After exhaustive research, I’ve come to a remarkable conclusion: kids are not made in a factory, assembled with interchangeable parts. I know. I am baffled. But all evidence points to the truthfulness of this statement. In fact, one might go so far as to say that every child is unique, and therefore what works with one child might not work with another.
That caveat firmly in place, I will now relate Successful Strategies to Toilet-Train Eamon Wolfe. They might work for your kid. They might not. As I stated in the previous entry, I’m not an expert in toilet-training; I’m just an expert in Eamon…and even then there are some things about him that remain a mystery to me. Mothers looking to potty train in the future: do what you will with this information. It worked for our specific child at this specific point in time.
Strategy #1: Wait Until He’s Ready.
Eamon is very bright, very socially advanced, and very emotionally immature. He’s tall and looks older, but he’s physically immature in controlling his own body. Toilet training at age 2 was never realistically considered. He would use the toilet at school but other toilets scared him. He wasn’t ready.
And Eamon, like his father, puts a lot of pressure on himself. I don’t think I’m going too far when I say that failure probably would have scarred him a little emotionally, and we would have had to wait even longer to toilet-train to get over his fears. So even though it meant cringing slightly at all those Facebook posts from mothers with younger children who successfully toilet-trained, I’m glad that we waited. It was right for Eamon.
Strategy #2: No Pressure.
Eamon is a perfectionist. He always has been. His father is the same way, and I have seen first-hand the defense mechanism that can go along with caring too deeply when you are secretly afraid of failing: the desperation to convince everyone that you don’t care at all, that you never cared, and that you think it’s all a waste of time, anyway.
I didn’t want this to happen with Eamon. Other than the first day in which I allowed him to change underwear if he peed, there were no rewards or punishments for using or not using the potty. I was pretty firm about this, despite the advice of almost everyone. I know my husband, and I know my kid. I also taught a few students like this, and the only strategy that ever worked was to logically lay out their options, explain the pros and cons of choosing each, and leave them to make their own decision. They’re smart enough to realize when they are being manipulated, and it only makes them rebel.
Therefore, when we introduced the potty to Eamon, we explained the benefits: no more sitting around in wet or poop-filled diapers. You will get praise at school. You can wear superhero underwear. There are no superhero pull-ups. Everyone will think you’re a big boy. But we can’t make you. It’s up to you.
There were no M&Ms, no sticker charts, no toys or cars. Ironically, I had been saving up kids’ meal toys since Eamon was born for a toy chest JUST FOR THIS PURPOSE, until I realized this would be the worst possible thing for Eamon. I knew Eamon would do use the potty if he wanted to. If he didn’t, no inducement in the world would make him; in fact, it would offend him to the point where he would dig in his heels even further.
It worked. He cared more than anyone about doing a good job. Without any added pressure from us, he gets upset if even a drop of pee gets on his clothes, and we find ourselves reassuring him that it’s OKAY, that he’ll GET IT, and he just needs to keep practicing. I can only imagine how much more upset he would have gotten knowing that in addition to not being perfect, he also lost a chance at a coveted toy. It would have been too much.
In the end, he used the potty because he wanted to.
Strategy #3: Prepare for the Worst
At first, I was so worried about Eamon being successful that I asked too often if he needed to use the potty. In trying to ensure success, I put more pressure on him. There were a couple of very tightly-wound, unpleasant days in the middle until I learned to just stop asking.
This meant being prepared for accidents. Instead of asking him 50 times if he needed to pee before we left for work/school in the morning, I just got up about 10 minutes earlier so there would be time to clean up/change clothes after an accident. Instead of insisting he use the potty before we got into the car, I just put a towel down in his carseat and packed a change of clothes. Conversations that had been filled with yelling and tears now went something like this:
ME: E, do you want to use the potty before we get into the car?
EAMON: No, no, no!
ME: Okay. The movement of the car often makes people have to pee, but I’ve put down a towel in case you wet yourself, and I have a spare change of underwear and pants here. Come on, let’s go.
EAMON: (thinking) Mommy, I want to use the potty.
Not surprisingly, as soon as I relaxed, Eamon relaxed. He peed on himself a couple of times, then learned how to tell when he had to pee and hold it until we made it to the potty. I just accepted that I would be doing more laundry, and now he’s almost mastered it.
Strategy #4: Don’t Ask for More Than He Can Physically Do.
As I have said, Eamon is not physically mature. Even though we suspected he was ready to train during the day, no one had any expectations of him making it through an entire night. He can be a heavy sleeper, and wakes up pretty soaked every morning. That would have invited failure and tears on everyone’s part.
Therefore, we just casually slip a pull-up on before he goes to sleep. We don’t even talk about it, so it’s not a big deal. We put his precious underwear on over it.
Interestingly, when we wakes up in the morning, one of the first things he often says to me is that he has to pee. Even though he has a pull-up on, even though it’s already wet, he doesn't want to use the pull-up.
