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.
Sunday, April 10, 2016
Monday, February 15, 2016
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.
Sunday, December 27, 2015
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.
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.
Monday, September 21, 2015
Baby Help.
Ever since my son hit 18 months, his verbal skills have really picked up. Not only did he add more words to his vocabulary, but he is able to string words together, recognize several letters and parrot back things we ask him to say (which is particularly fun--but also a little dangerous). His new phrases crack me up and melt my heart. He says "I love you," "Go Niners!" and "Touchdown!" (All equally important phrases in our house). I am always most impressed, however, when he picks up a new phrase that I can't recall every saying... or at least with any frequency.
Here or there he surprises me with a word we've used a couple of times, or just read over in a book but never focused on. He calls our house "Home" and everywhere else is "Papa's House" "Auntie's House," etc. Even when he refers to our dog, it is "Nine's Home." This is my favorite because while I'm sure I've said "We're going home" a million times before, he is already discerning a difference between a house and his home.
His favorite phrase as of late, and in some cases the most aggravating, is "Baby Help." Now I know I've asked him to "Help Mama" in the past, and we most certainly call him "The Baby," (which is particularly frustrating when we tell him he's a big boy and not to whine like a baby to which he points at his face, smiles and says "Baby!" ensuring us he most certainly will act like a baby because he is one), but I can't recall a time the phrase "Baby Help" ever came out of my mouth.
It is clearly an indication that he is developing both his verbal and cognitive skills, being able to understand the meanings of words and put them together in new ways to convey thoughts and ideas. However, EVERYTHING is "Baby Help." The disagreement we have on repeat typically goes as follows:
("Baby" pulls all of the DVDs off of the shelf)
Me: Don't do that (frantically starts putting them back on the shelf, no longer in the alphabetical order they were in pre-toddlerdom)
Baby: Baby help!
Me: No. No baby help. Mama do.
Baby: No, Mom. Baby help! (grabs DVDs and shoves them haphazardly in all the wrong places)
Me: Baby, no. No, help.
Baby:...Mom... Baby help.
I eventually give in to baby's help and as I glance over at the DVD shelves on our walls my OCD aches as I notice "Home" placed next to "Monsters, Inc." and a few backward and upside down titles on either side. It's a battle I have chosen not to fight. For the first several months after my son learned how to walk I re-alphabetized those movies way too many times. I've finally realized it's not worth it.
I suppose I should be happy that the helpful toddler gene is strong with our youngin' but sometimes it is SO much harder when baby actually wants to help. He's become rather useful at some tasks--dusting, feeding the dog--but when it comes to vacuuming and carrying the laundry basket, it really creates more work than anything. That doesn't mean I don't acquiesce to his demands to help. I do. But I tend to let out a large sign every time I say "Ok, honey, you play here, mama is gunna go pee" and he says "BABY HELP!" as he chases me out the door.
I suppose one day he'll be a fairly useless teenager, finally able to complete tasks in a helpful manner after developing a complete unwillingness to do so. So for now, I take the "help" no matter how decidedly unhelpful it is.
--N.
Here or there he surprises me with a word we've used a couple of times, or just read over in a book but never focused on. He calls our house "Home" and everywhere else is "Papa's House" "Auntie's House," etc. Even when he refers to our dog, it is "Nine's Home." This is my favorite because while I'm sure I've said "We're going home" a million times before, he is already discerning a difference between a house and his home.
His favorite phrase as of late, and in some cases the most aggravating, is "Baby Help." Now I know I've asked him to "Help Mama" in the past, and we most certainly call him "The Baby," (which is particularly frustrating when we tell him he's a big boy and not to whine like a baby to which he points at his face, smiles and says "Baby!" ensuring us he most certainly will act like a baby because he is one), but I can't recall a time the phrase "Baby Help" ever came out of my mouth.
