My Many Colored Days

Does anyone else think that the Dr. Seuss book My Many Colored Days is really about living with schizophrenia? I know it's supposed to help kids define their emotions so that they can express their feelings, but it always seems like the ramblings of a manic-depressive to me.

It also, to a certain extent, describes motherhood. Obviously, every day I'm absolutely over the moon for Zephyr, but the way I feel about motherhood (or myself as a mother) seems to change from day to day. Some days I cannot give myself enough high fives, but I rate my success based on things that are, in actuality, completely out of my control. A "good day" is when Zephyr and I go to lunch together and he doesn't fling his food all over the place. I read to him for the fully-prescribed 20 minutes, he takes his two long naps without a single fuss, then doesn't wake at all to nurse in the night. That means I'm doing it Right.

Most of the time, though, I am plagued by self-doubt. I am terrified of being a mean mom, yet I want to set boundaries so Zephyr doesn't end up being a total dick. I constantly compare him to other kids his age and blame myself if he isn't at the same level (or ahead) of other kids. That he only just took his first steps - at 15 months - is clearly because I don't spend enough time engaging him in physical play. That he only knows about 5 or 6 words (about half of which are actually animal sounds like "hoo-hoo" for an owl) is clearly because I don't read or speak to him enough.

He used to be such a great eater, and now I spend every mealtime girding myself for the moment when he wrings his hands to tell me he's finished (I haven't figured out if he has actually learned the sign for "all done," like I've been trying to teach him) . If I don't respond instantly, he throws all of his food on the floor: one piece, then the second piece, then the entire bowl. This, from the boy who creamed all of the other babies in the race to feed himself. I'm sure this is my fault, because I tend to spend mealtimes trying to get the kitchen cleaned up instead of eating with him, peppering the pauses between bites with pleasant conversation.

So then I break out the books again, all of the dozens of parenting books that tell me "everything is fine and just to fucking relax already," and the ones that tell me "Jesus Christ, talk to his pediatrician if he doesn't speak precisely 15 words by the time he's 18 months." I develop a game plan (because parenting requires a strategy, right?) to help me feel like I'm in charge (when in reality, I couldn't be further from it). I project-manage. I tell Scott what we're going to do from now on, get him on board, get him on the same page. I harp on him for not talking to Zephyr enough, and tell him he needs to read more, and to quit zoning out and staring at the floor. "Even if Zephyr isn't interested, just read at him so he hears words," I tell Scott.

I am also a terrible wife, and am sure Scott will leave me any minute for a woman who still weighs 128 pounds and is less of a fucking harpy, who doesn't complain about how sore and tired she is all the time, who is captivated to listen to him talk about his day when he gets home from work.

I divert my focus to things I can control: a clean house, a full cupboard, a checked-off list of arbitrary To-Dos. I feel competent and proud for while, maybe it even escalates to smug satisfaction. Then that needling sneaks up on me again: my priorities are completely out of whack and I should be focusing on my amazing little boy instead of all of the Other Shit.

I am starting to get it, though. I think. Being a good mom means learning how to laugh at shit that I find really irritating instead of getting pissed off. I think it also means letting the kid have wads of cat hair on him sometimes instead of freaking out and spending 15 minutes vacuuming every day. Maybe it can also mean letting him fuck shit up once in awhile and make some messes if it means he's happy and learning. It definitely means taking a step back and trying to get a little perspective: he's healthy, he's happy and people always remark at what a good boy he is. That is enough.

*****



He took his first steps last week. Just two of them, but now he's motoring all over the house with his little push cart, and shopping trips mean if I don't let him down on the floor to "push" the shopping cart, he will holler and frown and be one of those kids that my pre-kid self wished would shut the hell up.

He's cutting about 30 teeth right now, all at once. I can feel and see his molars and all those incisors all bumping up against his gums and he always has a finger jammed in his mouth. He's been kind of a grumpus the past few weeks, and I am trying to stay patient and sympathetic and just give him lots of snuggles (and Tylenol).

