Little Boys & Super Heroes

Ok, confession time: I hide books from my son. That's awful, right? I'm 100 percent for reading to children. In fact, my son and I have been reading since before he was born. I'd read my books aloud when he was still growing in my tummy in a valiant effort to produce a human being that is smarter than my husband and I. Even if he was listening to Nicholas Sparks novels and What to Expect When You're Expecting, it was better than nothing right?

Books were a huge part of my life growing up. I was always reading something - usually not required school reading - and I'm happy to see my son take after me in that sense. Although, lets be honest, I'm happy to see my son take after me in just about any sense considering he's the carbon copy of my husband.

Now, however, he gets stuck on his favorite things, including books. No matter how many dozens of books I buy him - mostly for my own sanity because a person can only read "Where's Spot" so many times in their life -  he wants to read the same ten or so every time we sit down to read. And usually, he prefers to read the same book several times in a row, before moving on to the next.

I make a game out of this practice, mostly to make round 300 of "Ten Tiny Toes" bearable. I change up voices, I make different sounds and try to include interactive portions for my son. I started doing it to help myself, but in the long run I can see it helping my son. Some books, however, do not lend themselves to creative storytelling and are therefore a lot harder to read 100 times over.

My son's favorite book as of late is called My First Batman Book. His aunt bought it for him partially because little boys tend to like super heroes and also partially because Batman is his dad's favorite, but the problem is he could read the Batman book until the end of time, never reading a single book in between, and be perfectly content. There are few ways to get creative with the already slightly interactive book and my voice is quickly growing hoarse from trying to sound like Batman. I've given sounds to the fake "buttons" inside the book, prompting my son to push them when directed and even make "zoom" and "zip" noises as Batman drives his Batmobile with Robin or ziplines across tall buildings.

The realization eventually came to me that perhaps I had made the book too fun; that in an effort to quell my own boredom I had made the book more desirable in my son's eyes. So I quickly changed my approach. I began speeding through the pages quicker than my son could turn them and speaking in monotone voices, with no cool sound effects or added interactive ploys.

To my dismay, it didn't work. My son still loves the Batman book and it only angers him when I don't add in the extra "fun" parts. I don't know why every little boy member of the male population has an obsession with Batman, but it seems to be universal.

I tried hiding it once. I slipped it behind his stuffed animal bin and forgot about it for weeks. Until the day my son tipped over said bin and uncovered the "lost" object. His eyes lit up when he saw it as he immediately handed it to me and promptly sat in my lap for 20 or 30 straight readings. I tried to pick up other books in between but he wouldn't be swayed. It was like a brand-new toy and the weeks it spent missing from his easily-accessible collection only added to its worth.

I guess I learned my lesson. Damnit, Batman.


-N.

Slightly Crunchy: giving in to some of the earth-preserving, "granola-esque" qualities that are often associated with mothers such as cloth diapering, breastfeeding and organic baby food-making, but without fully embracing the "make-your-own-clothes-wear-organic-deodorant-all-natural-everything" lifestyle.

Dogs Best Friend.

My son thinks his friends are dogs.

The other day we were having a play date with our cousins when Hunter joyfully decided to share. I usually encourage this behavior, because as an only- and a non-daycare-going- child, I want him to learn how to play nicely with other children. The problem is that when Hunter shares, he likes to shove toys right into his friends' mouths.

This odd behavior was proceeded by Hunter getting in trouble for not being gentle with his playmate.. hitting him a little too hard and throwing an object in his direction, hitting him square in the chest. But what happened after I said the words ,"be gentle" gave me some serious pause.

Hunter promptly looked at me, his little face clearly registering the command, and then proceeded to pat his play mate lightly on the head and then lean in for an armless hug (basically Hunter putting his head on the other boy's chest). This behavior was not received with the good intentions with which it was meant because the petting was invasive, probably a little to rough and slightly condescending, and the hug registered as a rather strange gesture given their was no actual hugging involved.

Hunter's playmate quickly looked from Hunter to the adult supervisors in the room with a level of confusion and disgust that resulted in a priceless face I wish I had a picture of, and an immediate push as he tried to remove the small human from his chest.

The thing is, Hunter's behavior was supposed to be nice. He was petting his friend. And, in all fairness, this is my fault (because his dad wasn't around to take the blame).

We have a dog and I'm a huge proponent of pets for kids. I think the right pet provides a lot of benefit for young children. Not only have studies proved that kids with dogs tend to have stronger immune systems (probably because the dogs constantly expose them to dirt, germs and crap they otherwise wouldn't usually be around) but I credit our dog with helping to teach our son to walk. It was the determination to catch up with his dog, after all, that motivated Hunter to take his first steps - right toward our 90 lb. Black Mouth Cur, who immediately ran for cover, horrified that this small but loud lump had suddenly learned to move on its own. But our son has also learned how to play with others based on how he plays with our dog.