It is clearly an indication that he is developing both his verbal and cognitive skills, being able to understand the meanings of words and put them together in new ways to convey thoughts and ideas. However, EVERYTHING is "Baby Help." The disagreement we have on repeat typically goes as follows:
("Baby" pulls all of the DVDs off of the shelf)
Me: Don't do that (frantically starts putting them back on the shelf, no longer in the alphabetical order they were in pre-toddlerdom)
Baby: Baby help!
Me: No. No baby help. Mama do.
Baby: No, Mom. Baby help! (grabs DVDs and shoves them haphazardly in all the wrong places)
Me: Baby, no. No, help.
Baby:...Mom... Baby help.
I eventually give in to baby's help and as I glance over at the DVD shelves on our walls my OCD aches as I notice "Home" placed next to "Monsters, Inc." and a few backward and upside down titles on either side. It's a battle I have chosen not to fight. For the first several months after my son learned how to walk I re-alphabetized those movies way too many times. I've finally realized it's not worth it.
I suppose I should be happy that the helpful toddler gene is strong with our youngin' but sometimes it is SO much harder when baby actually wants to help. He's become rather useful at some tasks--dusting, feeding the dog--but when it comes to vacuuming and carrying the laundry basket, it really creates more work than anything. That doesn't mean I don't acquiesce to his demands to help. I do. But I tend to let out a large sign every time I say "Ok, honey, you play here, mama is gunna go pee" and he says "BABY HELP!" as he chases me out the door.
I suppose one day he'll be a fairly useless teenager, finally able to complete tasks in a helpful manner after developing a complete unwillingness to do so. So for now, I take the "help" no matter how decidedly unhelpful it is.
--N.
Tuesday, July 21, 2015
I Scream, You Scream.
As the full-time caregiver for my little tot, I don't always get to play the nice guy. In fact, in the game of good cop vs. bad cop I'm usually the latter. I know this because at 7:15 a.m. when my son is gleefully screaming "ICE CREAM!" from his car seat, I tell him no, only to hear his father sneaking him a spoonful when he gets home from work and whispering, "don't tell mom."
I'm not sure where this ice cream obsession came from but I do know he learned that word in about two seconds flat (although he still can't say 'meow' - I guess that's just priorities). The only word he may have learned quicker was "Avengers," go figure. His love of ice cream started in utero. I, who rarely indulged in a scoop and much prefer cake or cookies when picking a treat, found myself craving ice cream constantly. It's no surprise that after his first taste of the frozen sweet, he rarely ever asks for anything else to eat.
Because I stay home with my son, I cannot give in to every request he has, no mater how adorable he is. If it were up to him, he may never eat anything other than ice cream and applesauce, which probably isn't the best diet to support a healthy nutritional profile, especially at the ripe age of 20 months.
That being said, I take every opportunity I (responsibly) can to be the fun mom. The mom who feeds the motorized helicopter at the mall quarters so my son can take a 60-second ride after picking up diapers at Target. He may scream later when I say no to his every request for Curious George cartoons, but at least I have that moment to hold on to - the one where he smiled gleefully for an entire minute and must have thought "wow I have the best mom on earth for letting me ride this awesome helicopter."Although, he was probably just thinking "COOL! I wonder if I can ride the train next."
I decided to up my cool mom game after a long day of work. My son had spent the day with his grandparents and I was missing my tiny sidekick. His grandparents inevitably spoil him tirelessly but knowing they rarely keep ice cream in the house, I knew they were probably turning down every gleeful request he made just as I do day-in and day-out. So, on my way to pick him up I stopped by to grab a kid's scoop of vanilla from the local Baskin Robbins. I smiled the whole way home knowing I'd be the hero that day.
And sure enough, as soon as I flashed that little pink cup, my son was joyful for my arrival (he usually hides and yells NOOOOOOO when my husband or I show up because he doesn't want to leave nana and papas' house). I relish those moments when I get to win. When I get to be the cool parent who comes home with ice cream.
As he plowed through that tiny cup, smiling between bites and brain freezes, it felt good to have a win. Another, "well, my mom isn't always a tyrant" moment for my son. Although he was probably just thinking, "but do I have to leave nana and papas' after this?"