We’ve even seen this at nap-time. The first day he protested wearing a pull-up to nap, and I said that if he could wake up dry from naps for awhile, he could forgo the pull-up. And gosh darn it, he has woken up dry for about 4 days in a row. We will see. Wearing an unused pull-up doesn’t hurt anything.
Strategy #5: Lots of Extra Love and Attention
If Eamon successfully used the potty, we gave him lots of hugs and kisses and told him he should be proud of himself. When he successfully pooped on the potty, there were even more hugs and kisses and phone calls to grandparents to let him know what a milestone this was.
And when he didn’t make it to the potty on time, there were lots of hugs and kisses and assurances that it was fine and that we loved him so much and he was really doing a great job.
It's a stressful time. He needed it. And I'll always take advantage of any excuse to hug and kiss him more.
**
So, that’s it: our no-frills strategies to toilet-training Eamon Wolfe. For anyone else who is toilet-training out there: good luck, and may your training be as successful and seamless, no matter what strategies you use.
08 January 2012
Amazing Adventures in Underwear
I am suddenly desperately aware of the absence of carpet cleaner in this house. I keep looking anxiously to the spot where the carpet cleaner used to stand, a gaping void of nothingness where there should be something.
And I look at the carpets, which right now are clean and blissfully ignorant of the fate that might soon befall them. The couch, likewise, has no idea of the coming storm.
And then finally, I look at the ticking time bomb: my cherub of a son, happily sipping on milk as he watches The Fantastic Four cartoon, clad only in a pajama shirt and Captain America underwear.
“You can’t pee in this underwear,” I remind him. Again.
“Why?” he asks.
“Because there’s nothing to absorb the pee. It’s not a pull-up. The pee will go everywhere. All over you, all over the carpet, all over the couch…you can’t pee while you wear underwear.”
“Oh," he says, and goes back to watching TV.
I persist. “If you have to pee, you have to tell Mommy, and we’ll go to the potty. And I’ll take you every 20 minutes or so until you go, anyway. But you cannot pee in underwear. You have to use the potty.”
“Oh. I don’t wanna use the potty.”
“But you HAVE to, if you want to be like Captain America and Ironman and Thor. Thor doesn’t wear a pull-up, does he? He uses the potty.”
Eamon shakes his head. “Thor doesn’t use the potty. He flies.”
“Well, yes, he flies, but when he has to pee, he uses the potty.”
Thoughtfully, “Thor doesn’t have to go pee. Ever.”
And I realize with despair: this is true. Never in any superhero cartoon have I seen The Thing or the Black Panther stop mid-battle and announce, “Hold that thought, Dr. Doom, potty-break!” The absence of superhero potty-breaks, just like the absence of carpet cleaner, is tragic.
There are any number of resources about Elmo using the potty. Videos, books, decorative mugs, etc.. But where is the 30 minute special on Spiderman and His Amazing Toilet Adventures? Eamon has gotten to the age where Elmo no longer holds sway, but if only the Human Torch could explain the ins and outs of how little boys use the toilet, Eamon might understand.
I suppose that “experts” would tell me that I shouldn’t be trying to toilet-train a child who emphatically insists that he doesn’t want to use the potty. But just because someone is an “expert” in toilet-training doesn’t make them an expert in Eamon.
Eamon has never felt a sense of urgency about any physical milestone. He has no problem staying at the stage he’s in as long as humanly possible. He rolled over the day before we had a check-up in which the doctor asks if your child can roll over…and if not, you get the “Hmm” and the eyebrow raise. And he didn’t roll over once, but constantly after that.
Then with walking…he liked crawling. Crawling worked for him. He took one step on his birthday, fell flat on his face, and refused to try again. By age 14 months, we were pretty sure he could walk if he wanted, but he didn’t want. My parents finally bribed him with teddy grahams one day, and by the time I came to pick him up, he was running across the room.
I think it might be the same with the toilet. I have a feeling that he’s ready, but he has no interest. And because he’s Eamon, that interest might not come for a long time if he’s not properly motivated. So I’m trying to figure out how to properly motivate him.
First of all, Eamon is not motivated by food. M&Ms don’t do a thing for him. Anything edible is right out.
What he does love is superheroes, so we went out and bought him a ton of superhero underwear. I washed them all last night, and this morning he found them, took them all out of the laundry basket, and surrounded himself lovingly with them. Then he sat on the pile, like a dragon on his precious hoard. I put him in Captain America, but he wanted to wear Ironman. No, Wolverine. No, Thor.
“You can change your underwear…” I said, slyly. “…when you use the potty.”
“Okay,” he said cheerfully. I had brought his Elmo potty downstairs into the den, so he could continue to play and yet not be far from a “toilet.” Eamon yanked off the Captain America underwear, sat on the potty, and immediately peed.
Success! Feeling like a toilet-training genius, I helped him into some Thor underwear, took the potty apart and washed the inner bowl, congratulating myself on my ability to manipulate a three year old.
Two minutes later he announced happily, “Mommy, I gotta pee again. Yup, I do.” He yanked off the Thor underwear, sat down, and peed a small bit more.
We changed him into Wolverine, then I went and washed the potty, wondering if I was losing control of the situation.