The command "be gentle" most commonly comes in response to Hunter using our dog as a drum - or a horse, or a step stool - so when I made the warning, he jumped into action. Responding exactly how he would to our dog with a series of nice pets and an animal-appropriate hug.

Despite the hilarious awkward inappropriate exchange, I can't help but marvel at how children view the world. In a way, his immediate reaction shows an impressive amount of acceptance and tolerance as well as the true innocence of a child. He doesn't see an animal as lesser than another human being - to him, he was treating his playmate with the same respect and love he shows his own brother. To Hunter, that was the utmost compliment (or perhaps it was a knee-jerk reaction to my command, but let's pretend it's not). Either way, PETA could learn a thing or two from Hunter.

In closing, my takeaway is simple: We need more human play dates.

-N.

Slightly Crunchy: giving in to some of the earth-preserving, "granola-esque" qualities that are often associated with mothers such as cloth diapering, breastfeeding and organic baby food-making, but without fully embracing the "make-your-own-clothes-wear-organic-deodorant-all-natural-everything" lifestyle.

Things aren't always easier the second time around

As soon as you get married, the questions start. Every relative from your third cousin thrice removed to your Great Aunt Jo want to know when you'll be bringing a baby into the family. As annoying as the constant pestering can get, it's hard to blame them. I admit, I bug my married friends about their plans of the ovary variety from time to time. My intentions aren't to bother them, I am just legitimately excited about the prospect of a new baby to play with.

The only pestering worse than this, however, is the constant conversation that happens after you birth a child. No sooner does that child reach 3 months old than the entire family has barged right back into your ovaries again - figuratively speaking, of course. Because once you've started, you're expected to act as if your sole purpose is to cook and pop out babies like your families own personal baby factory - most enticing to those either too old or too young to produce on their own.

I've said since pregnancy, when I was experiencing 24/7 morning all day sickness that I would be waiting a solid 4-5 years for baby number two. This notion was perposturous to most, especially those pregnant at the same time as me, clamoring to be pregnant again by the time their little one reached one year old, but for me it was the only way it'd ever work. After all, I was throwing up so much and so often that I was barely capable of taking care of myself some days so how was I supposed to care for two babies at once? Especially when one was already outside of my womb? (Three babies if you count myself - which you should).

I am happy to report that none of those mothers actually ended up pregnant by their little one's first birthday, but I am still sometimes surprised by the number of people who had kids at the same time as I did, having another already. Aside from the awful sickness, I actually have several valid reasons for postponing postpartum round two. And they are even better than the perfectly acceptable "I'm f**king tired."

When all is said and done I'm actually proud of myself for how well I've done with my son. Not for a second am I going to pretend I have it all together (just this past week he gave up naps in his crib), but overall, I achieved what I wanted to. I breastfed my son for over a year, I cloth diapered for the same amount of time, I successfully kept him healthy for the entirety of year one, I made all of his scheduled doctors appointments, I made all of my own (mostly organic) baby food and I stayed home with him - and still do (something I never envisioned for myself). But now, with the impeding thoughts of baby number two eventually (see: eventually) coming, I'm afraid. I'm not sure if I can be as good of a mom the second time around.

It was exhausting doing all of those things. Obviously I did them for the betterment of my child's life, because I personally feel they are important, but the idea of pumping milk several times a day and spending hours peeling, steaming and pureeing apples sounds exhausting. Add in child number 2 (now 4 or 5) who is likely bringing home sicknesses from school and feeding my baby chicken nuggets when I'm not looking, and the task seems daunting. And then I'll spend my whole life feeling awful because I was clearly a better mom round one. (No, really, I will. I'm that type of person).

So before you ask me about kid number two, be sure you're ready for a loooong explanation. Because these are the thoughts that go through my mind when I think about kid number two, and if I was having a good day before you asked me, I likely may not be once this conversation is over.

-N.


Slightly Crunchy: giving in to some of the earth-preserving, "granola-esque" qualities that are often associated with mothers such as cloth diapering, breastfeeding and organic baby food-making, but without fully embracing the "make-your-own-clothes-wear-organic-deodorant-all-natural-everything" lifestyle.

A Bug's Life.

Today we experienced a home invasion of the house centipede variety - although I'm still pretty convinced it was an alien life form come to signal an uprising by the machines living beneath earth's crust, but my husband doesn't believe me.

At first sight of the intruder - I scooped up my baby boy (before he could decide whether or not to eat the strange, moving object on the floor) and ran for cover, screaming for my dog to follow. My first plan was just to retreat several feet until I could decide how best to proceed (after I stopped screaming) but then the intruder started following us. If that isn't proof this animal was wired for something much bigger than a simple home invasion, I don't know what is.