He needs a haircut, but I keep forgetting to give him one. I actually really want to take him to a barber so I can photograph it, but I'm afraid this will end in tears, and I always forget to bring it up on the weekend (I feel like all of these Firsts should have Scott in attendance so he doesn't miss out).

His 15 month checkup was a couple weeks ago, and he's only gained a half pound in the last three months (and no height). His head circumference has increased a little. I have started giving him two or three snacks a day, trying to fatten him back up - 75th centile for weight means he's malnourished, as far as I'm concerned. His little pot belly is starting to slim down, and I guess I'm just not ready for him to be a kid instead of a baby.

(Hey, everyone, please believe me when I say: I'm not asking for everyone to be concerned about me, or to pat my hair and tell me I'm a great mother, or to worry that I am secretly depressed. Just because I write about these things doesn't mean it's a cry for help. I'm just writing about it because I feel it's honest, and I hope that other moms can relate. That's all. But thanks!)

Travels and Travails

Wow, this month is really getting away from me.

Playing peek-a-boo with his Gramma at The Keg

We survived our first trip two weeks ago. Zephyr was smitten with his Grandma and great aunts and uncles, and likewise charmed them with his near-perfect behavior the entire trip. He was a mite fussy on the flight in, but that was because he'd only had a mini-nap and couldn't sleep on the plane. He caught another 20 minute catnap in the car on the way to the hotel, and was up two hours past his bedtime. This was pretty much the way things were the entire trip, yet he behaved admirably.

That is, until the last night in Gilbert (an ugly suburb of Phoenix, AZ), when dinner at Kona Grill caused a complete failure of composure. I have never experienced my son in this way - just completely miserable, crying and arching nonstop for about 45 minutes (while we waited for the hotel shuttle bus to return for us). The food was passable (but overpriced), the service was cloyingly chipper (and tragically misinformed), but the main problem was that it was a total meat market and not at all the friendly Hawaiian luau food that we expected. The dark, night-clubby lighting and loud DOUCHEDOUCHEDOUCHE music exacerbated the problem. I took Zephyr outside, bouncing, singing, desperate to calm him, but nothing worked. It was too warm, and the air in front of the mini-mall restaurant smelled of stale cigarettes. Phoenix is plastic like Los Angeles, but more rednecky.

We enjoyed the weather and scenery, though, and the zoo was fun.


The new stuff, I'm just gonna list because I think he's waking up from his nap and who has the time for paragraphs these days?

• Has three different dance moves, employs them often. Beatboxes "puhpuhpuh." Awesome.
  
• Points to everything and whispers "this." Dis. dis. dis. We try to figure out what he's talking about and name the object.
• Teeth #5 and 6 are breaking through. Yes, he is 15 months old and has only 6 teeth.
• Still no walking, even though we know he totally could if he weren't so damn lazy.
• Every time he sees a picture of a cat, he hugs it to his face. This is the cutest thing ever. EVER.
• Can use spoon and fork marginally well, but will usually just throw utensils to the floor and use fingers instead. We try not to react too much, but now I'm trying to actually use parenting techniques so I pick the utensil (or cup, or bowl of food) up, wipe it off and return it to his tray. Then I cheerfully say "the spoon goes on the tray!" instead of calling him an asshole.
• Has mastered the F.A.C. (fake-ass cry). He tries this one out often, but this has always been one of my pet peeves in kids and it has absolutely no effect on me. "Sorry, Bubbie! Mommy has a heart of stone!" I say in a chipper voice. It's best that Zephyr learn this as early as possible. It's still funny to see him screw his little face up into a frown and try to work up some tears to get me to drop whatever I'm doing and pick him up. (Oh, don't look at me like that. It's good for him to learn patience.)
• Can do that thing where he strums his finger on his lips to go "blblblblb" like in the old Bugs Bunny cartoons when something fell on Elmer's head and made him all concussed and brain damaged (wtf is that even called?).
• Leans over in the bath and blows bubbles in the bath water. This always cracks him up and he gasps in a little water and chokes a bit. Repeat ad nauseum.
  

He's a funny kid.