Two minutes later, you know what happened. I helped Eamon into some Ironman underwear, and found myself washing the potty yet again. Yes, by this point it was abundantly clear which of us was being manipulated, and it was the person who was washing the potty for the third time in fifteen minutes, not the little person turning in mad circles trying to see the Ironman picture on the back of his own underwear.
And that’s where we are now, an hour and a half into Eamon’s Amazing Potty Adventures. The carpet cleaner has been a non-issue (so far), I still have no idea if this potty-training this is going to work in the long-term, and the only real conclusion anyone can make is that, without a doubt, my three year old has outsmarted me. Again.
Update: Eamon just had his first accident. He came over and announced, "I peed on Ironman, mommy. Yep, I did." But he had only peed a little, so I put him on the potty, where he preceded to pee...and pee, and pee. So even though it was an accident, he realized what he was doing, STOPPED PEEING, and came over and told me so that he could finish on the potty. That's progress, right?
And I look at the carpets, which right now are clean and blissfully ignorant of the fate that might soon befall them. The couch, likewise, has no idea of the coming storm.
And then finally, I look at the ticking time bomb: my cherub of a son, happily sipping on milk as he watches The Fantastic Four cartoon, clad only in a pajama shirt and Captain America underwear.
“You can’t pee in this underwear,” I remind him. Again.
“Why?” he asks.
“Because there’s nothing to absorb the pee. It’s not a pull-up. The pee will go everywhere. All over you, all over the carpet, all over the couch…you can’t pee while you wear underwear.”
“Oh," he says, and goes back to watching TV.
I persist. “If you have to pee, you have to tell Mommy, and we’ll go to the potty. And I’ll take you every 20 minutes or so until you go, anyway. But you cannot pee in underwear. You have to use the potty.”
“Oh. I don’t wanna use the potty.”
“But you HAVE to, if you want to be like Captain America and Ironman and Thor. Thor doesn’t wear a pull-up, does he? He uses the potty.”
Eamon shakes his head. “Thor doesn’t use the potty. He flies.”
“Well, yes, he flies, but when he has to pee, he uses the potty.”
Thoughtfully, “Thor doesn’t have to go pee. Ever.”
And I realize with despair: this is true. Never in any superhero cartoon have I seen The Thing or the Black Panther stop mid-battle and announce, “Hold that thought, Dr. Doom, potty-break!” The absence of superhero potty-breaks, just like the absence of carpet cleaner, is tragic.
There are any number of resources about Elmo using the potty. Videos, books, decorative mugs, etc.. But where is the 30 minute special on Spiderman and His Amazing Toilet Adventures? Eamon has gotten to the age where Elmo no longer holds sway, but if only the Human Torch could explain the ins and outs of how little boys use the toilet, Eamon might understand.
I suppose that “experts” would tell me that I shouldn’t be trying to toilet-train a child who emphatically insists that he doesn’t want to use the potty. But just because someone is an “expert” in toilet-training doesn’t make them an expert in Eamon.
Eamon has never felt a sense of urgency about any physical milestone. He has no problem staying at the stage he’s in as long as humanly possible. He rolled over the day before we had a check-up in which the doctor asks if your child can roll over…and if not, you get the “Hmm” and the eyebrow raise. And he didn’t roll over once, but constantly after that.
Then with walking…he liked crawling. Crawling worked for him. He took one step on his birthday, fell flat on his face, and refused to try again. By age 14 months, we were pretty sure he could walk if he wanted, but he didn’t want. My parents finally bribed him with teddy grahams one day, and by the time I came to pick him up, he was running across the room.
I think it might be the same with the toilet. I have a feeling that he’s ready, but he has no interest. And because he’s Eamon, that interest might not come for a long time if he’s not properly motivated. So I’m trying to figure out how to properly motivate him.
First of all, Eamon is not motivated by food. M&Ms don’t do a thing for him. Anything edible is right out.
What he does love is superheroes, so we went out and bought him a ton of superhero underwear. I washed them all last night, and this morning he found them, took them all out of the laundry basket, and surrounded himself lovingly with them. Then he sat on the pile, like a dragon on his precious hoard. I put him in Captain America, but he wanted to wear Ironman. No, Wolverine. No, Thor.
“You can change your underwear…” I said, slyly. “…when you use the potty.”
“Okay,” he said cheerfully. I had brought his Elmo potty downstairs into the den, so he could continue to play and yet not be far from a “toilet.” Eamon yanked off the Captain America underwear, sat on the potty, and immediately peed.
Success! Feeling like a toilet-training genius, I helped him into some Thor underwear, took the potty apart and washed the inner bowl, congratulating myself on my ability to manipulate a three year old.
Two minutes later he announced happily, “Mommy, I gotta pee again. Yup, I do.” He yanked off the Thor underwear, sat down, and peed a small bit more.
We changed him into Wolverine, then I went and washed the potty, wondering if I was losing control of the situation.