It ran full speed ahead at us until I safely corralled my son, my dog and myself into the master bedroom and pondered what to do next. My first scary thought was that it could pretty easily slip underneath the door, so I decided I better drop a heavy object my husband's travel shaving kit on top of it, pray for accuracy and run.

As I sat on my bed, watching my son, oblivious to what had just happened, and my dog, probably angry I didn't just let him devour the bug alien life form, I had a profound realization.

I am the parent.

That seems dumb, right? Obviously I'm the parent. My son calls me "mom" daily hourly every minute, yet that thought very rarely sets in.

I'm the one in charge of scary situations like home invasions and extraterrestrial visits. If something goes wrong, I'm up. I'm the one at bat, poised to make the big decision. My son will undoubtedly look at me the minute anything goes awry and throw his arms up in the air in the most aloof fashion possible just as he does every time we ask "What happened?" before toddling in the direction of danger.

We spend our whole lives approaching adulthood, but I still wonder when I will feel like I've arrived at the destination. I remember my first apartment, a small 1-bedroom in San Francisco's inner sunset, and with that came a sense of responsibilty, but not an air of adulthood. I was 18. I was a kid. I remember my college graduation, holding the diploma in my hand, silly square-hat and all, living with my boyfriend (now husband), but still I was not an adult. I was 21. I was a kid. I remember my first real job. Full-time, 9-5, benefits and holiday pay - but alas, no sense of adulthood. I always thought it would come eventually, surely by the time I had kids of my own. But here I am, 26 years old and still pretty convinced adulthood must start at 30.

When I refer to "the parents," I never mean myself, my husband or my friends. Parents are people in their 50s. We're not parents. I mean we are, clearly, but we are not who people refer to as "parents." Right?

Occasionally it hits me; this overwhelming feeling that I am a mother. The feeling is usually fleeting, but for a solid 60 seconds I can feel the weight of the circumstance. I look at my son, quietly playing by himself, banging objects together, discovering a new sound, and it suddenly hits me. I'm that kid's mother. It's almost stifling, like 100 bricks hitting you at once, but in the best way possible. For those few seconds I am overcome by a harrowing sense of responsibility, a profound and unexplainable love and, usually, a little guilt.

Luckily, my son doesn't play alone for long, and he'll snap me right back to ignorance as quickly as I fell into reality.

Perhaps it's best that we aren't always consumed by the knowledge of parenthood. As long as we act with the full weight of the responsibility I don't think the conscious thought is all that important. It would be too much to feel that weight all of the time. I imagine it would become completely overwhelming. Instead, I revel in the small moments that I truly feel like a mother, and thank God that the moment will be fleeting so I can get back to enjoying playtime with my son.

-N.

Edit: After smashing the bug, and tipping the box off with my foot to ensure it was completely obliterated, I blocked the infected area with various objects from around the house so my son, my dog and I could all play safely until my husband got home to dispose of it. Also, the smashing process severely shrunk the bug, which is why it appeared much smaller than described on the phone. I swear.

Slightly Crunchy: giving in to some of the earth-preserving, "granola-esque" qualities that are often associated with mothers such as cloth diapering, breastfeeding and organic baby food-making, but without fully embracing the "make-your-own-clothes-wear-organic-deodorant-all-natural-everything" lifestyle.

It runs in the family.

My son is a comedian. At only 15 months old he will do anything for a laugh. My husband and I (as well as any unsuspecting person who comes into contact with him) must be on our guard at all times because if you dare laugh at a behavior - good or bad - he will continue said behavior until the end of time.

This has created weeks of patting his mouth like an Indian during mealtimes and bending at the waist before making a loud (and very fake) laugh. He also giggles every time he farts and burps (did I mention he's his father's son?)

Sometimes I can't help but laugh at the kid. He's just so strange, and most of his antics are amusing, but I try my hardest to be a good mom and not create bad habits. I admit, the amount of times I've had to leave a table with my hand cupped tightly over my mouth are countless.

When he catches an unsuspecting visitor off guard it's the best (I mean worst). Today during a play date with cousins, he banged his head on the wall and laughed. My unsuspecting cousin let out a little laugh in return and he immediately began a pattern of bang head-look at audience-laugh-bang head again. We had to attempt to ignore the constant bang-giggle coming from his corner of the playroom to get him to stop. But seriously, anything for a laugh - this kid is a clown!

I guess we could attribute this to genes. My husband and I both like to laugh. A sense of humor tends to top the list of many people's "important traits in a mate," but for my husband and I, it's the ultimate. Neither of us takes ourselves too seriously and laughter has been our biggest strength for the entirety of our relationship. My son, the splitting image of my husband, has gotten this trait from both of us. We spend so much time saying "the baby has your nose," "oh he has your laugh," "he gets his creativity from you" that I have to cherish this little piece of both of us and pray one day he finds people who love his sense of humor - head banging and all - just as much as we do.

-N.

