get his pants down in time and peed on the floor. According to Laura she heard the saddest voice ever from the other side of the bathroom door say, "I didn't make it." A similar thing happened today, in fact. Stacy was in the bathroom and I heard Gavin say, for the first time in at least a week, "I have to pee!" But the bathroom was occupied. Before Stacy could open the door I heard a very despondent Gavin say, "I'm peeing in my diaper." I went to him and as soon as he saw me, guess what? He pouted and tried to hit me. Good times. I understood that he was really upset about not making it to the bathroom and am bummed myself since he hadn't shown interest in awhile and this makes me fear he may be set back further, like, "Screw this potty thing, it's too hard." Poor little dude.

I would also say, for the record, that the worst feeling ever is not liking your own kid -- thinking your own child is an asshole, even if just momentarily. Also for the record, my son is not an asshole, he is just teaching us the gift of patience. Xtreme Patience, as it were. And man does having a three year old run away from you in a parking lot and then spit at you when you get near him test your patience. If there was a Patience Olympics, I am definitely in training. Actually, I think this is the Patience Olympics and it's a decathlon on an endless loop with no breaks.

That's not to say Gavin is never sweet. I hit my head on the van door while getting him into his car seat today and he asked if I needed a kiss. When you sit in the back seat with him he always says, "Hold hands?" as he extends his hand to you. He likes to cuddle up while we read books. And Stacy and Gavin had the following exchange the other day while playing together in his room:

Gavin: "First you dump the M.U.S.C.L.E. men in this dump truck and then in this dump truck and then in this yellow one."
Mommy: "Like this?"
Gavin: "No. It's okay, Mommy. It's okay to be unright. Try it again."

Gavin's musical tastes continue to evolve with my careful curating of pop music on his ever-growing playlist on my iPod. His current favorites are the Spanish version of "Mickey" by Toni Basil, "Jump" by Van Halen (he digs that music video, too), "Eye of the Tiger" by Survivor (one of my favorite songs as a kid), and Todd Lundgren's "Bang the Drum All Day." His number one favorite is still, however, "I Can't Drive 55," which both of us sand along to in the car on the way home from the grocery store today. Singing along to songs is a new thing to him and "I Can't Drive 55" is one of the only ones he'll do. That song has become his touchstone when it comes to talking about speed limits and speeding. Like this conversation that Stacy and Gavin had while Gavin sat behind the wheel of the van pretending to drive while it was parked in the drive way:

Gavin: "I'm going 30! Is that faster than 55?"
Stacy: "No."
Gavin: "Then I'm going 7! Is that faster than 55?"
Stacy: "No. How about 75? That's faster."
Gavin: "Then that's the amount I'm going."

Tomorrow starts his third week of preschool. I can't believe my kid is in preschool already. He's in a Spanish immersion Montessori school, which means he gets to do whatever he wants, but all in Spanish. So far he seems to have gravitated to food-related art. He's come home with no less than 4 different finger painted broccoli stalks on four different days and two potato pictures decorated with brown crayon and, for reasons I don't quite get, several strands of brown yarn. Unlike his years in day care when Stacy dropped him off every morning, that is now my job. And it is not easy. Getting a kid ready in the morning, especially in his current Mad Max state, is challenging to say the least. I am not a morning person either. But if he doesn't get ready and out the door in time then I will be late to work, so there's high pressure to get asses (his and mine) moving in the morning. I find that if I get him dressed first and let him play and then get ready myself that helps because then I don't have to wrestle him into clothes at the last minute, which is guaranteed to be the exact minute he decides to shut down the cooperation area of his brain. The worst part about the morning drop off, however, is that every morning he says, "I don't want to go to school" and he cries when I leave. Not only does he cry, but he has to be pried (gently, but still) off of me by one of his teachers and I have to, basically, escape. It's not a good way to begin the day. But on the days I also pick him up (Tuesdays and Thursdays) he is always so happy to see me when he emerges from his class, thrusting his latest broccoli or potato masterpiece into my hands before giving me a huge hug.

See, I know he loves me. Even if he says otherwise. I am, however, really glad that he hasn't learned how to say, "I hate you." Yet.