Two minutes later, you know what happened. I helped Eamon into some Ironman underwear, and found myself washing the potty yet again. Yes, by this point it was abundantly clear which of us was being manipulated, and it was the person who was washing the potty for the third time in fifteen minutes, not the little person turning in mad circles trying to see the Ironman picture on the back of his own underwear.
And that’s where we are now, an hour and a half into Eamon’s Amazing Potty Adventures. The carpet cleaner has been a non-issue (so far), I still have no idea if this potty-training this is going to work in the long-term, and the only real conclusion anyone can make is that, without a doubt, my three year old has outsmarted me. Again.
Update: Eamon just had his first accident. He came over and announced, "I peed on Ironman, mommy. Yep, I did." But he had only peed a little, so I put him on the potty, where he preceded to pee...and pee, and pee. So even though it was an accident, he realized what he was doing, STOPPED PEEING, and came over and told me so that he could finish on the potty. That's progress, right?
18 December 2011
A Little Peace and Quiet
It happened yesterday on the way to the barbershop.
I was chattering, “You’re going to be a good boy, right? I mean, you’re going to make good choices? Sit still? Don’t cry? Don’t squirm or fidget?”
There was no sound from the backseat. I turned around and saw Eamon staring quietly out the window.
“Because if you’re good we can go to Barnes & Noble and get some Spiderman books.” (Does it count as bribery if you were planning to do it anyway?) “You like books, right? Would you like some Spiderman books? I mean, you can get another superhero if you want, like the X-Men or Captain America or—”
“MOMMY! STOP TALKING!” yelled Eamon suddenly. “You talking too much! I wanna be quiet. YOU be quiet now.”
“Excuse me?” I gasped.
Eamon thought for a minute, and then added, “Please.”
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this. When I was younger, my mother used to ask if I talked just to hear my own voice and tell me I just had to be quiet for awhile because she needed some peace and quiet. Then I had a child, and it was supposed to be MY turn to tell someone they talked too much. I have been anxiously awaiting that moment for almost three years now.
Instead, at his insistence, we drove the rest of the way in silence. He did say "please."
I used the time to reflect that, probably soon, he would also be telling me to clean my room and not stay up all night reading.
(EPILOGUE: He was a good boy, he got the Spiderman books, and later when I was telling Aaron about the incident, Eamon piped up from the back seat, “What you TALKING about, Mommy? You no make sense! You crazy.” Sigh.)
I mean, he LOOKS like the kind of kid who talks a lot, right? And he DOES. Just not as much as his mother, apparently.
I was chattering, “You’re going to be a good boy, right? I mean, you’re going to make good choices? Sit still? Don’t cry? Don’t squirm or fidget?”
There was no sound from the backseat. I turned around and saw Eamon staring quietly out the window.
“Because if you’re good we can go to Barnes & Noble and get some Spiderman books.” (Does it count as bribery if you were planning to do it anyway?) “You like books, right? Would you like some Spiderman books? I mean, you can get another superhero if you want, like the X-Men or Captain America or—”
“MOMMY! STOP TALKING!” yelled Eamon suddenly. “You talking too much! I wanna be quiet. YOU be quiet now.”
“Excuse me?” I gasped.
Eamon thought for a minute, and then added, “Please.”
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this. When I was younger, my mother used to ask if I talked just to hear my own voice and tell me I just had to be quiet for awhile because she needed some peace and quiet. Then I had a child, and it was supposed to be MY turn to tell someone they talked too much. I have been anxiously awaiting that moment for almost three years now.
Instead, at his insistence, we drove the rest of the way in silence. He did say "please."
I used the time to reflect that, probably soon, he would also be telling me to clean my room and not stay up all night reading.
(EPILOGUE: He was a good boy, he got the Spiderman books, and later when I was telling Aaron about the incident, Eamon piped up from the back seat, “What you TALKING about, Mommy? You no make sense! You crazy.” Sigh.)
I mean, he LOOKS like the kind of kid who talks a lot, right? And he DOES. Just not as much as his mother, apparently.
11 November 2011
Glimpses
This morning's Facebook status:
The good news is that I took a personal day and get to take E to pre-school this morning. The bad news is that afterwards I get to work on a 20 paper for round 2 of comps. So, yay! And also, ugh.
It's silly, really, that they give me 4 weeks to work on such a paper when I am obviously going to do it over one weekend. This is relevant to this blog post, however, because it means that I am saving every bit of coherency I possess for the paper-writing extravaganza that will begin at 9AM. The blog therefore gets whatever rambling drivel I happen to think about typing while trying to wrestle Eamon into clothes for school.
(Hi, future Eamon! This is my attitude for documenting your childhood! You're welcome!)
*************************
Scene 1
6:15AM: I enter Eamon's bedroom.
"Mommy," he says somberly. "I had a bad dream."
"Oh, dear. What was this one about?"
"Swiper," he says, invoking the name of the wily fox on Dora the Explorer who, well, swipes things. He is the main component of 95% of Eamon's bad dreams.
"Oh, that Swiper. What did he do this time?" I ask.
"He took Daddy's pants."
