My two mostly nonverbal children have been pestering me with their own unique sounds this weekend. K's sound is an annoying squawk not unlike a bird squeezed tightly around the midsection; seems not to be connected with happiness nor discontent. M's sound is a cough, dry and forced. Here's the contextual recreation of their usage:
K: (I'm bored. Very bored. This bouncy thing has lost all bounce.) SQUAWK. (Oh, that was such a fun sound to make. Look how the milk lady jumped. She has this funny look on her face now. I must have done something fantastic.) SQUAWK. (Now the bath man has that same look. And the kid with all the roll-y toys has come to turn me around again. Thanks kid!) SQUA-AWK! (Now they're both on their feet and I'm up and out and shuffled. Ooo, what fun this has been.) SQUAWK SQUA-AWK! (I could keep them moving all day. There goes my boredom!)
M: (In the car, driving in the car, bored in the car, wish I had my trains, books, duck, stroller--wait, did they mention lunch?) COUGH. (Oh come on people. You didn't get that.) COUGH COUGH. (Yes I'm okay. I want chicken. You said lunch and I want Dada Chicken). COUGH. (Finally. Yes, Dada chicken. You know, the kind that makes me cough? It's so spicy and yummy and I want some now. Hey wait, you just passed the Bear Place, the one you call Panda Express, only I don't know why they don't just call it the Dada Chicken place because that's the only thing they should ever serve.) COUGH COUGH COUGH. (Stop already, it's back there.) COUGH COUGH. (I don't care if we had it yesterday) COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH CO-OUGH. (Okay, go ahead and go home, but you all are crazy if you think I'm eating whatever you've got there.)
I suppose I could learn the lessons that (1) K needs more attention or (2) we've eaten at Panda Express too often, but, really, I'm just more comfortable thinking I have really weird kids.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Thursday, October 18, 2007
We're on a roll
In keeping with K's new talents, I'm happy to say that she has finally mastered the art of rolling from her back to tummy. In fact, she seems utterly incapable of staying on her back for more than 1.2 seconds (if you think I have actually taken the time to clock her, you obviously overestimate my free time). Unfortunately, K hates being on her tummy. For my sanity--and K's mental well-being, as this seems to be exceedingly frustrating to her--I hope to soon report she's rolling both ways. Until then, please forgive the baby dangling from my arm. It's really much more pleasant for all of us.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
What I know...
...is that K officially discovered peekaboo yesterday. I am now abusing this ploy just to hear her laugh. I'm also using it to try to get M to play with her, although he's less amused about this whole thing than I was hoping. Seems he would still rather drive his trucks across her head than actually entertain her.
What I don't know is whether this is early development or late development or right on time. Honestly, I just don't care what those pesky books have to say any more. This time around, I'm enjoying the giggle for exactly what it is: simple, spontaneous, and absolutely perfect.
What I don't know is whether this is early development or late development or right on time. Honestly, I just don't care what those pesky books have to say any more. This time around, I'm enjoying the giggle for exactly what it is: simple, spontaneous, and absolutely perfect.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Toddler Diet Part Deux
I've been hyper sensitive to the toddler diet ever since the last post. This increased exponentially after a good friend pointed out that her daughter had never had white sugar. Never. But then, I started thinking back. Her daughter is just over a year. When M was her age, I was making split-pea tofu soup and homemade yogurts. He didn't have chocolate or cookies or french fries. He ate what I gave him, which was good, healthy, and wholesome.
And then, almost without my noticing, he developed a mind of his own. He would see things and want them. Want them badly. Want them without even knowing what he was wanting (hence the rambutan going stale on our pantry shelf). Every meal, I hope that the veggies will be a success and more chicken goes in than barbecue sauce. And for every success, there seems a failure on the horizon. At breakfast this morning, he had plain wheat bread dipped in unsweetened cinnamon applesauce along with a glass of milk. How wholesome! Three food groups! No sugar! Then I pulled out a Pop Tart for me. They are leftovers from a postpartum impulse buy at Costco ("Look, a giant box of easy to eat, sugarly satisfying treats in our favorite flavors. Must buy now!" Sleep deprivation is a bitch). I eat them rarely, and only out of a desire to get them out of our house without wasting food. Of course, M wants one. I've had three hours of sleep and give in immediately (sleep deprivation is a real bitch). Guilt reemerges with a vengeance.
