Momming Around

Sunny Shines

Posted on by Beth Hull

I’ve been trying to read The Happiest Toddler on the Block (Harvey Karp) because I want to have the happiest toddler on the block.

As Husband says when he’s being especially infuriating: “It’s nice to want things, isn’t it?”

Z’s a very happy little kid, truly. She is also prone to fits and tantrums, and demonstrates an alarming capacity for drama (if one single person who knows me makes a “like-mother-like-daughter” comment they will never receive a Christmas, birthday, or Valentine’s Day card from me again. That means you, Mom). I don’t think Z is atypical of toddlers in these respects. It must be very difficult to be three feet tall and not able to run to the store for a pint of Ben & Jerry’s whenever life gives you a smackdown. Instead, your mean mom doesn’t even let you have ice cream (more for her, she reasons), and she’s even put restrictions on the goldfish crackers. Then your dad jumps in saying, “It’s nice to want things, isn’t it?”

Because life is rough for a two-year-old, I’m making an effort to be a better mom. That includes trying out some of the ideas in Karp’s book. What usually happens, though, is I try something which doesn’t work, and then I come up with something that works better for Z. Example: he recommends “hand checks” as rewards, which is just like it sounds–taking a pen and putting an ink check on your kid’s hand. Well, Z freaks out if you come at her with anything pointy, especially if it’s going to leave a mark. Hand checks? Not such a good idea for her. Before I figured that out, I started drawing on my own hand to show her it was okay. The middle-schooler in me (who is really just below my 29-year-old surface) jumped out, and next thing I knew I had this:

Pretty cool, huh?

Okay, fine, maybe not cool to anyone old enough to read, but Z thought her new friend was awesome. She named her Sunny, and we had such a great time with Sunny that I considered getting a Sunny tattoo.

Sunny talked Z into trying broccoli again, she convinced Z that diaper changes are fun, and she generally gained Z’s cooperation in so many areas that I started to feel a little jealous of Sunny. I mean, who is this imposter, anyway? Z will run down our driveway towards the street while I shout fearfully for her to stop, but she’d probably be potty trained in a second of Sunny suggested it. (In fact, watch Sunny come back today so I can give that a shot.)

The thing is, little kids need heroes, and for the longest time, I was Z’s hero. Nobody else. After all, for Z’s first year I had the mama’s milk and nobody else did. Stupid Sunny never had mama’s milk. It’s all part of growing up, I suppose, my daughter adopting other people and characters as her heroes. If I’m already having trouble with her adopting a character invented from my own hand, I can tell this is going to be hard for me.

Maybe I have some growing up to do as well.

Falling Upstairs

Posted on by Beth Hull

The funny thing about toddlers is they fall. All the time. Sometimes it’s tragic, and my daughter’s screams just make me want to weep with pity. Other times it’s freaking hilarious and I stifle laughter while wiping away her tears. I mean, really–running into the doorway? Or listening to her say, “Run, run, run, run….” BOOM! Priceless.

Yesterday, though, I was starting to feel like a toddler myself. Not falling so much as accident prone. Clark the cat, bless her, tried to jump on my lap, missed (okay, I moved at the last second), and scratched/punctured me knee. Ouch.

Then Z thumped into my lap to read a book and crunched my finger. Ouch again, but I recovered quickly and went on to read Baby Bear’s Books (Jane Yolen) through gritted teeth.

Finally, during Five O’Clock Disco Dance Breakdown, I did the electric slide onto a small pink prism for the shape sorter cube. I truly thought my dancing days were over. Husband had to work late, so I limped around for the rest of the evening, giving Z her bath [UPDATE: She now takes her bath in the bathtub proper, and the infant tub is stored in the garage, waiting for Z’s hypothetical sibling] and getting her ready for bed. I thought of using my practically broken foot as an excuse not to exercise today, but I couldn’t even trick myself, so I guess it’s not that bad.

Still hurts, though.