While the image of a 43-foot long, slavering T-Rex only inspires thoughts of joyful frolicking through a prehistoric funscape, the thought of a small cartoon fox who can easily be defeated by the phrase, "Swiper, no swiping!" is the stuff of soul-crushing nightmares for my 2 year old.
Also...Daddy's pants? Huh? Why?
***************************
Scene 2
4:45AM: I awake to desperate screams of "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!"
I rush into Eamon's room. "What's wrong?" I gasp, still reeling from the sudden shot of adrenalin coursing through my body.
Eamon sobs, "I lost Zurg. Where Zurg?"
I stare blankly at him. He cannot seriously have woken me up to search for a two inch tall plastic replica of a Toy Story character. I mention as much (or rather, the adrenaline does) then stumble back to bed while he quietly cries himself back to sleep in this now post-Zurg world in which kittens have ceased to gently mew, butterflies refuse to flit softly, and all is dark and only despair can reign from now until the end of our pointless, pathetic existences.
It then takes me about 45 minutes to come down off the adrenaline high and go back to sleep...until 5:30, which is when my alarm goes off. Of course, I ignore it and wake up at 6:15, which means we are now officially Running Late.
I burst back into Eamon's room to wake him up and get the day started. Feeling slightly guilty about my lack of compassion at 4:45, I allot 2 minutes to look for Zurg.
But there is no need. Eamon sits up, smiling, holding the small plastic toy.
"Where did you find that?" I ask.
He laughs. "In my hand. Oops. Silly Eamon." I reflect that one day, this will probably be really funny. But not today.
******************
Scene 3
4:26PM: At Eamon's pre-school conference night, we see another mother. Her daughter is about a year younger than Eamon, so about to turn 2.
The mother confides that every night during their prayers, the little girl always seems really confused.
"I think it's when we say 'Amen,'" Mom explains. "She keeps looking around the room. Finally we realized that she thinks we're saying 'Eamon.'"
I bet she wonders why her parents are so darn obsessed with that little boy from school.
****************************
Scene 4
6:57AM
"Eamon, smile for the camera. I need to post a blog and document your childhood so that one day you we can all look back and remember to laugh about that Zurg incident."
"Eamon! What the heck was that? You look like you're going to be sick. I need a nice smile so we can all look back and think about how nice everything was."
"Eamon! Come on. Please?!"
"Okay, seriously, kiddo..."
"Eamon, come out of the blanket. Please. I promise I'll stop if you just smile once. Just one picture I can use. Please."
"Aw, thank you, darling. And if anyone asks, you did that because you finally saw reason and wanted to help your mother out, and not because I just made barnyard animal noises until you finally started giggling. Okay?"
The good news is that I took a personal day and get to take E to pre-school this morning. The bad news is that afterwards I get to work on a 20 paper for round 2 of comps. So, yay! And also, ugh.
It's silly, really, that they give me 4 weeks to work on such a paper when I am obviously going to do it over one weekend. This is relevant to this blog post, however, because it means that I am saving every bit of coherency I possess for the paper-writing extravaganza that will begin at 9AM. The blog therefore gets whatever rambling drivel I happen to think about typing while trying to wrestle Eamon into clothes for school.
(Hi, future Eamon! This is my attitude for documenting your childhood! You're welcome!)
*************************
Scene 1
6:15AM: I enter Eamon's bedroom.
"Mommy," he says somberly. "I had a bad dream."
"Oh, dear. What was this one about?"
"Swiper," he says, invoking the name of the wily fox on Dora the Explorer who, well, swipes things. He is the main component of 95% of Eamon's bad dreams.
"Oh, that Swiper. What did he do this time?" I ask.
"He took Daddy's pants."
While the image of a 43-foot long, slavering T-Rex only inspires thoughts of joyful frolicking through a prehistoric funscape, the thought of a small cartoon fox who can easily be defeated by the phrase, "Swiper, no swiping!" is the stuff of soul-crushing nightmares for my 2 year old.
Also...Daddy's pants? Huh? Why?
***************************
Scene 2
4:45AM: I awake to desperate screams of "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!"
I rush into Eamon's room. "What's wrong?" I gasp, still reeling from the sudden shot of adrenalin coursing through my body.
Eamon sobs, "I lost Zurg. Where Zurg?"
I stare blankly at him. He cannot seriously have woken me up to search for a two inch tall plastic replica of a Toy Story character. I mention as much (or rather, the adrenaline does) then stumble back to bed while he quietly cries himself back to sleep in this now post-Zurg world in which kittens have ceased to gently mew, butterflies refuse to flit softly, and all is dark and only despair can reign from now until the end of our pointless, pathetic existences.
It then takes me about 45 minutes to come down off the adrenaline high and go back to sleep...until 5:30, which is when my alarm goes off. Of course, I ignore it and wake up at 6:15, which means we are now officially Running Late.
I burst back into Eamon's room to wake him up and get the day started. Feeling slightly guilty about my lack of compassion at 4:45, I allot 2 minutes to look for Zurg.
But there is no need. Eamon sits up, smiling, holding the small plastic toy.
