Little Green Lie

I’m going to preface this story by saying I’m lucky; since birth my three-and-a-half-year-old has been a (mostly) healthy eater. Some nights he refuses to eat anything but hot dogs and French fries, but for the most part getting him to eat green vegetables and fresh fruit isn’t a battle.

            However, his generally good eating habits make those days he refuses anything resembling real food more difficult. Like most mothers, I feel an intense need to get at least some nutritious calories into his body before he eats ice cream for dessert. Sometimes those desperate moments lead us to do things we aren’t proud of. For me, it led me to lie.

            Little fibs are part of parenthood and I thought this one was no harm, no foul. With a hunk of avocado on his plate that he poked at and exclaimed he did not like before even attempting a taste (this has to be the most annoying toddler habit, right?), he insisted he was done with dinner. So I got creative.

            That’s not avocado, that’s Hulk poop, I told him. I mean really, how else do you appeal to a three-and-a-half-year-old boy? And to my surprise, he bought my little white lie, complete with the fact that he would grow super strong like the hulk when he ate it. Without hesitation he got wide-eyed and shoved the entire hunk into his mouth and swallowed. No grotesque noises, no protesting. I thought I had won this battle.

            Then, without skipping a beat, he hopped down from his place at the dinner table and ran full speed ahead into the wall, fist out, his entire body colliding with the wall, as a green streak appeared against the textured cream paint (which was not easy to clean by the way.) “Ow! Ow! Ow!” he yelled as he jumped up and down holding his fist. “Why didn’t I punch through the wall? I ate the Hulk poop!”

            It was a valid question, and one I hadn’t yet considered an answer to. I mean, I really didn’t anticipate him trying to break through solid wood and plaster.
            “Oh, well, you have to eat it everyday for a really long time before you get as strong as Hulk.”

            “Oh.” He sounded a little dejected but he also seemed okay. Although, he must have decided it wasn’t worth the commitment because he hasn’t eaten avocado since. And I learned a valuable lesson…

            Not all little white lies are harmless.

--N.

Disanores

I love dinosaurs, and I’ve been determined to pass that love of dinosaurs onto my son since the day he was born. His nursery decorated in dinosaurs, books about dinosaurs lining his shelves, even a little Dinosaur Train on TV now and again.

            It turns out it doesn’t take much to get little boys hooked on dinosaurs, and it wasn’t long before my son was talking about them gleefully. In his cute little voice he would mispronounce it, “disanore.” Everyone just melted when he said it that way.

            Fast-forward approximately two years to a routine drive to preschool and my whole world changed. Sitting there quietly for a few moments, he suddenly blurted out of nowhere: “Mom! Guess what? I can say DI-NO-SAUR.”

            He pronounced it perfectly. I whipped around and exclaimed, “What?!” If I had been driving, I might have crashed, but luckily his dad was along for the ride that morning.

            “DINOSAUR! DINOSAUR! DINOSAUR!” He chanted. “I’m a big boy now cause I can say dinosaur. Disanore is what babies say.”

            I damn near broke down into tears right there on the way to preschool. I pestered him about who had taught him how to say it that way, I contemplated (briefly) telling him whoever corrected him was wrong and it really is pronounced disanore. But he knew—the secret was out, and I suddenly saw my little kid being dropped off on his first day of college, asking me not to get out of the car as he walked to his dorm room for the first time.

            It sounds like a reach, I know, going from being able to correctly pronounce dinosaur to the sudden pangs of empty nesters syndrome, but it’s all just happening too fast. And to be honest, I was never going to teach him how to pronounce dinosaur correctly.

            And since I had such an intense reaction to his pronouncement, my son now makes it a point to remind me of his genius every so often. Days go by without a mention of dinosaurs and then all of a sudden, out of the blue, he’ll say, “Mom. I can say dinosaur cause I’m big now. Does that make you sad?”

            Yes, it does, kid. Yes it does.

The Neverending Questions

The other day when I was picking my son up from preschool, one of his teachers stopped me. “I have to tell you something your son did today” she said. My heart dropped. I felt like I’d been sent to the principal’s office.