-N.
I'm not sure where this ice cream obsession came from but I do know he learned that word in about two seconds flat (although he still can't say 'meow' - I guess that's just priorities). The only word he may have learned quicker was "Avengers," go figure. His love of ice cream started in utero. I, who rarely indulged in a scoop and much prefer cake or cookies when picking a treat, found myself craving ice cream constantly. It's no surprise that after his first taste of the frozen sweet, he rarely ever asks for anything else to eat.
Because I stay home with my son, I cannot give in to every request he has, no mater how adorable he is. If it were up to him, he may never eat anything other than ice cream and applesauce, which probably isn't the best diet to support a healthy nutritional profile, especially at the ripe age of 20 months.
That being said, I take every opportunity I (responsibly) can to be the fun mom. The mom who feeds the motorized helicopter at the mall quarters so my son can take a 60-second ride after picking up diapers at Target. He may scream later when I say no to his every request for Curious George cartoons, but at least I have that moment to hold on to - the one where he smiled gleefully for an entire minute and must have thought "wow I have the best mom on earth for letting me ride this awesome helicopter."Although, he was probably just thinking "COOL! I wonder if I can ride the train next."
I decided to up my cool mom game after a long day of work. My son had spent the day with his grandparents and I was missing my tiny sidekick. His grandparents inevitably spoil him tirelessly but knowing they rarely keep ice cream in the house, I knew they were probably turning down every gleeful request he made just as I do day-in and day-out. So, on my way to pick him up I stopped by to grab a kid's scoop of vanilla from the local Baskin Robbins. I smiled the whole way home knowing I'd be the hero that day.
And sure enough, as soon as I flashed that little pink cup, my son was joyful for my arrival (he usually hides and yells NOOOOOOO when my husband or I show up because he doesn't want to leave nana and papas' house). I relish those moments when I get to win. When I get to be the cool parent who comes home with ice cream.
As he plowed through that tiny cup, smiling between bites and brain freezes, it felt good to have a win. Another, "well, my mom isn't always a tyrant" moment for my son. Although he was probably just thinking, "but do I have to leave nana and papas' after this?"
-N.
Monday, June 22, 2015
Planes, Trains & Automobiles
I used to think that the Russian culture class I took in college would be the largest source of "useless information" I would acquire in my adult life. I was wrong. Not only have I now memorized the words to countless children's books, but I can very accurately tell you the names of most heavy operating equipment.
It's one of those things I never thought I'd have to know: the difference between a backhoe loader and an excavator. However, it has become blatantly obvious that it is completely necessary for me to have this information on hand. My son insists.
My son has a serious obsession with vehicles. Basically anything with wheels. He is no longer content to just push toy cars around his room making a "vroooom" noise that results in a LOT of spit gathering on his chin, he now has to jump up in his crib at 6:30 a.m. and scream "MOOOOOM!!!!" in between making airplane noises every time he thinks he hears one (I've tried to explain to him that sometimes it's just the wind - or rather, before 7 a.m., it is ALWAYS the wind).
He points at the airplane pictures in our house and makes flying motions above his head, he eats his meals with utensils outfitted with tiny diggers and points joyously at them in between bites exclaiming, "dig! dig!" He even brings his vehicle magnets to me one at time and demands I tell him exactly what vehicle each one is supposed to be. (Is a roller a vehicle? I think that's wrong...)
The good news is with all of the "baby's first vehicles" books we read, I'm actually learning something. Although I would like to pick a bone with whoever thinks "excavator"is an appropriate vehicle for this book. Seriously, what about "car?" and "truck?"
Most little kids cuddle their stuffed animals while they watch Saturday morning cartoons, or bring their favorite book in the car with them, but my son has decided that instead of a security blanket, he would prefer to drag his giant, plastic garbage truck everywhere we go. He strokes it during story time before bed, holds it in his car seat on the way to the store and would basically sleep with it if I would allow him to. To make matters worse, the hatch on the back of it opens so he can store/hide items back there to surprise me with later. Out of nowhere I have to ask "What are you eating?!" or "Where did you get that binky?!"
