The Suburban Life

When I gave birth to my little guy I knew he would be a “binkie” baby.  How did I know this?  Because, I have absolutely no problem with a little bit of ‘forced’ attachment.  From the get-go, I stuck that plug in Jack’s mouth at the first sign of trouble.  He’d barely manage to squeak out a “Wa-” before that artificial nipple snuffed it out.  And, fortunately, my persistance won out because I managed to turn my child into a full-on addict.  Sure, I felt a little bit of guilt at being his “pusher” but mealtimes at the local Mexican restaurant were much more peaceful for everyone. 

But, really the joke was on me.  Unbeknownst to me, while that binkie was still firmly placed in his mouth, he was also forming an attachment to an entirely different inanimate object as if he knew the binkie would be short-lived and was preparing a replacement vice.  One in which I really had no vested interest at all.

His blanket.

I had been putting Jack to bed with this particular blanket because it was, quite frankly, a sweet little white cable-knit and it matched his room.  That was it.  And little did I know that he was cuddling up to this little blanket, building a relationship that would become first and foremost the most important part of his little life.

This blanket would one day be dubbed “Baby” and would be as present in his company as a box of Cheezits are in mine.  (I’m not proud of that but thought it would put things into perspective.)

Cute, yes (the blanket, not the Cheezits, obviously).  But I’d be remiss if I left out one important fact…”Baby” has not aged very well.  What was once a gleaming white cotton has now evolved into a dingy gray.  Her tight cable-knit now a much looser version of her former self (I can so relate with this.)  Granted, she’s been through some trials and tribulations.  She’s wiped many a snotty nose, soaked up remnants of dinner on dirty little hands and has been drug through the house at times carrying an 8-pound shih-tzu on her back.   Yes, “Baby” has seen better days.  But with the love of a hopelessly devoted romantic, Jack doesn’t notice.  She’s still as beautiful to him now as she was the day they met.

Much like a lover nuzzles his beloved’s neck, Jack sniffs his “Baby” with as much unabandon.  And here’s the thing about that…”Baby” has taken on a bit of a smell over the years.  Again, Jack doesn’t notice.

“Baby” lulls Jack to sleep and eases his anxiety.  She comforts him when he’s ill and stays by his side until he’s well.  And thank goodness for that.

Jack has been sick for the past few days and has been as-of-late hunkered down in our bedroom watching Spongebob Squarepants, his “Baby” placed under his arm like a pair of sweethearts at a drive-in movie. 

I checked on him periodically to make sure that he was still, in fact, sick and hadn’t decided to take an ample opportunity to pillage my bathroom cabinets. ( Need a reminder of that fiasco?  Here.)  Most of the time he was laying down, looking at the TV with that Spongebob Squarepants-induced open-mouthed stare.

On one of my rounds I walked into the bedroom expecting to find Jack in his familiar position staring at the television and was surprised to find him gazing lovingly at “Baby” and whispering what sounded to be “sweet nothings” in her ear.

“You know what, Baby?  I wuv you.  I do.  You know how much?”

Baby looked at him expectantly.

“I wuv you very much.  My favorite Baby.”

Awww…Baby is happy.

“And guess what, Baby?  You don’t stink.  I fink you smell real good.”  And then Jack proceeded to dive in for what must have been the 472nd sniff of the day.

What I witnessed here folks was an intimate moment between Jack and his First Love.  I should have guessed that his relationship with “Baby” would lead up to this moment but I don’t think a mother is ever truly ready to accept that she has some worthy competition.   It’s obvious that Jack prefers the bedraggled look and slightly funky smell and I am just too clean and Dove fresh for his taste.

Do I begrudge Jack his “special” relationship?  Nah.  That blanket has worked wonders at easing a fit and lulling an active child to sleep.  But, do I worry about that inevitable day when “Baby” goes missing and Jack loses the love of his life?  God, yes.

Happy Monday,

Mindy

I made an interesting discovery a few days ago.  I detected a weakness, saw a challenge and then experienced a moment of resigned understanding. 