Then she told me that my son was playing with blocks and when the tower started to fall, he exclaimed, “IT’S THE LEANING TOWER OF PISA!”

“How does he know that?!” she asked.

I knew that by the time I had a three year old he'd be able to talk and I imagined some (mostly one-sided) conversations we'd be able to have, the songs we'd be able to sing, but I never realized just how much a kid that young could understand. 

On a typical ride in the car we jump across subjects. Sometimes I find myself explaining why people don't eat bones. "Because we don't" will not slide. So instead I explain how our bodies aren't equipped to digest them and dive into specifics about the anatomical differences between our teeth and dog's teeth (assuming this is why he's asking). 

Other days my son pokes different parts of his face and asks, "why is this hard?" And I describe the human skeleton to him. When I use a word he doesn't know he asks me what it means, and he stops to ask thoughtful questions (Then why isn't my stomach hard? Where did my stomach bones go?) When he's satisfied, he immediately switches to a new topic. He wants to know if car accidents hurt, if running over a bird will stop it from flying, how we are affected by other drivers on the road (if that car hits that car will WE get hurt?). It's beyond any scenario I ever imagined.

I try not to say I don't know too often because I hate that answer. Let's be honest, no one—regardless of age—likes that response. So instead I pose questions back to him when I can't answer something. When he asks me how someone feels I encourage him to think how he would feel in the same situation.

"Would Luke be sad if I took his blocks?" 

"Well, would you be sad if Luke took YOUR blocks" 

"Hmmm yeah I would. Cause that's not very nice."

I have to admit though, when he asks me the name of the stranger walking down the street, where they live, and if they have kids, I do have to resort to I don't know (although even then I try to give him a little bit more... I don't know because I've never met that person). And when he asks if he can roll down the window and ask, I find myself weighing the pros and cons of the stranger danger talk.

Bigger

Today as I sat at the table with my two-and-a-half-year-old, I couldn’t help but marvel at just how BIG he was. Watching him heave spoonfuls of mac ‘n’ cheese into his mouth, expertly maneuvering the spoon without even looking at it, I longed a little for the days when I had to feed him: highchair, bib, tiny plastic spoons—the whole nine yards. Today, he did not need my help to eat his lunch, and honestly, it’d been a long time since he had.

For some reason, in that moment, his eyes fixed on Curious George as he ate, he seemed so much bigger than the day before. Heck, he seemed bigger than he had at breakfast. Maybe I had finally sat down long enough to notice, or maybe it had something to do with the fact that we had taken our first preschool tour that morning.

All he ever talks about is being bigger. He wakes up from a nap, “I’m bigger, Mom!” From the backseat of my car he says matter-of-factly, “when I’m 16, I can reach the pedals.” I tell him, it’s good to be little, to stay little as long as he can, but he’s in a rush to grow up.

It seems like forever from now that he’ll truly be big enough to not need me anymore, to be able to reach those pedals, to secure true independence, but I suppose when he was an infant, lounging in my arms most of the day, I thought having a toddler was a long ways off, too. Being bigger is all he wants to think about, and I can hardly bear the thought of it.

We’ve left behind everything “baby,” about him. Every time I call him baby, he stands tall and corrects me, “Mom, I’m not a baby. I’m a big boy!” And he’s right. I simultaneously fight and embrace him growing him. We’ve left behind the binkies, the bottles, the crib, and the high chair. We’re almost done with the diapers. And I’ve marveled in every milestone. Clapped for him, gave rambunctious high fives, celebrated his every success right there with him, a wide grin pulling across his face as he cheers and says, “I’m big!”

After I tuck him into bed, savoring the song he still asks for and the stories I still read to him, I retreat with a simple, “goodnight, I love you.” He returns the sentiment, and I let go a sigh of relief that the day is over, before pressing my fingers to my eyes to staunch the tears. Because when he wakes up, I know one thing is true: he’ll be bigger.

-- N.