I understand this is a normal part of boyhood, and I'll admit it's pretty cute when he yells "more dig!" as we drive past open fields, but the other day when he accidentally dropped said plastic garbage truck on my knee cap, I secretly wished it was a stuffed bear he had dragged into his rocker with him.
His father doesn't help. Not only does he work at a landfill (full of semis, dump trucks and landfill compactors - oh my!) but he Facetimes me throughout the day just so he can show my son a running tractor. I'm sorely outnumbered.
I've decided not to fight it. We're already planning a family vacation to the Caterpillar plant in Illinois for when we decide to brave the open skies with the little, and airport trips are fast becoming more frequent than I'd like (did I mention I HATE flying? Even the sight of planes makes me a little anxious). If we decide to tackle this whole "raising a child" thing a second time, I'm praying ballet recitals and stuffed animal tea parties are in my future.
- N.
It's one of those things I never thought I'd have to know: the difference between a backhoe loader and an excavator. However, it has become blatantly obvious that it is completely necessary for me to have this information on hand. My son insists.
My son has a serious obsession with vehicles. Basically anything with wheels. He is no longer content to just push toy cars around his room making a "vroooom" noise that results in a LOT of spit gathering on his chin, he now has to jump up in his crib at 6:30 a.m. and scream "MOOOOOM!!!!" in between making airplane noises every time he thinks he hears one (I've tried to explain to him that sometimes it's just the wind - or rather, before 7 a.m., it is ALWAYS the wind).
He points at the airplane pictures in our house and makes flying motions above his head, he eats his meals with utensils outfitted with tiny diggers and points joyously at them in between bites exclaiming, "dig! dig!" He even brings his vehicle magnets to me one at time and demands I tell him exactly what vehicle each one is supposed to be. (Is a roller a vehicle? I think that's wrong...)
The good news is with all of the "baby's first vehicles" books we read, I'm actually learning something. Although I would like to pick a bone with whoever thinks "excavator"is an appropriate vehicle for this book. Seriously, what about "car?" and "truck?"
Most little kids cuddle their stuffed animals while they watch Saturday morning cartoons, or bring their favorite book in the car with them, but my son has decided that instead of a security blanket, he would prefer to drag his giant, plastic garbage truck everywhere we go. He strokes it during story time before bed, holds it in his car seat on the way to the store and would basically sleep with it if I would allow him to. To make matters worse, the hatch on the back of it opens so he can store/hide items back there to surprise me with later. Out of nowhere I have to ask "What are you eating?!" or "Where did you get that binky?!"
I understand this is a normal part of boyhood, and I'll admit it's pretty cute when he yells "more dig!" as we drive past open fields, but the other day when he accidentally dropped said plastic garbage truck on my knee cap, I secretly wished it was a stuffed bear he had dragged into his rocker with him.
His father doesn't help. Not only does he work at a landfill (full of semis, dump trucks and landfill compactors - oh my!) but he Facetimes me throughout the day just so he can show my son a running tractor. I'm sorely outnumbered.
I've decided not to fight it. We're already planning a family vacation to the Caterpillar plant in Illinois for when we decide to brave the open skies with the little, and airport trips are fast becoming more frequent than I'd like (did I mention I HATE flying? Even the sight of planes makes me a little anxious). If we decide to tackle this whole "raising a child" thing a second time, I'm praying ballet recitals and stuffed animal tea parties are in my future.
- N.
Wednesday, June 17, 2015
Snakes, Snails & Puppy Dog Tails
I say it all the time, my son is "all boy." I'm a great believer in the impact of nurture, but having a child has shown me just how influential nature is, too. It has never seemed to matter how many times I sit my son down quietly with a book, or try to convince him to cuddle with me in the early mornings on the couch; he would much rather climb a windowsill.