"Where did you find that?" I ask.
He laughs. "In my hand. Oops. Silly Eamon." I reflect that one day, this will probably be really funny. But not today.
******************
Scene 3
4:26PM: At Eamon's pre-school conference night, we see another mother. Her daughter is about a year younger than Eamon, so about to turn 2.
The mother confides that every night during their prayers, the little girl always seems really confused.
"I think it's when we say 'Amen,'" Mom explains. "She keeps looking around the room. Finally we realized that she thinks we're saying 'Eamon.'"
I bet she wonders why her parents are so darn obsessed with that little boy from school.
****************************
Scene 4
6:57AM
"Eamon, smile for the camera. I need to post a blog and document your childhood so that one day you we can all look back and remember to laugh about that Zurg incident."
"Eamon! What the heck was that? You look like you're going to be sick. I need a nice smile so we can all look back and think about how nice everything was."
"Eamon! Come on. Please?!"
"Okay, seriously, kiddo..."
"Eamon, come out of the blanket. Please. I promise I'll stop if you just smile once. Just one picture I can use. Please."
"Aw, thank you, darling. And if anyone asks, you did that because you finally saw reason and wanted to help your mother out, and not because I just made barnyard animal noises until you finally started giggling. Okay?"
07 November 2011
Today was...a day.
I spent most of Friday in the doctor's office or at Lab Corp, therefore today started by waking up early so I could go to work early so I could catch up.
I waited all day for a phone call from said doctor...which never came.
I was involved in a miscommunication at work, and even though it wasn't my fault, I spent the rest of the afternoon obsessing over how I should have done X or Y to avoid it.
My shoes, which matched my outfit fine in my home mirror, suddenly looked terrible once I got to work.
One of the lights in my office blew out, swathing the entire room in semi-dark dreariness.
It was a day.
And then...finally...at 4:45, I walked into my parents' house and he ran to me, screaming "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" I picked him up and held him as he and clutched his arms around my neck. We just stood there, clinging to one another for several minutes.
"I missed you," I whispered.
"I missed you, too, Mommy," he whispered back.
On the car ride home, we sang the alphabet song. He told me words that start with the letters A, B, C, D, and E. We discussed how funny dogs can be when they lick your face.
We came home, and he put away my shoes, which once again looked just fine now that I was home. We sat together on the couch. He cuddled up against me and we played Super Why together on the iPad, finding letters and singing the AlphaPig version of the alphabet song.
Yes, it was a day. A great one.
I spent most of Friday in the doctor's office or at Lab Corp, therefore today started by waking up early so I could go to work early so I could catch up.
I waited all day for a phone call from said doctor...which never came.
I was involved in a miscommunication at work, and even though it wasn't my fault, I spent the rest of the afternoon obsessing over how I should have done X or Y to avoid it.
My shoes, which matched my outfit fine in my home mirror, suddenly looked terrible once I got to work.
One of the lights in my office blew out, swathing the entire room in semi-dark dreariness.
It was a day.
And then...finally...at 4:45, I walked into my parents' house and he ran to me, screaming "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" I picked him up and held him as he and clutched his arms around my neck. We just stood there, clinging to one another for several minutes.
"I missed you," I whispered.
"I missed you, too, Mommy," he whispered back.
On the car ride home, we sang the alphabet song. He told me words that start with the letters A, B, C, D, and E. We discussed how funny dogs can be when they lick your face.
We came home, and he put away my shoes, which once again looked just fine now that I was home. We sat together on the couch. He cuddled up against me and we played Super Why together on the iPad, finding letters and singing the AlphaPig version of the alphabet song.
Yes, it was a day. A great one.
31 October 2011
Happy Hawoween!
Highlights from our Halloween:
1. Lesson learned: Do not listen when your 2 year old child says he doesn't want to go trick-or-treating. He doesn't know. Force him kicking and screaming into his costume (the costume that, of course, he asked to wear EVERY.SINGLE.DAY since buying it three weeks ago, and suddenly decided he completely hates on October 31). Take him out. Show him how to knock on the first door. Watch his shocked face afterwards, and try not to laugh when he announces, "Mommy! He gave me CANDY. I need more CANDY. Let's go more houses NOW."
2. Eamon is an X-Men fan. Actually, he doesn't even care that much about the cartoon; he really just likes the credits. So when it came time to pick his costume, he chose Wolverine over Woody, Buzz, and Spiderman. I figured, though, that because it was a store-bought costume, everyone would have one. In fact, when we bought the costume, there was another little boy in the dressing room next to us, buying the exact same costume. I worried that maybe it was the costume of the season, but whatever. Eamon picked it out. I wasn't going to bring my neuroses into it.
But then I started to worry--maybe no one would have one, because it's the classic yellow-and-blue-spandex Wolverine from the cartoon, not the cooler black suit from the movie. Who would know that costume? Maybe it was too obscure.