Today has been better. I walked behind Z as she climbed upstairs and watched her take risks. She let go of my hand, then let go of the railing, then twisted sideways, gallumped up two steps, paused on the third. She gave a sort of hop. Fine of course, no falls. Toddlers fall down frequently, but the beauty of it is they have something adults grow out of: resilience and fearlessness.

My foot still hurts, and I’m going to be extra vigilant when “clearing the dance floor” in the future.

[Further UPDATE: The vertical blinds ARE GONE! Husband read my entry “The Land of Dull Knives and Duller Wits” and I think something spoke to him. Next time I’ll complain about the macabre drapes in the front room. It will be magic! I write, and they disappear!]

The Land of Dull Knives and Duller Wits

Posted on by Beth Hull

A year and five months ago I proudly showed off my new home to a couple of friends. “Wow, this place is great!” they said. When we reached the family room, the tone changed. “OMG you have to get rid of these vertical blinds.”

The family room is a fabulous room. Funky wood floors, an old wood stove, big windows, and three doors to the backyard. Doors covered in…vertical blinds! The blinds were supposed to be white once upon a time, or at the very least cream colored, but now they have a sort of sallow, yellow look. If a paint company needed a name for this precise shade, they might choose “malarial yellow*.” And because the family room has two sliding doors and a french door, there are three sets of vertical blinds. It’s practically all you see when you walk in.

Yeah, I know. Ew.

But we move a little slowly in this house, not only when I’m on the elliptical machine, but also when it comes to getting things done, and while we have finally actually looked at various options for the blinds, we haven’t found anything we like…at least that we can agree on. This slow relaxed pace doesn’t only apply to large-ish jobs like window treatments. We usually start off with, “It would be so much easier to find things in our closet if we had some kind of storage system.” (Piles of shoeboxes and stacks of folded shirts continue to topple out every time we open the door.) Or, “Hmm, maybe we should you know, clean the scum out of the bathtub so our toddler can graduate from her infant tub.” (She’s still in the infant tub.)

Frustrated when trying to carve the turkey last Thanksgiving, Husband’s parents gave us a knife sharpener for Christmas. Five months later, we have sharpened two (2) knives. Even really simple chores, like replacing the sprinkler heads so our lawn doesn’t turn brown, get shuffled to the end of the to-do list in favor of a) reading, b) writing, c) sleeping, or d) just about anything else.

How I wish I could blame it on Z. She was the perfect screaming scapegoat when she was four months old and permanently attached to my chest. I could barely take a shower, much less manage to vacuum or unload the dishwasher. Now that she’s older and can play on her own for up to an hour, I’m fresh out of scapegoats. The truth is, we’re just not the type of people who enjoy productive pursuits.

Sometimes I fantasize about going back to Jane Austen time, when people could dabble in painting, learn languages, and embroider because they had nannies and gardeners and cooks and maids.

Then I remember: not every person had those perks, because somebody had to actually be the nannies, gardeners, cooks, and maids. So while I’m nostalgic for a time I’ve never known, I end up wondering: would I have been Elizabeth Bennet, touring the countryside and popping up at Pemberley, or would I have been Hill, catering to every freaking complaint of Mrs. Bennet?

It’s not a risk I’m willing to take. I’ll manage my own child, garden, sandwiches, and laundry, thanks.

– – – –

*Yes, I realize malaria is not the same as yellow fever. Creative license, dears.

The Unholy Terror of Screaming Proportions

Posted on by Beth Hull

Just when you think you’ve got a good rhythm going, when the routines are working okay, and there’s an occasional night when she sleeps in her crib until five or six in the morning. Just when you can do some dishes without her affixed to your shins like a Mighty Leech, and you can run outside to water the plants while she watches contentedly from the window. Just when you let your guard down…

The Unholy Terror of Screaming Proportions attacks.

With a vengeance.

It’s teething. Right? I mean, it’s the perfect excuse. Now we’re onto the molars, and yeah, extra painful probably. They’re the perfect scapegoat, as no one is brave enough to stick a finger back there and actually check (the UTSP bites). Teething mysteriously comes and goes, and it gives you a chance to pity the UTSP instead of resenting her (sometimes. Maybe not at 2:55 in the morning).