Little Lies

I read once that when young children lie it's a sign of intelligence. Now, I'm not 100 percent sure if this is true, or just a little lie parents concocted themselves to feel better about their two-year-old's ability to fib like a politician, but I breathed a little sign of relief when I read it. You see, my son has been capable of lying just as long as he's been capable of talking.

They started out small. Mere "mistakes" I thought at first. Answering yes to questions when the truth was no--that sort of thing. Then we reached a particularly alarming phase of lying where anytime I asked him about a scratch or a bruise he told me his dog bit him. It lasted so long I was afraid to take him out in public for fear people would call Animal Control to our house to capture the beast (he's not). My son could be laying down on the couch next to me, playing a little game, his dog not even in the room and he would look up at me with big blue eyes and say "Mom, Nine bite me!" Clearly, Nine did not.

It got a little humorous (but only a little) when he started telling me his grandparents bit him. He'd come home from a day at their house all smile and giggles. I'd question a bruise and he'd look at me, completely serious, and deadpan "Papa bit me." Obviously, Papa did not. And to make matters worse he'd tell his grandparents the same about his dad and I. I was feeling pretty certain we'd have a CPS visitor at our house before we knew it. Luckily he got through the phase quickly enough but not before he started adding variation to his routine. Let's just say, it wasn't only mysterious biting going on, my son was now also being miraculously hit while no one was even standing within arm span of him.

While the outright lying has subsided, his trickery has not. He'll come bolting into the house from the garage where he's undoubtedly been "fixing" something with his dad and ask me a question, or tell me he needs something. "Mom! I need to hold dad's wrench!" My response, "Did dad say you could hold his wrench?" "I NEED ITTTTTTTT" followed by wails. Ah yes, the ol' ask the other parent when the first one says no. I know it well, kid.

Then there's the sweet talking. Ohhhh, the sweet talking.

My son: Mom, I really, really love you. I REALLY love you.
Me: Awww honey, I really, really love you, too!
My son: Can I have chocolate milk?

I mean, clearly I gave him chocolate milk, but that's not the point here. The point is my son is a genius. And your little fibber probably is too.

Oh, and guess who coached him on the last one. His dad. Yup; don't even get me started on the bro code that seems to exist around here.

Parental Pride: A Cautionary Tale

As a parent, I think it's impossible not to be (overly) proud of our tiny offspring. After all, every new milestone they hit is more than just an achievement for them, it's a victory for mom and dad, as well, and two years old seems to be an especially busy time for little ones. They are potty training, transitioning to big boy and big girl beds, and learning how to ditch the little comforts that have consoled even their biggest tantrums for the previous two years (such as binkies and bottles). All of this while simultaneously learning shapes, colors, letters, and numbers. It's a lot.

Every time my son masters a new word or counts just a little bit higher, my heart swells with pride. I, like most parents, think my son is probably the smartest kid around, boasting to family and friends about his (honestly time-appropriate) life developments as if he has just secured an Olympic gold medal. We can't help it, I swear.

Thankfully, however, in the same moment two year olds make your heart grow three sizes, they can bring you crashing back to reality. They do it well, and they do it often.

This week, in mommy and me soccer, my budding soccer star (who still prefers to use his hands and scream touchdown when he makes a goal; it's okay, he can be the goalie), was a perfect angel for the entire 50-minute skills class, which is really saying something for a toddler who can't make it through dinner without at least two meltdowns, three screaming sessions, and a fit of giggles. To say I was proud that he managed to listen and follow directions for the entire duration of class would be an understatement. It was a clear sign of his obvious genius. We were finally turning a corner! The terrible twos were over! We could have left soccer class right then and never come back and my son would have forever been remembered as the most well-behaved two-year-old to ever play soccer. But I didn't. I missed my opportunity. I took his behavior for granted. And as he and his little teammates put their hands out for traditional end-of-class stickers, I was humbled.