Slightly Crunchy: giving in to some of the earth-preserving, "granola-esque" qualities that are often associated with mothers such as cloth diapering, breastfeeding and organic baby food-making, but without fully embracing the "make-your-own-clothes-wear-organic-deodorant-all-natural-everything" lifestyle.

To binky, or not to binky - that is the question.

My son is winning the binky war.

He's taken a binky since the day we left the hospital, and man am I glad he did! It's soothing, it helps him sleep and it seems to comfort him during bouts of teething. Lately, however, I've been trying to limit binky time in an effort to encourage more speech and assure I won't have a five year old still addicted to the pacifier.

I was holding strong, ignoring requests for his favorite "treat" and instead rerouting him to new activities. Even during a teething bout I was able to keep him binky free for the majority of the day.

And then it happened.

With the teething bout, came the constant finger in the mouth. And with that constant finger in the mouth, he remembered the gagging reflex he had discovered months ago.

Some background: At around 10 months my son discovered his gag reflex. At first I panicked, wondering why my little baby had suddenly decided to shove his fingers down his throat until he gagged. Was his stomach upset? Was there something wrong with him? A quick trip to my favorite baby source - Google - revealed that this was a common stage that would pass. It suggested I ignore the behavior and said that once the sensation became old to him, he would give it up. The best explanation for the odd behavior was that my son had simply discovered a new feeling and he was exploring it.

After a week of trying my best to ignore the gagging, it finally stopped and I thought we had moved on.

Fast forward 5 months later, we're in the car driving to the gym - my husband, me and my son - and he's gagging himself in the back seat. This time, however, he threw up. Now I know I'm supposed to ignore this behavior - according to the "experts" who post on mom boards, but that's simply something I can not do when my son is making himself physically sick.

He looked surprised and I hoped he was as traumatized from the experience as I was and that it would be a one-and-done situation. Until that evening when he did it again. And then he began using utensils at meal time to do the same. Luckily, I found a solution. As soon as he starts trying to gag himself, I pop a binky in his mouth and he completely moves on.

I can't help but think he did this on purpose. That he saw me taking away his binky more than he thought was acceptable and as a result crafted a situation where I would inevitably give in to his wishes. He must have sat down in his playpen and crafted the entire plan in his head - asking himself, what would I have to do to convince my mom that a binky is better than the alternative? Which is when he inevitably came up with this plan, racking his brain for the moments I reacted most terrified.

So for now, my son has won the binky war. But he's right; it is better than the alternative.

Has anyone else's kid done this? I was surprised to learn the gagging was a normal developmental stage that I had somehow never heard of.

-N.

Slightly Crunchy: giving in to some of the earth-preserving, "granola-esque" qualities that are often associated with mothers such as cloth diapering, breastfeeding and organic baby food-making, but without fully embracing the "make-your-own-clothes-wear-organic-deodorant-all-natural-everything" lifestyle.

The Art of Parenting

As a freelance writer, I cover a lot of topics. One of my favorites to cover is education. My son is not yet old enough to attend the schools in our school district, but as part of my job, I often cover the school board meetings.

At our most recent meeting, a presentation was made about an art program that occurs in classrooms at one elementary school in the district once per month. The other schools have little to no art at all, and even this school, which was praised for incorporating art into the curriculum, only sets aside one hour per month for an art lesson.

It's scary.

Art is SO important, and it should be taught in schools. Some kids will grow up to be artists, and they should be exposed to their craft early. I think it is a major failing in our school district, and probably one that exists across the country.

I introduced my son to art a long time ago. Since before he was 1 year old, we began making animals out of his footprints (we can't do hand print animals because he simply tried to eat the paint and never gives me a flat print on the paper) and exploring how colors mix with each other to create new colors. He doesn't attend daycare so exposing him to arts and crafts at home - even if it's a project I have to do most of the legwork for - is important to me. I want him to be as artistic as he wants to be. I'm not particularly skilled at drawing, but even I have creative outlets such as sewing, crafting and writing.

Now that my son is older, I am getting increasingly excited about the new projects we will be able to do. For now we mostly stick to toddler crayons and other age-appropriate art supplies, but in an effort to expose him to more mediums, we took to finger painting this week. Before you freak out, the paint was edible, and my son didn't even end up eating any. (YAY!)

Here is the recipe we used, sent to me by my sister-in-law. It was a hit, and now Hunter grabs his paintbrushes and makes the sign for "more." Looks like we will be doing it again soon.

Link to project: http://theimaginationtree.com/2011/03/homemade-edible-finger-paint-recipe.html

-N.

Slightly Crunchy: giving in to some of the earth-preserving, "granola-esque" qualities that are often associated with mothers such as cloth diapering, breastfeeding and organic baby food-making, but without fully embracing the "make-your-own-clothes-wear-organic-deodorant-all-natural-everything" lifestyle.