PSF: My Little Dude

A mere 18 months ago I peered into a set of dark eyes surrounded by wrinkles and peach fuzz.

Last night I peered into a set of deep blue eyes surrounded by smooth creamy skin smeared with a mixture of chocolate cake, frosting and banana (Yes, I look for any excuse to make cupcakes).

What a beautiful face. What a huge mess . . .

Although I see glimpses of that newborn baby that I cradled in my arms, today I see more the boy he is slowly turning out to be. I am full of all sorts of bittersweet amazement.

I have a toddler now. A TODDLER.

And nothing can truly prepare you for living with a toddler. Well, except two months alone in the Amazon jungle with the constant chatter of monkeys, the jabs and pokes of the greenery, the rough terrain of the near-untouched land, the never ending fear of the unknown, and the constant desire to dry off or to take a shower (with soap). That might give you an idea . . . MIGHT.

And all that said, I so completely and utterly dig this little dude. Here is just a sampling of why . . .

1. His hugs. Man can this kid hug! He comes running, full force, throwing his arms around you and burying his head in your shoulder. He hugs with his entire body. He's like a warm coat you just don't want to take off.

2. His laugh. His giggles are still that of a baby. They are light and airy and coated in sweetness. Until you do something silly. Like reenact an episode of The Three Stooges. He is enamored with ridiculousness. If you drop something, he laughs. You stumble, he laughs. You fall, he cracks up with this deep giggle that resonates from his belly and curls up in your ears. I'd fall all day long to hear that laugh. ALL DAY.

3. His words. OK. Although I talk to J all day long, we read, we sing, we play . . . he's not much of a talker. Of the English language, that is. He jabbers all day long. But either I am not well versed in "baby" or he is literally speaking another language. But let me tell you, when a perfectly formed word springs from those lips, it is like someone dropped gold in my lap. Lots and lots of gold. In the matter of the last couple days it is like a switch has turned on and I am hearing more and more words. Up. Down. Car. WOOF. Dog. Cat. An expletive I swear I never taught him . . . (I think he's trying to say "funny duck"--at least I hope that's what he's trying to say).

4. His brains. He is taking after his dad. No doubt. He's been sorting shapes for months. He stacks blocks, building towers as tall as he is only to knock them down. He pulls things a part and puts them back together. He can sort his Legos into color piles and like items into bins. Brilliance in action, I say (and if this is totally normal for his age, don't tell me. He still tries to eat weird and gross things off the ground so I need something to hold onto).

5. His heart. Several months ago we found that if we put our hands over our eyes and "cry" he will come running, remove your hands and check to see if you are OK. Once he sees your eyes he moves in for a comforting hug. He hears crying, whether a baby at the mall or a woman on TV and a look of concern creeps across his face. YET, when he cries he just shakes it off. My little tough guy with a heart.

and here are a few other fun facts . . .

6. He clearly possesses the skills to one day work in covert ops. From sneaking sips of his dad's Mountain Dew and emptying a box of cereal (that used to be up high on the counter) to tearing apart a roll of toilet paper and ripping open all the mail (that was in a drawer in the desk), he knows what he wants, performs reconnaissance and then goes for it. He's got skills.

7. He loves chocolate. Dang it. My competition.

8. He develops infatuations with strange items. One minute it is a small Elmo finger puppet (normal) and the next it is an emptied bottle of travel-sized hand sanitizer. I don't get it.

9. I'm pretty sure he's made the decision to become a vegetarian. Either that or the mass/distance ratio of the flight plan of a piece of meat is more interesting then actually eating it.

10. He is FAST. I was a record-setter in high school track. I competed (and won a lot) at the college level. I've been running nearly my entire life. I am FAST. Or. I WAS fast. This kid is can have me heaving in a matter of seconds. And the minute those little feet touch ground . . . watch out!

And finally . . . I love this face. This face that belongs to the boy that cracks me up, makes me smile, swells my heart, brings tears to my eyes, fills my heart with fear and worry, but most of all . . . makes it all worth it.

Only 18 months. I can't imagine 18 years, yet I know we'll be here in no time.


Love. This. Face.

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Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

PSF: Just live. Just play. Just be happy.