Laugh it Up

Next week we're going on our first trip out of town with Zephyr. We'll only be gone for three days, but we haven't even taken him on a day trip yet, so of course I'm worried about messing up his entire schedule and making him miserable. But I guess we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. I think he'll probably be just fine, though I am bracing myself for the airport hell - all the crap we'll have to bring is going to weigh a ton. I hope they don't hassle us too much.

I hope that our tight routine will translate well to the hotel - we'll bring his blankie, night light, Totoro plushy and iPod full of lullabies, and the baby monitor so we can slip over to Grandma's room for TV and a glass of wine without disturbing Booshie. I'm psyching myself up now for it to be okay. It'll be okay.

His next set of incisors is just about out. I think I see them right there sometimes, white at the gumline, but then they seem to retreat back for a day or so. His finger is always jammed in his mouth, but he still manages to open up once in awhile to say a few words. His new one this week is "debdeb" (Yo Gabba Gabba - not a useful phrase at all, but the name of the TV show we watch before naptime).

Last week he hit his 14 month mark, and he's getting ever-so-close to taking his first steps. He loves walking around the house holding onto my or Scott's fingers, and is doing a bit more standing unassisted. Honestly, at this point, I think he could walk if he wanted to, but is just being lazy. Why would he risk landing on his ass when it's so much easier to just crawl or get carried everywhere?



And since he's been such a sweet, huggy little guy lately, I don't feel like putting him down much either. He wraps his arms around my neck so tight and pats my shoulder. It's so cute. Last week he cracked me and Scott up when, at bedtime, he was finishing up nursing after we sang our bedtime songs, and he just started blowing raspberries for no reason. Scott though he was motorboating me (which he has done before). I pulled my face down close to his to whisper to him, and he bit my nose! He thought that was pretty funny. I guess I did, too.

Anyway - just a quick post. I just wanted to share these awesome photos. It might be getting close to time for his first haircut. I was hoping his widow's peak would have grown in by now, but I guess it's on the same trajectory as those teeth of his...

Manic Digression

One of the joys of this age is that Zephyr is displaying a wider range of emotions. Instead of being joyful all the time (which I love, don't get me wrong), he's actually starting to reveal a moodier side typical of toddlers. So now, when we're playing and having a grand old time, he's prone to going from manic grins and peals of delight...

...to disgruntled sneers and indignant whining, in mere seconds. The unhappy times are usually directly related to the focus of my attention. Specifically, when my attention is on something other than Zephyr, he's mad. He wants to be held all the time, and is nursing a lot more than he did months ago. He has recently discovered that if he shoots me a soft look and delicately strums at the collar of whatever shirt I'm wearing (while uttering "neh, neh?"), that I will nurse him. Now that he knows how to ask for it, he does. Frequently.

Lately he's really into reading, which is an early relief from my fears that he will have inherited one of his uncles' demeanor instead of that of his bookish parents. It's still early, I suppose, but Scott and I have been nurturing this love of books at every turn. He loves books so much, in fact, that he will grab our fingers to point to each word and picture on a page, and now even grabs his own feet to use as pointers on the pages, which looks like he's trying to breakdance on his books. When he thinks no one is watching, he will use his own fingers and mumble to himself the words of the story.

He also really loves balls these day. "Buh! Buh!" he'll insist, and then we play a rousing game of Roll-and-Catch, or if I need a break, Fetch. He loves his big green ball so much that he will lay down with it and give it a little hug (Scott thinks he's just pressing his ear to the ball to enjoy the warped sound, but he does this to his soft toys too, and I can't imagine they distort sound much. I also choose to think Zephyr is engaging in this activity for the cuter of the two possible reasons.)


***
Lately I've been feeling really disconnected from my own family. Most of it is my own doing - I haven't talked to my father since last summer. I'm pissed that he forgot to call on Zephyr's birthday, and prior to that, he'd only called me to ask to borrow money (this was the same day as Zephyr's surgery last summer, and he never even called to follow up on Zephyr's progress). My brother and dad, as far as I can tell, think that my dysfunctional childhood is a figment of my own exaggeration, and that I should "get over it." For the better part of my adulthood, I thought I had buried most of it, and I have been pretty stalwart and callous about it all, but motherhood is dragging up a lot of heavy shit that I thought I dealt with a long time ago.