Will it always be this constant struggle of ups and downs? Are there people who manage to keep their principles intact in the face of a hungry child? A hungry, insistent child? And yet, what kind of principles would I be teaching M if I can eat it and he can't? Really, no one should eat Pop Tarts. There's nothing redeeming about them, other than the fact that they taste like my childhood. But wait--I turned out okay. I turned out as a person who worries about fiber intake and high fructose corn syrup and serves veggies at every meal (it counts if they're shaped like happy faces, right?). So where does that leave me?
Honestly, it leaves me hungry for a Pop Tart. I guess I'm just gonna have to be okay with that.
And then, almost without my noticing, he developed a mind of his own. He would see things and want them. Want them badly. Want them without even knowing what he was wanting (hence the rambutan going stale on our pantry shelf). Every meal, I hope that the veggies will be a success and more chicken goes in than barbecue sauce. And for every success, there seems a failure on the horizon. At breakfast this morning, he had plain wheat bread dipped in unsweetened cinnamon applesauce along with a glass of milk. How wholesome! Three food groups! No sugar! Then I pulled out a Pop Tart for me. They are leftovers from a postpartum impulse buy at Costco ("Look, a giant box of easy to eat, sugarly satisfying treats in our favorite flavors. Must buy now!" Sleep deprivation is a bitch). I eat them rarely, and only out of a desire to get them out of our house without wasting food. Of course, M wants one. I've had three hours of sleep and give in immediately (sleep deprivation is a real bitch). Guilt reemerges with a vengeance.
Will it always be this constant struggle of ups and downs? Are there people who manage to keep their principles intact in the face of a hungry child? A hungry, insistent child? And yet, what kind of principles would I be teaching M if I can eat it and he can't? Really, no one should eat Pop Tarts. There's nothing redeeming about them, other than the fact that they taste like my childhood. But wait--I turned out okay. I turned out as a person who worries about fiber intake and high fructose corn syrup and serves veggies at every meal (it counts if they're shaped like happy faces, right?). So where does that leave me?
Honestly, it leaves me hungry for a Pop Tart. I guess I'm just gonna have to be okay with that.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Mind over meals
Food offered:
Roasted red chile pork with potatoes
Steamed broccoli with butter and parmesan cheese
Blueberries
Food requested:
Plain Weetabix and milk--you know, the modern British version of gruel?
Food offered:
Double chocolate muffin
Whole grain waffle with honey for dipping
Food requested:
Soggy unsweetened bran flakes
Food offered:
Oatmeal raisin granola bar
Graham cracker bear cookies
Food requested:
Whole wheat pretzels
Apparently I have this reverse psychology thing nailed. On top of this perplexing set of choices is the openness I see in their combination: pork with weetabix, bran flakes topped with muffin, kidney beans and cookies. Either taste buds don't fully develop until middle school, or the gag reflex these combinations generate are only in my mind. Here's to the wonder that is the toddler diet.
Roasted red chile pork with potatoes
Steamed broccoli with butter and parmesan cheese
Blueberries
Food requested:
Plain Weetabix and milk--you know, the modern British version of gruel?
Food offered:
Double chocolate muffin
Whole grain waffle with honey for dipping
Food requested:
Soggy unsweetened bran flakes
Food offered:
Oatmeal raisin granola bar
Graham cracker bear cookies
Food requested:
Whole wheat pretzels
Apparently I have this reverse psychology thing nailed. On top of this perplexing set of choices is the openness I see in their combination: pork with weetabix, bran flakes topped with muffin, kidney beans and cookies. Either taste buds don't fully develop until middle school, or the gag reflex these combinations generate are only in my mind. Here's to the wonder that is the toddler diet.