We’ve always done “the co-sleeping thing.” Not because it’s trendy or cool, or so down-to-earth. But because we’re lazy. L-A-Z-Y. Why rouse ourselves in the middle of the night, spend fifteen to thirty minutes soothing a child to sleep, and then try to get back to sleep? Why not just zombie-walk to the kid’s room, pluck her out of her bed, and snuggle up next to her in our own?

I’ll tell you why not. The two reasons come with five toes apiece. The UTSP has been armed with a Mighty Kick and instructed to fire at will. By employing strategies of random, rapid fire movements she has almost shattered my cheekbone and nearly ensured, via a lucky strike to a certain sensitive area on Husband, that she will be an only child.

So now: not only am I rethinking every single aspect of the beginning of my novel, but I’m currently reevaluating Child Number 2. As well as making decisions on cellular blinds, granite countertops, and paint colors. Because, of course, we couldn’t be content with only 30 pounds of upheaval in our lives. We had to go ahead and add some remodeling to the mix just to see how much we can take.

On the very bright side, our new soon-to-be-installed kitchen faucet comes with a built-in soap dispenser. I am Over The Moon about this soap dispenser. It will solve All Life’s Problems and Bring Me Happiness. As my mother-in-law said, “It’s the little things.”

And Z, our UTSP, is a little thing. She is charming, intelligent, and has a great sense of humor. And when she isn’t demonstrating her finer qualities?

Well, I can just run into the kitchen, squirt some soap from our built-in soap dispenser, and life will seem fine just fine.

If You’re Happy and You Know It

Posted on by Beth Hull

First, two cute toddler things:

1) Z has been dancing and trying out hand motions to songs for awhile now, and I believe this is a result of a couple of different factors: the Music Together program, and the fact that I often sing to Z and recite nursery rhymes and poems instead of suffering through enjoying her scintillating conversations about whether the dogs next door are awake, asleep, eating, wearing diapers, singing, or barking.

Of course I’d like to believe a huge part of her love of music and dancing is due to a) her inherent genius-ness and b) an inheritance of my own unrealized talent for singing and dancing (I can hear family and friends laughing aloud at this. Shut up. I’m totally talented as a singer/dancer. Chicago NEEDS me, and everyone would love Cats if I were cast as Grizabella and warbled out “Memory”).

Whatever the reason for the dancing and accompanying hand movements, it’s pretty cute.

2) Another cute thing is her Entourage. This is the name I’ve given her stuffed animal friends. Not all of them are animals, though. We have Mr. Penguin, Talula (a cat), Noop (a doll), Doggie, Giraffe, Giraffe (again), Bird, and…Necrotizing Fasciitis. Necrotizing Fasciitis is a giant stuffed microbe holding a fork and knife, a joke gift from when Husband did lab work in school.

Z carries her Entourage around the house. Usually she only has three A-listers, since that’s all she can manage to carry, and she switches it up a bit (perhaps Z, too, notices that conversation can get dull when hanging out with the same person day after day after day).

The cute things are totally necessary right now, because life has not been serene or happy in my house lately. I have to steal these cute moments when they come, because at naptimes and most of the night she has been an Unholy Terror of Screaming Proportions (UTSP). The UTSP is not happy, and everyone knows it. Including the neighbors, their dogs, and the people one county over. There has been so little hand-clapping, foot-stomping, shouting-hooray fun here that I even -gasp!- considered getting a job and sending the UTSP to daycare just so I don’t have to deal with her anymore. Last night I was about to give Husband my formal resignation.

But then, she was falling asleep in her enchilada at 6:30, so we (er, Husband, that is, since I was still busy sulking) whisked her off to bed, and she didn’t wake up until 6:30 this morning. Which for Z, and by default, me, is sleeping in.

I don’t know if the sunny disposition will last, for either of us, which is why I’m going to clap my hands, stomp my feet, shout hooray, and let my face show the tiny, stolen happinesses I find.