They were way too big. My mom's heels. But she slipped on an extra pair of socks and jammed her chubby toes into the wedge heels anyway. She shuffled across the linoleum, relishing in the clackity-clack sound. She sounded like a grown up. The sticky cheeks betrayed her. My little sister was barely out of toddler-hood when she realized the distinct advantages of adulthood. Height.

I'm certain my dad suffered from a rather intense form of OCD. He could walk into any room and spot a tiny piece of lint, a crumb or a hair. With laser-like focus, he would home in on the offending piece of debris and dispose of it. We were all amazed. My brother most of all. When my dad pulled out the vacuum, my brother would follow close behind with the popcorn push toy. He wanted to be a big man, like his daddy. Push. Pop. Push.

I remember my mom grabbing at the backpack I had slung over my shoulder. "What do you need this for?" she demanded. I was going skating, as in roller skating. My big-banged, electric blue-mascaraed, off-the-shoulder sweater secured at her waist with a pleather belt with a buckle as-big as-your-face wearin' friend was going with me. "It's just stuff, mom," I replied with the I'm-too-cool-for-this requisite teenage eye-roll. In a matter of mere seconds she pulled from the bag a mini-skirt (not mine), an off-the-shoulder-t-shirt (oddly, my mom's) and a mix-matched collection of Bonnie Bell. Busted. I was desperate to add a decade to my 14 years. I wanted someone to peel me away from the wall during the couples skate when some sappy Richard Marx song was sure to be playing. Now I didn't have a chance.

High heels. A "vacuum." Cheap make-up and a top made "for a hussy" (my mom's words). Desperate attempts to grab a piece of adulthood.

I never though I'd see the signs of such a pursuit in my plucky little 17-month-old . . . let's just take a look at the last few days, shall we?

He wants to be able to hang out in empty rooms by himself, just like a big boy. Closing the door is a sure sign of "I need my privacy." In only a few seconds, this poked out. Clearly, he misses me.

He's had enough of Velcro sneakers covered in Sesame Street characters. Or, he's just trying to show off his shoe-tying skills. With his mouth. Impressive.

Daddy left his CAFFEINATED DIET pop/cola/soda on the floor. J decided to help himself. I have no idea how much he sucked down . . . I just know it was a longer night than usual.

J decided that mama blowing his nose just, well, blew. So, he decided to practice. With an entire box of tissue. I knew he was being entirely too quiet (I mean, how much noise does tissue make?!?!).


J is all about making his own nutritional choices. There are at least a dozen or more on the floor (mixed with the crusty cheese bits, veggie "chicken" patty crumbs and who the heck knows what).


J is rather distressed over not being able to beat daddy's high score in electronic Yahtzee. And he wants the world to know . . .

Little man, this is your mommy. Stop it. Stop it right now. I know you want to grow up. I get it. I was once there myself. But for now, don't worry about bills, winning or losing, fat/calories, zits, impressing anyone, getting a job, doing homework, cleaning your room, finding a college, settling on a career, minding your manners (for now, even shoving your finger in your nose is still kinda cute. For now.), finding "the one," losing "the one," nose and back hair, bald spots . . . just don't worry. Not now. You have your entire life for all that nonsense.

Until then . . . take advantage of having someone else bathe, feed and dress you (you might not experience this again for about 80 years or so, and it won't be as fun). Let daddy hoist you on his shoulders and spin you around while he sings the greatest hits from the Bee Gees. Play hide 'n seek and giggle until your chubby belly hurts (or until your breakfast spills out onto the carpet). Let your mommy grab you and hug and kiss you until you can barely take it. Let us tuck you in at night, read you stories and tell you about all the amazing things you can do, will do, if you want. Let us carry the burden of worry, of fear. We will come in, rub your back, feel your soft breaths and bend down to whisper our love for you.

For now, little man . . .

Just live. Just play. Just be happy.

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Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

Being Able to Jump

Grasping at the last bite of pancake, he pressed it between his fingers and tossed it behind him.

"I'm so sorry," I repeated to the couple sitting behind us. The man reminded me of Norman Mailer, but happier. He smiled, shrugged and said, "He's got a great arm!" Love this man.