Monday, October 1, 2007
At the risk of sounding like a know-it-all...
My kid goes out with a dirty face.
Before I had kids, I was regularly disgusted by little rug-rats with those smudgy marks all over . What kind of parent lets their kid go out like that? In public!
I have the answer now: me. It's not that it doesn't bother me. In fact, every time I open the car door to find M's face bearing the remains of breakfast or lunch or whatever he ate in between, I let out an audible groan. But cleaning his face would require fishing through the diaper bag for a wipe, pinning him down while wiping, then wiping some more after he finished screaming. Since I'm running late about 90% of the time, it's easier for me to just let it go. After all, at least we made it to the park/gym/church. That in itself is a miracle.
(I sense here that there might be some moms out there who use the old lick-the-thumb trick to wipe their kids faces. I have a permanent phobia of the smell of spit from my mom using said trick, which I have vowed not to pass along to M and K. I do now understand why she used this trick, but I have to abide by my principles.)
The funny thing is that I don't ever hear anyone comment about M's dirty face. I'm sure they might think a few things to themselves from time to time, but no one actually calls me on it, like, "Step it up, Mom, and clean the poor kid." I do, however, get lots of comments on M's shyness, such as, "Why won't he play?" or "Does he ever have fun?" or occasionally, "What's wrong with him?" Even close friends prod me on his personality as though I somehow wanted to make my son turn out the way he did. M is M. I can't help that, no matter how I've tried. So why would people feel like they can criticize something I can't control while ignoring the obvious shortcomings that I can control?
I guess maybe they don't comment on his face because then they'd have set the standard that their kids had to have clean faces too. Or maybe they too can live with the dirty face but not the kid who clings. Except isn't that my problem? When did our kids have to fit into these predetermined molds? And who came up with those molds anyway? Why can't our kids just be what they are, dirty or bossy or preppy or shy or whatever? They're individuals, after all, and not just extensions of ourselves.
Yes, and M's dirty face is just my way of breaking out the mold made for parents. Okay, I know. That was pushing it.
Before I had kids, I was regularly disgusted by little rug-rats with those smudgy marks all over . What kind of parent lets their kid go out like that? In public!
I have the answer now: me. It's not that it doesn't bother me. In fact, every time I open the car door to find M's face bearing the remains of breakfast or lunch or whatever he ate in between, I let out an audible groan. But cleaning his face would require fishing through the diaper bag for a wipe, pinning him down while wiping, then wiping some more after he finished screaming. Since I'm running late about 90% of the time, it's easier for me to just let it go. After all, at least we made it to the park/gym/church. That in itself is a miracle.
(I sense here that there might be some moms out there who use the old lick-the-thumb trick to wipe their kids faces. I have a permanent phobia of the smell of spit from my mom using said trick, which I have vowed not to pass along to M and K. I do now understand why she used this trick, but I have to abide by my principles.)
The funny thing is that I don't ever hear anyone comment about M's dirty face. I'm sure they might think a few things to themselves from time to time, but no one actually calls me on it, like, "Step it up, Mom, and clean the poor kid." I do, however, get lots of comments on M's shyness, such as, "Why won't he play?" or "Does he ever have fun?" or occasionally, "What's wrong with him?" Even close friends prod me on his personality as though I somehow wanted to make my son turn out the way he did. M is M. I can't help that, no matter how I've tried. So why would people feel like they can criticize something I can't control while ignoring the obvious shortcomings that I can control?
I guess maybe they don't comment on his face because then they'd have set the standard that their kids had to have clean faces too. Or maybe they too can live with the dirty face but not the kid who clings. Except isn't that my problem? When did our kids have to fit into these predetermined molds? And who came up with those molds anyway? Why can't our kids just be what they are, dirty or bossy or preppy or shy or whatever? They're individuals, after all, and not just extensions of ourselves.
Yes, and M's dirty face is just my way of breaking out the mold made for parents. Okay, I know. That was pushing it.
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