I'm furious that my father hurt me, my brother and my mother, and that he continues to gloss over all of it as excusable because he was drinking at the time. Yes, I'm still pissed about that. I'm furious that my brother idolizes a man that was so disrespectful and irresponsible to his children and partner, and I'm furious that my father allowed my only brother to walk down the same tragic, mistake-fraught path by preventing him from experiencing any of the consequences of his own fucked-up decisions. I have missed out on a brother that could have been a great man, and I am really pissed about that. I'm tired of being treated as a self-righteous martyr because I chose not to become a statistic and instead fight to be the opposite of these people.

I will do anything to make sure that Zephyr has everything I didn't have, not the least of which is stability, predictability, and freedom from violence. The other shit - opportunities to develop his talents, to have friends stay the night for pizza and too many video games, to be in sports or plays or band or whatever the hell tickles his fancy - I will make sure he has that, too, frivolous or not. If it means I need to check out of the family for awhile (or forever), so be it.

Choosing to have children is the greatest act of egomania in which person can indulge. Having a child says, "I am so important and special that more of my DNA should be in the world." To have children without at least the intention of doing a better job than our parents is smug and lazy. To be a survivor of horrible shit and to then say, "it was good enough for me, it's good enough for mine" is utter sociopathy.

Lucky 13

Zephyr is 13 months old, and as you can see, still has only 3.5 teeth (the second top incisor is still only halfway down). He still crawls and cruises more than he stands unassisted. In a characteristic fit of motherly concern for the truancy of his milestones, I finally peeked into my and Scott's baby books to find out who's genes were to blame, and I am happy to say that it's Scott's fault. He didn't start walking until 14 or 15 months. I started walking at 10 months. So I guess I should say "oh Jesus Christ, thank goodness that Zephyr takes after Scott and not me."

I recently read that infants who spend more time in the crawling phase statistically test higher in preschool than those who walk early, as reported in this article. It turns out that late walkers tend to be smarter. I wonder how much of this is related to later walkers' tendency toward caution and easy demeanor; Zephyr is just more content playing studiously with blocks or drumsticks than he is running around in fitful expression of gross motor skills.

I also recently read that babies who get their teeth late are more likely to require orthodontics later in life (according to a study reported in Science Daily). Scott had braces as a kid and still requires quarterly maintenance on his self-described "fucked-up grill." I, conversely, have naturally straight teeth, which is a good thing because my parents never would've coughed up the dough for orthodontia, had I needed it. I had five teeth by 11 months, Scott didn't get his first tooth until he was 8 months old. So this one is his genes, too. I still that hope Zephyr misses out on the allergies and asthma, but if it didn't stop Scott from having good times as a kid, I can't see why it should stop Zephyr.


Here he is catching a cat hair in a sunbeam, the little genius. Note the perfect action sequence of his dropping the purple ring to grab the bit of sundander.

Another trait of Zephyr's that is typically linked with smarts is long sleeping. Last week, we made a one-night attempt to let him cry it out (going in to pat him on the back instead of nursing), but it was a complete failure. I ended up caving like usual, nursed him for comfort and returned him to his crib and he slept fine the rest of the night. The following night, he woke twice but soothed himself back to sleep. The two nights following that, he didn't wake up at all. I got all excited that maybe he figured out that we're getting serious, but the past couple of nights he's been back to waking up once or twice to nurse. I am still trying to figure out if it's just that he's teething or has the sniffles, and whether or not we should bite the bullet and go full-on Ferber with him, or if it'll just pass as soon as he's back to 100%.