Clearly J was done. I had spent what seemed like seconds eating my own meal while simultaneously grabbing straws from his pudgy little hands before he poked his eye out (I am becoming a mother, aren't I?), picked up soggy Cheerios and the mushy pancake strewn all over the table, apologized to our breakfast companions (they sorta asked for it since I told them I was perfectly fine eating alone with J, but they insisted) for the sneeze that no doubt christened their food with bits of milk and syrup, and trying desperately to keep J from styling his hair with maple gook.

I was exhausted. And that was just the eating, which was only half the fun. Getting out of the restaurant was an adventure, which is an understatement. With my hands gripping a jacket, purse, diaper bag, the bill, the tip, my little Crusoe decided to take off. Running, screaming (I swear there was a mocking "ha, ha, you can't catch me" undertone) he befriended every restaurant patron who would even dare glance his way. My little charmer. Me, smile, apologize, smile, apologize. There were a few times when I nearly had him in my grasp, but he was fueled by the laughter and "Oh, isn't he cute" comments that filtered through the air making his escape was inevitable.

He was performing.

And loving every moment of it.

Even though my little celebubaby showed his complete and utter dissatisfaction as I hoisted him on my hip and made my way quickly to the exit (being caught between two exiting customers gave me my chance), I felt a very weak sense of satisfaction.

Because I will admit. As much as I never want to be the mother with the out-of-control toddler, the one that causes chaos and distress to others (in other words, the toddler that draws often unreasonable ire from others and forces the mama to bear her claws), I love being the mother of a toddler who can't help but be happy. Who can't help but relish in the joy and attention of others.

Maybe because I have never been that way. Maybe because my "thriving in anonymity" philosophy is so challenged by his "HEY! Look at me!" personality. He commands attention without seeming to need it. It is so effortless. Stepping out behind him, I sometimes have to take a deep breath . . . and just jump. He makes me feel like there is nothing in the world better than just jumping.

I'd like to think that I have a realistic view of my little guy. That I don't think he's a perfect little genius, a prodigy who is extraordinary in every little way.

But I do think he is extraordinary. He is my perfect fit. I most definitely was nothing more than a bunch of mix-matched puzzle pieces sitting in the clearance rack before he came along.

Before him, before the mushy pancake, the constant chaos and the overwhelming exhaustion, I was OK. But now, I guess I just feel like I make sense. And being able to jump . . . well, that's an added bonus.

The Zen of Toy Extraction

Seriously, how many twist ties, plastic bolts, tape pieces and cardboard parts are needed to package a toy? I just spent the last hour freeing a half dozen smiling large-wheeled cars from their box.

A dozen ties, a half dozen plastic bolts. Hmmm. Choking hazard. Methinks . . . yes. But that doesn't seem to stop 'em.

The cars are for a toddler. The packaging is meant as torture for an unsuspecting parent who wants to desperately push cars around on the worn Berber, dodging the broken and beaten Goldfish, the discarded wooden blocks . . . with her son.

Damn toy company. Seriously, where do they think the cars are going? There's no threat of escape, trust me. I needed scissors, a small screwdriver, bolt cutters (at least I thought I did) and a lot of muscle (I've been workin' out, ya know) to pry those cars out of the box! Dare I mention the moment when the box "accidentallty" flew across the room and hit the back wall behind the couch?

"What was that?!" T yelled from upstairs.

"What?!?" I responded knowing full well that he was referring to the huge crash he just heard from the living room.

I hear him make his way down the stairs. I scramble for the bent up box, find my place next to the screwdriver just as he comes into the room.

"The crash I just heard. That sound. What was it?" He's not stupid. He knows how I am. He knows that me along with scissors, a screwdriver and a box (we won't even discuss the fate of boxes that include more than one page of directions) usually involves the shouting of unique expletives ("fudge buckets"--don't ask) and ends with something being being thrown, stepped on, kicked. One day I'll have to tell you about the shoe rack I attempted to put together. Stupid shoe rack.

"Maybe it was J?" Sure, blame the sleeping baby. Coward.

I look up at him but he is already gone.

"It was probably the wind," he says as he makes his way back upstairs. Phew. Maybe he . . .
"Um, but if by chance you decide to put together his race track, could you please just wait and let me do it. I don't think the drywall can take it."

Damn.