Yeah, I was wrong. Wrong, wrong, and more wrong. I could probably learn something from my 2 year old, who just likes Wolverine and didn't stress about his costume one iota. As we walked along, rarely did we pass by a boy between the ages of 7 and 12 who didn't call out, "Hey, Wolverine! Awesome costume." I lost count of the number of times Eamon had to give high fives as he was congratulated on his costume taste. He seemed a bit bewildered by it all, actually.
And no, we did not see another Wolverine. Not even once.
3. After the candy-getting time, we went back to our house around 7. On the way back, I said, "Well, Eamon, we went trick-or-treating. We did it!"
He then launched into the Dora song, making up his own verse: "We knocked on the doors, and we said trick-or-treat, and we did it!" He then grooved a little just for good measure.
4. Back at the house, Eamon was just as enthralled with the giving of candy as the getting. We sat outside on folding chairs, and Eamon stayed in his Wolverine costume, garnering more high fives and swooning women (best mom quote: "Honey, his six pack is better than yours!") Our neighborhood is big into trick-or-treating, and we live near the front of the neighborhood, so we had a steady stream (often a flood) of trick-or-treaters.
Eamon loved giving out candy so much that during one of the rare lulls, he suddenly screamed at the top of his lungs, "HEY, PEOPLE! I GOT CANDY! EVERYBODY COME HERE!"
Yeah, Halloween was good. I already can't wait for 2012. I think I'll let Eamon pick out my costume.
1. Lesson learned: Do not listen when your 2 year old child says he doesn't want to go trick-or-treating. He doesn't know. Force him kicking and screaming into his costume (the costume that, of course, he asked to wear EVERY.SINGLE.DAY since buying it three weeks ago, and suddenly decided he completely hates on October 31). Take him out. Show him how to knock on the first door. Watch his shocked face afterwards, and try not to laugh when he announces, "Mommy! He gave me CANDY. I need more CANDY. Let's go more houses NOW."
2. Eamon is an X-Men fan. Actually, he doesn't even care that much about the cartoon; he really just likes the credits. So when it came time to pick his costume, he chose Wolverine over Woody, Buzz, and Spiderman. I figured, though, that because it was a store-bought costume, everyone would have one. In fact, when we bought the costume, there was another little boy in the dressing room next to us, buying the exact same costume. I worried that maybe it was the costume of the season, but whatever. Eamon picked it out. I wasn't going to bring my neuroses into it.
But then I started to worry--maybe no one would have one, because it's the classic yellow-and-blue-spandex Wolverine from the cartoon, not the cooler black suit from the movie. Who would know that costume? Maybe it was too obscure.
Yeah, I was wrong. Wrong, wrong, and more wrong. I could probably learn something from my 2 year old, who just likes Wolverine and didn't stress about his costume one iota. As we walked along, rarely did we pass by a boy between the ages of 7 and 12 who didn't call out, "Hey, Wolverine! Awesome costume." I lost count of the number of times Eamon had to give high fives as he was congratulated on his costume taste. He seemed a bit bewildered by it all, actually.
And no, we did not see another Wolverine. Not even once.
3. After the candy-getting time, we went back to our house around 7. On the way back, I said, "Well, Eamon, we went trick-or-treating. We did it!"
He then launched into the Dora song, making up his own verse: "We knocked on the doors, and we said trick-or-treat, and we did it!" He then grooved a little just for good measure.
4. Back at the house, Eamon was just as enthralled with the giving of candy as the getting. We sat outside on folding chairs, and Eamon stayed in his Wolverine costume, garnering more high fives and swooning women (best mom quote: "Honey, his six pack is better than yours!") Our neighborhood is big into trick-or-treating, and we live near the front of the neighborhood, so we had a steady stream (often a flood) of trick-or-treaters.
Eamon loved giving out candy so much that during one of the rare lulls, he suddenly screamed at the top of his lungs, "HEY, PEOPLE! I GOT CANDY! EVERYBODY COME HERE!"
Yeah, Halloween was good. I already can't wait for 2012. I think I'll let Eamon pick out my costume.
02 October 2011
Oh
I wrote this post well over a week ago. In fact, I've written several posts that I've never gotten around to posting because...I don't know. I guess because we've been sick, and I've been dragging myself around the house in the evenings, counting down the hours until I can go to bed and/or die a quiet death, and somehow, managing to take pictures, upload them, put them in the blog I've written, and press Publish Post...it's all too much.
(I have this self-imposed rule that all entries must have accompanying pictures, because I have a feeling that several people who "read" this really just scroll through for the pictures and I really hate disappointing hypothetical people.)
So some nights, I have energy to take pictures, but I can't find the camera. Then another night, I find the camera and take the pictures, but we have a new desktop and no one has loaded the photo editing software on it and HEAVEN FORBID I should post an un-strategically cropped photo and let you all see the coolers that have been sitting out in our backyard for weeks now because...I don't know. Because no one has taken them inside, I guess.
Then I finally convince myself that I'll be less judged for the cooler than for not posting, so I decide to just post the pictures as is...and I can't find the camera. And by that point, everything hurts and my head is stuffed up and I just tell Aaron it's his turn to put Eamon to bed and I collapse in a Nyquil-induced stupor for what seems like 5 seconds before the alarm goes off and I have to get up and get ready for work.