It's official: Zephyr's first sentence is "more food." That's my boy! He knows all of the words that pertain to food. If you ask him, "Zephyr! Are you hungry?" he says "fffffuh." "Zephyr! Do you want breakfast?" "Ffffuh." Lunch, dinner, snack: "fffuh!" After he's finished a bowl or plate of whatever he's eating, we ask him if he wants more and show him the sign language. He can now say "muh! fffffuh!" while clapping his fingers together. Yes, there is a chance he is actually saying "motherfucker," but in this context I am choosing to think he means "more food." I usually do give him more, except yesterday he ate almost all of two full adult-sized side dishes of beans and tofu and kept opening his mouth for more, before I decided that I didn't want him getting a tummyache and put the breaks on it. He got mad and whined about it.

Speaking of food, he's got a few food milestones that I'm proud of this week. A few weeks ago I put a sturdy box (about 6" tall) on the floor and taped a place mat to it so I have a place to give him a snack without having to get him all suited up at his high chair. Things like berries or cubed cheese are an easy thing to feed him, and he loves them, so he's unlikely to dump them or make a mess. He's gotten so tall, though, that he sort of hunches over the "table" and looks like he wants to sit down, but there's no place for his legs. So I seated him on top of the box and pushed one of those small Ikea bent wood end tables in front of him - it fit perfectly, and he just sat there all matter-of-fact like, "yup. this is mah snack table and I have snacks here." And he just ate his little fruits and drank his little cup of milk with a straw instead of the usual throwing-the-sippy-cup debacle. And now that he's suddenly interested in drinking cow's milk, I can quit sweating the constant nursing and pushing cheese on him, because I know he'll get his RDA of calcium. Now nursing can be for comfort and snuggling, and he'll get his antibodies from me.

Today he fed himself completely and neatly using his spoon. This might sound like a non-event, but until now I've had to either give him finger foods or put food on his spoon and hand it to him, then pick his spoon up off the floor after every bite. Today, he spooned his chicken and stars right into his little mouth like it wasn't even a Thing. But it was a Thing! I think what may have tipped the scales for him is that I let him use a "real" spoon instead of giving him his usual baby spoon. And I sat there with him, eating the same food as he was having.

We just chatted like old friends, eating our soup and crackers, and then we cleaned up and had some story time in the living room.

Fledging

Now that we've passed the one year mark, I guess I am only updating the blog when there's something noteworthy, like a new first or an achievement unlocked. Does that seem fair? Maybe I'll just update each week with photos? Or maybe I'll pick it up again after the holidays. I'm in the process of putting last year's better posts into his scrap book so he'll have something a little more analog to have when he's older, but even this is really so much better than doing a store-bought baby book. Scott and I actually have the exact same Hallmark baby books from our respective infancies - his blue, mine pink.

His one-year check-up was the Tuesday after his birthday (the day after the last post), and though he's still not walking, he does have the dubious honor of continuing to be above the 100% centile for height (at 32.5" tall). His weight was 26 lbs, landing him at the 88th centile, and his head has grown to the 93% centile. That is such a weird measurement to take, I think, but there it is.

He's cut his fourth tooth, his top incisor now has its mate. It's just poking through, and he keeps his finger jammed in his mouth pretty much all day. Between that and the perpetually runny nose he's been sporting, he's been kind of a pain in the ass. I mean, he's still a sweet, funny kid, he just has a bit shorter fuse. Coupled with his attempts at new physical feats (like climbing onto and falling off of his little box-table 6" off the ground), there've been a few more tears than we're used to around here. He's definitely stretching his little wings a bit more these days, experimenting with autonomy.

He missed a few naps over the weekend, because I was gone to a holiday bazaar (where I was selling my poorly-made homemade soft toys) and though I was able to get him down for his morning nap before I left for the day, he didn't really go down for any kind of afternoon nap and this resulted in a little more night waking than I can really tolerate. I'm thinking of night weaning him over the holiday, since Scott will be home for a few days to help with the night parenting without it cutting into his workday performance. It feels really drastic to even think about cutting him off, but I'm just feeling really beat down by motherhood these days. I'm carrying a lot of back pain and my upper body joints pretty much all ache. I need to sleep more than four hours uninterrupted (he still sleeps from roughly 7:00pm to 7:00am, but wakes once or twice, and I nurse him back to sleep to expedite things). I put the Totoro pillow that I made him in his crib to try to help soothe him, and I'm hoping that helps. I just found out that he even likes that thing - Scott sent me a picture last week of Boosh laying down on top of it, sucking his thumb. In the middle of the day. He just grabs it and holds his face against it and knows it's for snuggling. That's its purpose.