Allow me to explain…

This weekend I sat chatting with some other first-grade moms during Avery’s basketball game (by the way, still waiting for a basket…at her current rate of skillbuilding Avery should be primed to score her first “2 points” by about the fifth grade.  She’s a pretty cute little defender, though.) 

As usual, we were discussing our kids and comparing notes.  “Oh, Suzy has been counting by tens for months now.”  “Sally has already been invited to twelve birthday parties since the beginning of the school year.”  “What…is Avery the only one to have earned the nickname ’skanky mini-skirt wearer’ in the first grade?”  Yeah, I’m obviously over that.  And for the sake of anonymity “Suzy” and “Sally” are not their real names.  Given the growing trend for saddling your kids with originality I probably couldn’t spell their real names anyway.

Somehow our conversation veered towards “Firsts.”  As I listened to Suzy and Sally’s moms recount first teeth, steps, haircuts and poops I began to panic as I couldn’t for the life of me remember any dates.  Not a single one. 

“How about Avery?” Suzy’s mom asked.  “Was she an early walker?”

Umm…umm…er.  And then suddenly my mouth began spinning this little tale, spewing out fabricated discourse.  “Actually, she took her very first steps on her first birthday.” (Not really.)  “She saw a shiny little present in my hand and beat feet over to grab it. Shocked us all.  So, so cute.”  (Gawd…can these women tell I’m lying?  Are my hands shaking?)

The moms smiled and nodded their heads.  “Actually, that seems to happen a lot.  I’ve heard that same story quite a few times.”

Yeah, because other dialed-out moms like me fail to remember these milestones and therefore find themselves reinventing history.

And, as you can imagine, I had all sorts of cute little stories about Avery’s teeth, haircuts and first little poop.  Fortunately, Jack’s bowel history is recent enough I had actual facts for that story.

Later that night, after I had darted out of the gymnasium, paranoid that I would be branded with a scarlet L or grow a giant nose, I confessed to Jer that I have apparently blocked out the past and have unfortunately picked up a gift for lying.

“Mindy, you didn’t block out the past, and you’ve always been a good liar,” Jer said.

“Um, obviously I did block some stuff out, Jer.  I can’t remember a single dang date.  Those women were sitting there throwing out all kinds of dates about their four kids and I can’t pull out a single detail about my two kids.  That’s not normal, Jer.  And, thanks by the way.  You sure know how to flatter a girl.”

“Yeah, it’s called a bad memory.  I have one too.  If someone were to offer me a million dollars to tell them when Avery lost her first tooth I couldn’t pull that date out of my butt for nothing,” Jer said.

“Nice, Jer.  Try not to use the words “Avery” and “butt” in the same sentence, next time, please.  But I get your point.  Something is definitely wrong with us.  We need to start doing Sudoku puzzles,” I explained.  “We need help.”

“Okay, that wasn’t my point.  Add ‘obtuse’ to your list of skills.  Mindy, did it ever occur to you why those moms remembered those dates?”

“Because they’re better moms than I am, obviously.”  Thanks for the reminder there, hon.

“How do you know they weren’t making stuff up?”

Wait a minute. 

Nah.

Could it be?

Could these moms have been reinventing history themselves?

“Hmmm…now that you mention it, that is a distinct possibility,” I said.

“See?” 

“Alright, but just in case let’s bring out the crosswords.  I plan on being armed and ready for the next basketball game.”

So, how about you?  Do you have a mind like a steel trap or do you tend to reinvent history a little bit?

My conclusion is this:  while exact dates and times are nice and can be handy, the real magic is in the memory itself.  Do I remember where the milestones hit on the calendar?  No.  But do I distinctly remember the feeling I had watching my little girl teeter her way to a first step?  Most definitely. 

Mindy

Shhh.  Can you hear that?  Yep, you got it.  It’s the angels singing, rejoicing a true miracle here on Earth.  And if you listen real closely you’ll hear a whimsical tinkling, porcelain music to my soul.  The sound of my son not peeing his pants. 

Hallelujah!