Anyway. Here's a post.
With a picture.
Just ignore the coolers in the background, okay?
*************************************************************************
When the plaintive yell of “Mommy! Mommy!” comes the first time, I don’t have to sit bolt upright because the three pillows I’m sleeping on already have me at about 75 degree incline.
10:00 p.m.
I wait. I cough for good measure. Then I hear heavy footsteps traversing the stairs. Barely awake, I think, ah good, Aaron has this, and I slip back into unconsciousness.
“Mommy! Mommy!” comes another wail.
11:00 p.m.
Ugh. Wait. Cough. Footsteps. Sleep.
12:30 a.m.
“Mommy! Mommy!”
Wait. Cough. Blow nose. Wait. Hmm. No footsteps. Aaron has probably fallen asleep on the couch again watching old Spiderman cartoon re-runs.
I drag myself into Eamon’s room. “What?”
And then I hear it. The rattling breath. The stuffy nose. The bleary eyes that match mine.
“Oh,” I say. He coughs. I cough. Too tired and sick to be firm, I jerk my thumb back towards my room and mutter, “Come on.”
He grabs his blanket and Lion and toddles after me.
We take turns through the night drifting into sleep only to be awoken an hour later with violent gasps and coughs. He continues to whimper “Mommy, Mommy” in his sleep. I pat him sympathetically and try to cough as quietly as possible. He tosses and turns, trying to find a position where his nose will draw in air easily, and I keep trying to recover him with the blanket.
It is a long night full of half-conscious dreams.
In the morning, my mom texts. I tell her that we are sick. Again. I don’t write this, but I imply that we’ve been sick a lot lately, and I’m getting tired of it, and I don’t understand why it keeps happening.
“Welcome to pre-school,” she texts back. And she doesn’t write it, but she implies that this…is only the beginning.
Hi, Mommy. Please note that in the morning, I will be wide awake and full of energy like nothing ever happened, whereas your co-workers will start to secretly place bets on whether your sunken eyes and pale skin mean that you are a 19th century heroine dying of consumption or a vampire.
(I have this self-imposed rule that all entries must have accompanying pictures, because I have a feeling that several people who "read" this really just scroll through for the pictures and I really hate disappointing hypothetical people.)
So some nights, I have energy to take pictures, but I can't find the camera. Then another night, I find the camera and take the pictures, but we have a new desktop and no one has loaded the photo editing software on it and HEAVEN FORBID I should post an un-strategically cropped photo and let you all see the coolers that have been sitting out in our backyard for weeks now because...I don't know. Because no one has taken them inside, I guess.
Then I finally convince myself that I'll be less judged for the cooler than for not posting, so I decide to just post the pictures as is...and I can't find the camera. And by that point, everything hurts and my head is stuffed up and I just tell Aaron it's his turn to put Eamon to bed and I collapse in a Nyquil-induced stupor for what seems like 5 seconds before the alarm goes off and I have to get up and get ready for work.
Anyway. Here's a post.
With a picture.
Just ignore the coolers in the background, okay?
*************************************************************************
When the plaintive yell of “Mommy! Mommy!” comes the first time, I don’t have to sit bolt upright because the three pillows I’m sleeping on already have me at about 75 degree incline.
10:00 p.m.
I wait. I cough for good measure. Then I hear heavy footsteps traversing the stairs. Barely awake, I think, ah good, Aaron has this, and I slip back into unconsciousness.
“Mommy! Mommy!” comes another wail.
11:00 p.m.
Ugh. Wait. Cough. Footsteps. Sleep.
12:30 a.m.
“Mommy! Mommy!”
Wait. Cough. Blow nose. Wait. Hmm. No footsteps. Aaron has probably fallen asleep on the couch again watching old Spiderman cartoon re-runs.
I drag myself into Eamon’s room. “What?”
And then I hear it. The rattling breath. The stuffy nose. The bleary eyes that match mine.
“Oh,” I say. He coughs. I cough. Too tired and sick to be firm, I jerk my thumb back towards my room and mutter, “Come on.”
He grabs his blanket and Lion and toddles after me.
We take turns through the night drifting into sleep only to be awoken an hour later with violent gasps and coughs. He continues to whimper “Mommy, Mommy” in his sleep. I pat him sympathetically and try to cough as quietly as possible. He tosses and turns, trying to find a position where his nose will draw in air easily, and I keep trying to recover him with the blanket.
It is a long night full of half-conscious dreams.
In the morning, my mom texts. I tell her that we are sick. Again. I don’t write this, but I imply that we’ve been sick a lot lately, and I’m getting tired of it, and I don’t understand why it keeps happening.
“Welcome to pre-school,” she texts back. And she doesn’t write it, but she implies that this…is only the beginning.
Hi, Mommy. Please note that in the morning, I will be wide awake and full of energy like nothing ever happened, whereas your co-workers will start to secretly place bets on whether your sunken eyes and pale skin mean that you are a 19th century heroine dying of consumption or a vampire.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