Being a goofball in his robot pajamas ("robut jams") and his Halloween hat

He's starting to pick up more and more language, and that means I need to start watching my mouth around him. He actually does a perfect mimic of my exasperated groan, the one I let out whenever I'm driving. (Seriously, people cannot drive in this town. It's just rain! It does that here.) When we ask, "Zephyr! Are you hungry?" he says, "Ffff! Fffff!" (for the sound of us blowing his food to cool it down), and now we can play the Where's Mama's (insert facial feature here) game and he will point to the appropriate feature most of the time. We are careful not to ever ask about eyes, because then he will laugh and think it's funny to poke my eyes out. He already thinks it's hilarious to flip over in the middle of every diaper change unless I turn the TV on to distract him, but this requires me to only change him on the couch. I'm hoping this is a phase he outgrows soon.

His favorite toys are still pretty much just household items: wooden spoons, finger bowls, recyclables like berry pint boxes, shipping boxes (we gave him a giant box that still has the paper packing material in it and decorated one of the flaps to look like a computer keyboard, and he thinks it's pretty awesome in there), empty plastic bottles, that sort of thing. He's really into stacking rings these days, and is gaining more dexterity to actually fit the rings onto their stem. He will open books and "read" them to us, mumbling little words quietly to himself in a language we don't understand.

We bought a mini tree, against my better wishes. The potted trees were all around $50, but it was only $15 for a little tabletop fir. Besides, it supports our local economy. This will be his second Christmas, and I know it'll probably be the last one where we decide what he wants. I really can't wait to see the boy he'll become, but I'm trying my best to relish these last moments of his babydom.

The Cheese

We survived Zephyr's first birthday party the Saturday after Thanksgiving. We had cupcakes and bubbly to ring in the occasion, to celebrate passing our first year as parents and for keeping him alive. There were about a million kids in our house, running laps like wild dingos, and yet I completely kept calm and nothing got broken. It was amazing (the me-keeping-calm part).



He has more tomato sauce on his face than cupcake, I almost feel sad about this. I should've wiped his face off before giving him his cupcake so I could get good photos. Oh, well.

Oh, man, new stuff:

He's repeating animal noises, like the high-pitched "whee-e-e!" of a horse (I try to make realistic animal sounds for him, and my "neigh" is right proper), the low "mooooo" of a cow (his is a guttural groan) and random sounds I've assigned to the insects on his favorite puzzle. Bees and flies are no-brainers, but I've decided the wings of a moth go "thfthfthfthf" and spiders go "bulubulu" when they crawl. He's also stringing together more syllables on his own, in response to us and to tell us his thoughts on various matters. We'll try to remember to nod and shake our heads more so he can communicate the basic "yes" and "no," and eventually "no" will become his favorite word.

And big one this week: he stands alone! He just sort of did it one day last week, then again for a few seconds longer, and now we'll just look up and notice that he's fully standing unassisted, playing with a puzzle piece or somesuch. The funny thing is, he doesn't seem to realize it's a big deal and doesn't look at us for a big "ta-da" or anything. He's just like "finally, I can use both hands for playtime. It's about time."

Independence is his main goal, now, as evidenced by his inability to hold still for a diaper change (we've taken to just changing him on the couch and turning on the TV) and his newfound tendency to throw his spoon and bowl onto the floor when we try to help him eat. We try not to get too mad about it, and instead just say, "that's not cool, Zephyr."

But we really just need to let him do his thing, let him know that we trust his abilities (new and shaky though they may be), and let him fuck up once in awhile. It's the best way for anyone to learn, and I know I'm not doing him any favors when I fix everything for him. It'll take some doing for me to learn how to step off and get out of his way, but I think every mother struggles with this. I know I will, probably forever.