I feel like this moment has been a long time coming.  Potty-training is certainly not for the faint of heart.  And, sure, we’ve done this before with Avery (now a 7 year-old) but I can attest that it was a much easier process.

“Avery, stop peeing in your diaper.”

“Okay, mommy.”  End of story.

But Jack, oh Jack, has been an entirely different storyline. 

“Jack, stop peeing in your diaper.”

“What diaper?”

“The one you’re wearing…and peeing in.”

“I not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Nope.”

“Jack…”

“Mommy, I pooped.  Change my diaper.”

We’ve endured countless moments of helplessness watching these encounters, just like the one described above, occur. 

And Jack has been one stubborn little muchacho.  You might remember, if you’ve been reading my blog for awhile (in which case, thank you) we’ve had some very specific trials and tribulations around building this dude a more familiar relationship with the ‘john’.   Quite plainly, he’s been a giant pain in the rear. 

Peeing in the toilet was a whiz (pun fully intended).  Jack discovered quickly that he quite enjoyed letting himself hanging out ‘n about freely.  But, as I explained in this post the other part of the training was not so successful.  To be frank, the kid flat refused to poop in the toilet.  And I was exhausted trying.

So, for the sake of what little sanity hasn’t yet been sapped from my intellect, I stopped for a little while.  Until this happened.  Oh, but I was something mad.  The sheer cheekiness of this kid motivated me to hit the training with an entirely new strategy.  Force him.   Jack spent so much time sitting on that pot his buns cheeks took on a semi-permanent oval indentation.   

And, with a little resilience, we hit payload (hehehe…load).  It finally worked!  Which prompted me to post this.   And man was I in heaven.  Somehow I had convinced myself that Jack’s sudden success was a giant indicator of our future in blissful toilet-directed expelling of bodily fluids and other matter. 

I was wrong.  Which prompted me to post this.  And man, was I no longer in heaven.  Like a slap in the face, I was reminded how so much of life is out of my control.  Bummer.  (It would be a whole lot easier if I had control over everything that happened in this house…easier and more fun.  Well, at least more clean.  And sanitary.)

But today, folks, I m back with yet another potty-training post.  This time, though, my news is optimistic yet realistic.  The kid is done.  He’s toilet trained.  Officially.  Jack’s been accident-free for a good two weeks and has apparently discovered the benefits of toilet freedom. 

Thank the Lord.

I’m hoping that this will not ultimately be a post in vain.  I’m hoping that Jack will continue with this bout of independence (well, as independent as being wiped on a daily basis could be) but we are all estatic that he seems to be moving (bowel moving, that is) in the right direction.  I fully assume and expect that he will have setbacks.  He may even purposely decide he prefers the diaper to the commode (at which point I’ll explain to him that he’s wrong.)   But, we’re on our way.

And the landfill couldn’t be happier.

(End note – in the interest of full disclosure, as I am finishing up this post, Jack has peed his pants.  Lovely.  But, in the infamous words of  Scarlett O’Hara, “After all…tomorrow is another day.”  Let’s just hope it’s not a wet one.)

Mindy

Wow.  Today my little missy turns 7 years old.  It’s bittersweet and excitement all wrapped up into one sweet little birthday package.  I recognize that Avery is only one day older than she was yesterday but today feels very different. 

You always hear the cliche, “I swear it was just yesterday that…”  Honestly, I wouldn’t necessarily say that.  I am fully aware of each and every day that have passed to get us to this birthday but my heart aches that 7 years can go by so swiftly.  

On February 9, 2003 Avery was born at 6 lbs 6 oz after a Pitocin-induced labor, having  been diagnosed with Failure to Thrive.  As the doctor gently set her on my stomach I was startled to discover that she was blue.  The doctor quickly whisked her away for treatment.  Undoubtedly, one of the scariest moments of my life.  No mother wants to see worry written on the faces of doctors and nurses as they try to revive a failing respiratory system.  But, with the glory of God, she recovered fairly quickly and within minutes was placed back into my arms, where she belonged.