* * *
Some of you have e-mailed wondering where I've been. Well, you see. I (as in J) received quite a few things over the holidays. That came in boxes. With directions. And, well, let's just say I've been spending a lot of time at Home Depot picking up spackling paste. A girl likes to be prepared.

Leaking Pumpkins and Candy Canes

We just returned from our pilgrimage to Michigan. At 3 AM.

To visit family and friends. To give gifts. To open gifts (and yes, to even return that one gift that elicited the "What in the heck were they thinking?" response). To unintentionally take part in family histrionics. To intentionally remove self from family drama only to get sucked back in. To keep my belly full and top button unbuttoned (and let's be honest, the zipper didin't have a chance). To popping Tums and drinking ginger ale. To drive. And drive. And drive. And drive in a car packed with too many things that beep, bleep, bong, and bang (and not being able to shut even one of them off). To say silent prayers that the sleeping baby remained in said state for the 6+ hour drive. To say not-so-silent prayers that the car top carrier would remain atop the fully loaded car . . . and that we would not be chasing after my underwear on the toll way.

To come home only to find the pumpkin I bought before Halloween sitting on the front porch . . . melting, leaking its guts and draining its noisome fluids across the cement. Lovely.

I know. I asked for it.

The good news . . . I spent a week with him . . .


Watching him giggle. Watching him hold onto his grandmas and seeing them turn into mush at the slightest grin (man, is he good . . . ). Watching him open presents (read: run around the room totally oblivious to the present-opening and more interested in grabbing cameras, picking up tinsel and swiping candy canes from the tree).

I simply soaked him in. His musical sighs as he slept in the crib next to us (the room so cramped I could practically feel his breath). The way he pulled at my lips as I tried to sing Christmas carols. His infatuation with the candy cane after he felt the taste of peppermint on his tongue for the first time. His energy, the way his feet would never stop, his hands constantly exploring and his eyes searching for the next adventure. Exhaustingly wonderful.

Although there are therapists that need to be contacted (after spending a week with the family). A treadmill that will be cringing when it sees me coming. Overstuffed suitcases to be unpacked. Complicated toys to be assembled. Abandoned rooms to be cleaned. A bundle of food to be purchased (oh, my poor fridge and the things I left behind). A leaking pumpkin to be disposed of.

I'd do it again.

And again.

Why not?

I love them.

They love me. (shockingly)

And J . . . well, that silly little boy is a sucker for a candy cane and a grandma.

Hope you all had a wonderful Christmas. Here is to a prosperous New Year.

PSF: Snow Angel

The ticker crawled across the screen. Local schools canceled. Bleary-eyed, I switched the channel to see the forecast.

Not a lot of snow. But maybe just enough. My eyes shifted down, to the little orange jeep that made its way over my belly and down my leg. I giggled as J headed down to my feet with the tiny vehicle. A tiny grin slowly spread across his face. Clearly he wasn't tiring of the "mom track."

I wonder if he knew what I had planned for him today?

9:46 AM

We started with the boots. The Parenting 101 manual did not specify time and effort it takes to put on a pair of boots.

No one told me that a squirming toddler is absolutely no help.

10:15 AM

Seriously. Why do they even bother with thumbs in mittens?

10:27 AM

Why in the heck am I looking for the matching hat?

10: 39 AM

He took off a boot. %$*&@

10: 44 AM

He's dressed. My turn. Clearly didn't think ahead. Can't afford another boot to be pulled off. Will go outside in PJs and heavy coat and rain boots. Good enough.

10:45 AM

We have made contact with snow.

10:45:05 AM

Face has made contact with snow.



11:50 AM

After several attempts to coax reluctant toddler back into the house, I finally succeed. Of course he was crying, dragging his bootless feet, holding onto the railing as he came "willingly" into the house.

I'm thinking our venture was a success. Even if I ended up with toe-sicles, it was worth every second.

Icy blue eyes. Puffy-cheeked grin. And a body full of bliss. My very own snow angel.


Totally worth it.


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Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

* * *

I can't let you all go without wishing a funny (serious belly laughs, people), sweet (though she may deny it), ridiculously generous (though she'll probably deny that, too) blogging buddy a VERY HAPPY BIRTHDAY. You know, 29 never looked so good (again).