I have four nieces, and I feel like getting to know them over the years sorely misrepresented what motherhood would look like for me.. especially with the oldest two. I remember spending quiet mornings with one niece, reading stories on a blanket and singing nursery rhymes, all the while she would giggle and hold her soft toys close. And when my son was born, I got that. For about six months before he learned to crawl. And then at 10 1/2 months, he took his first steps. And I'm pretty sure he hasn't stopped moving since.
Everything is always full speed ahead. He doesn't talk back or give me much attitude but he certainly makes his opinions known. He juts off full speed in every direction, throws baseballs at my face like a major league pitcher and screams in a tone that you would think is "all girl," though I've learned it's pretty indicative of toddler-aged boys. Bottom line: he's nuts.
I used to feel embarrassed about his inability to follow directions during gymnastics class or wait his turn at soccer; I've cringed when people meet him, legs covered in bruises, and probably think I don't pay attention to my child, or worse. And then I started to get the response that made me feel better. "He's all boy, isn't he?" People would ask as he came crashing onto the playground, his little body moving too fast for his legs to keep up.
Since becoming a mother to a boy, I've decided I definitely believe in toddler gender stereotypes. Sure it's not a hard-and-fast rule -- I do have one niece who would give my son a run for his money -- but it seems to hold true more often than not.
The acknowledgement from other mothers who have the same observations about the differences between toddler girls and boys reassures me that I'm not making unnecessary excuses for my son's poor behaviors. I definitely put him in time out when he's being mean on purpose, but the fact of the matter is, when you're moving as fast as my son does, sometimes there are accidental casualties. I don't want to punish him for being who he is. Crazy isn't all bad. He's just "all boy."
It's funny how in these media battles of breastfeeding vs. bottlefeeding, SAHM vs. working mom, we seem to lose the idea that we are all in this together. Usually my son is able to give me the queues and clues to let me know he's okay. But, in this instance, it was the shared stories with other mothers -- barely more than acquaintances -- that has made me feel at peace with my son's crazy behavior.
I have four nieces, and I feel like getting to know them over the years sorely misrepresented what motherhood would look like for me.. especially with the oldest two. I remember spending quiet mornings with one niece, reading stories on a blanket and singing nursery rhymes, all the while she would giggle and hold her soft toys close. And when my son was born, I got that. For about six months before he learned to crawl. And then at 10 1/2 months, he took his first steps. And I'm pretty sure he hasn't stopped moving since.
Everything is always full speed ahead. He doesn't talk back or give me much attitude but he certainly makes his opinions known. He juts off full speed in every direction, throws baseballs at my face like a major league pitcher and screams in a tone that you would think is "all girl," though I've learned it's pretty indicative of toddler-aged boys. Bottom line: he's nuts.
I used to feel embarrassed about his inability to follow directions during gymnastics class or wait his turn at soccer; I've cringed when people meet him, legs covered in bruises, and probably think I don't pay attention to my child, or worse. And then I started to get the response that made me feel better. "He's all boy, isn't he?" People would ask as he came crashing onto the playground, his little body moving too fast for his legs to keep up.
Since becoming a mother to a boy, I've decided I definitely believe in toddler gender stereotypes. Sure it's not a hard-and-fast rule -- I do have one niece who would give my son a run for his money -- but it seems to hold true more often than not.
The acknowledgement from other mothers who have the same observations about the differences between toddler girls and boys reassures me that I'm not making unnecessary excuses for my son's poor behaviors. I definitely put him in time out when he's being mean on purpose, but the fact of the matter is, when you're moving as fast as my son does, sometimes there are accidental casualties. I don't want to punish him for being who he is. Crazy isn't all bad. He's just "all boy."
It's funny how in these media battles of breastfeeding vs. bottlefeeding, SAHM vs. working mom, we seem to lose the idea that we are all in this together. Usually my son is able to give me the queues and clues to let me know he's okay. But, in this instance, it was the shared stories with other mothers -- barely more than acquaintances -- that has made me feel at peace with my son's crazy behavior.
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