My son's playmate—same age as him—took one look at the star-shaped adornments on his hand and promptly exclaimed "Stars!" for all the mommies to hear. Then, as if that wasn't enough, he began to count proudly "1, 2, 3 stars!" His mom yelled congrats, we all clapped and said "yay," my son looked on in awe. And as he got his celebratory stickers—the ones that marked a job well done for the most perfect performance in a toddler class ever—he took one look at those brightly-colored stars, lifted his hand toward his face, and ate them. Just like that, it had all come crashing down.

It was not my first lesson in parental pride, and it will not be my last. I’ll still cherish every milestone, I’ll still gobble up compliments when they’re doled out (I’ll need those moments later when he’s sprawled out on the floor, screaming because I cut his waffle wrong), and I’ll remember to cherish it while it lasts; because if my son has taught me anything, it’s that these prideful moments are fleeting.

--N.

My Mini-Me

When I was 27 weeks pregnant, I had a 3D ultrasound. The second the technician found a good angle and projected my unborn child's tiny face onto the giant screen, the entire room (my husband, mother-in-law, sister-in-law and me) burst into laughter. The technician gave us a sideways glance; she didn't see it like we did. There it was, plain as day, my husband's face on a squishy little baby in utero.

Since before he was born my son has bared striking resemblance to my husband. I had no chance really, my husband is the splitting image of my father-in-law and my son the splitting image of both of them. Aside from the blonde hair, light skin and blue eyes (that have stayed the same dark shade into his second year suggesting they are a permanent feature and not the fleeting hue most babies possess for a year or so), he looks exactly like my husband. It isn't until my son opens his mouth that you can tell, undoubtedly, that he is mine.

As a working stay-at-home mom, I'm lucky to spend a lot of time with my son. This easily led to his first word being "mama," (mostly because I prodded him gently when no one else was around to ensure it would be), and now that he speaks in full sentences, it's impossible not to hear myself in him daily. He walks into a messy room and exclaims, "oh my goodness!" mouth agape as he flings his arms into the air. He mutters "ay yi yi," when the dog is being especially hyper, pronouncing each word exactly as I, using all of the same inflections. It makes me smile to hear my voice in the kid who only slightly resembles me regardless of the fact that I birthed him, but sometimes it makes me a little self-aware, too (much as I imagine actors feel when they watch themselves on screen). I never realized how often I say "honey," until my two-year-old mini-me started randomly adding it to the end of unrelated words. I didn't notice my affinity for scolding the dog (perhaps a little too often) until my son started yelling "go away, Nine!" at him as we all played side-by-side. My son acting as my permanent echo gives me a a unique look into how I sound to others, which is simultaneously hilarious and terrifying.

It wasn't until we started employing time outs as punishment that my obvious impact on my son's vocabulary (and personality) became evident. It was mostly short phrases and exclamations at first, but then, right around his second birthday, when he started engaging in conversations and fully grasping the concept of being in trouble (made apparent by his following a swift hit with an immediate screech of "no time out!" before running down the hallway), I heard myself in him in a whole new way--my parenting practices on display right in front of me for my own judgment (and amusement).

One morning, I was perched at the dining room table, enjoying a cup of coffee, while my son played calmly (albeit not quietly) with his dinosaurs. It was then that he shouted "OW! Don't bite me!" to his tiny plastic long-neck and promptly carried him to the time out corner and began counting (one, nine, nine, nine, nine...) saying things like "turn around" and "look at me," in an even tone. I froze. And then I burst into laughter. It's like I was listening to a recording of myself where the sound had been altered to a higher pitch, and watching my life play out before my very eyes, my son in the role of me. There's no better way to see how directly your own behavior affects your offspring than watching them reenact a scene that seems to play on loop in your house.

I noticed something in that moment though; those reoccurring feelings I have that I'm too frustrated, too stressed, I yell too much and I'm not sure if I reprimand my son in an effective manner (I've forgone the controversial spanking thus far), floated away. I could tell right then, as he punished his tiny plastic dinosaur for his inexcusable behavior that he gets it. And maybe I'm not doing such a bad job after all. Although, I am trying to yell at the dog less.