We're Those Parents

The moment I set J down, his little feet moved with unrestrained anticipation toward the noise in the back of the house. He tumbled over a few shoes, rolled, found his footing and was off again.

As T and I took off our coats, removed our shoes and prepared to join the party, we heard it--a cacophony of oohs and aahs and "He's so cute?" and "What a doll." A grin creeped across my face as I silently agreed.

In a mater of only a few minutes J had found a group of comely teenage girls hiding out in the basement, away from the "old people" that had gathered upstairs (they swore on their Ipods that they didn't mean me). J was in heaven. With a sly little grin and a wink (I swear, there was a wink) the girls broke away from the action on the television screen. They were J groupies in a matter of moments.

J found a group of women entrenched in a rather intense discussion. As he approached he let out a cringe-worthy scream (a new talent he can't help but to show off) to announce his arrival. I quickly apologized, but they abruptly ended their conversation as they greeted their happy little intruder. After flirting with the ladies, J moved on to spread a little joy.

No doubt, he was a hit.

About an hour later we pulled up to party #2.

The wine and cheese party. The party where the cheap sparkling wine and box of Hershey candies I bought would be accepted with barely concealed disdain, or so I was informed. I left both at home, where they would certainly be more appreciated.

Hmmm. Wonder how they'd feel about a two-foot unexpected guest? (Yes, we are without a babysitter . . . in case you were wondering. The background checks were just too pricey).

The moment J walked in his head came in contact with the corner of a table. He melted in tears until the jingle of a reindeer wine charm (aka, choking hazard) reached his ears, distracting him from the pain. The guests were pleasant as they greeted the couple who deigned to bring a toddler to a classy holiday get together. I was confident that J's charm would win them over.

He climbed on laps. Dipped cookies in wine. Stole wine charms off glasses. Used expensive cheese as building blocks. Although I would have enjoyed huddling in a corner with a glass of one of the expensive whites and a plate of shrimp, I was too busy protecting the speakers, blocking J from the stairs and removing hazardous objects from his curious (and quick) fingers.

It was exhausting. Yet, each party goer was enthralled with my little man. They commented on his cheery disposition and his obvious intelligence as he maneuvered around the tables gathering, stacking and grabbing. Both T and I beamed with pride.

He was a hit. Again.

As we gathered our gloves, hats and coats and prepared to leave, the guests enthusiastically wished us well. We left the party, both thrilled with how successful the evening was.

After replaying the evening's events, it hit us. The realization forced us into a reflective silence as T drove toward home.

"We're those parents, aren't we?" I asked T.

"Yeah." He responded, the pride dissipating from his voice. "You know, they probably all breathed a sigh of relief when we left." I couldn't disagree.

I thought J was a hit, but they were simply being polite. I don't doubt that those teenage girls fell in love a little bit. But the party serving wines older than me, yeah, who were we kidding?

It's like dining at an expensive restaurant. The waiter serves you your entree and just as you are about to bite into your filet a tiny head pops up from the behind the seat. A tiny head belonging to a pixie-faced little girl who wants nothing more than to entertain you with a never-ending game of Peek-a-Boo. You sigh, hoping that she will abandon her game-playing or that her parents will turn her around so that you can eat in peace.

But she doesn't. And her parents are under the mistaken impression that you are enjoying the interaction.

You're just being polite.

They are clueless, enchanted and blinded by their child's irresistability factor.

Yup.

We're those parents.

No doubt our egos were bruised with the newfound realization. But as we pulled the patchwork quilt up under J's tiny chin, bent over to kiss his plump cheeks and stroked the soft tufts of hair, we realized something.

We didn't care.

So what. Poopy diapers. Screaming tantrums. Pulling of hair. Taking (and hiding) of keys. The fact that every room in my house is Romper Room. I mean, I have a right to be clueless some of the time, right? I have an obligation to get totally lost in my undeniable pride and adoration for that little guy. That's my job.

We appreciate the politeness. Truly we do. And we'll try to keep J's charm in check as he tries to engage you with a quick game of Giggle and Hide while you attempt to consume your meal. But, in the world of toddlerhood, there are few guarantees.

Those parents.

Yup.

That's us.