I was instantly in love with the tiny little bundle.  I have to admit, though, she made it very easy.

Avery was an extremely patient baby who loved sleep as much as she loved her mommy.  In fact, we passed many an afternoon in splendid slumber together.  She rarely fussed but rather spent most of her time taking in her surroundings, with a smile that radiated from within.  She was a beautiful baby who knew how to be loved and show love.

Avery’s personality presented itself early on and in seven years has changed very little.  From infancy, she blossomed into a sweet and kind toddler with a zest for life and a hug for anyone with whom she came in contact.  

This optimistic outlook extended on through her Preschool years and into Kindergarten where she fully realized the benefits of life outside of her home.  And I missed her.  The day Avery stepped on that school bus it became glaringly obvious to me that she provided me with her own special recipe of sunshine even on the rainiest of days. 

Present-day Avery, the 7 year-old, is very much the same.  She’s still a beautifully kind person who believes in the good in people.  As loving as she can be stoic, Avery wears her heart on her sleeve.  I can only hope that I do this sensitive child justice by raising her to never lose her belief in the power of kindness.

As I reflect on all the years gone by, I always thought that the love a mother has for her child is unchanging, as constant as the pull of the sea. 

But I was wrong.  My love for Avery has changed.  It’s morphed into something I never knew I was capable of feeling.  As an infant, I loved Avery for what she represented, the physical proof of a commitment made between her dad and I.  But now?  I love Avery for who she is, which in reality, is so much more gratifying. 

Avery is truly a good person.  And for that I could not be any more proud.  She’s the light in the darkness, the peace in a riot and she’s the flower in a field of wields.  Avery is my angel on Earth. 

Simply put, Avery is something special.

Happy Birthday my sweetness! 

Mom

I had an interesting thing happen today which caused my baser instinct to come roaring through my otherwise gentile personality.  Ahem.  What? 

My daughter, Avery, is in the first grade and attends public school.  Every morning I pick out her clothes because if her daily ensemble were up to her she’d probably wear her ripped jeans and skip the shirt altogether.  That child is one Busch Light away from full-on Redneck.  To Avery, a shirt is strictly something you should only have to wear when in public.  Otherwise, it’s just in the way.  This theory works for you when your chest indents.  However, about two minutes after puberty sets in it’s not such an easy look to pull off.  Realistically, I see full-time shirts in her not-so distant future.

This morning I woke Avery up and set out a jean skirt and a white long sleeve shirt to layer under her red school t-shirt.  Now, my girl does like to, what she considers “dress up”, in a jean skirt.  She struts her stuff around the house, kicking up her heels like a rodeo princess.  This morning was no exception.  She looked very ’schoolgirl’ with her white tennis shoes and bobby socks. 

I sent her off to school without a second thought and began my day of singularly saving Jack’s life a bare minimum of 40 different times.  That kid is some kind of crazy.  His trick du’jour this morning was to launch himself off the coffee table a’la Evil Knievel but without the fancy pantsuit and helmet. 

Right after lunch (a nutritious Nutella and Goldfish cracker sandwich – Jack’s concoction, not mine) I got a phone call.

“Hello?” I answered.

“Mindy?  Hi, it’s *so and so* from the school.  Avery is wearing an adorable little mini skirt at school today and we’re a bit concerned that it’s a little too short.  Might you be able to drop by something new for her to wear?”

What?!?  Okay, I distinctly remember dressing that child and I’m pretty sure she was not wearing a tiny little mini skirt.  In fact, if my memory serves, she was wearing a jean skirt which fell approximately 1 1/2 inches above her knee.

Scandalous!

Folks, some internal force came growling out of me.

So, I respond, “Hmm. That’s interesting.  Her skirt looked perfectly fine this morning.  I’m not sure what changed, but I’ll be right there.”  Click.

Okay, so here’s the part where I prove how mature I am…

“JEREMY!!!” I scream as I go stomping down the hallway toward Avery’s bedroom.

“What?” he yells back.

“The school thinks Avery dresses like a whore.”  Well, that got his attention.

“What are you talking about?” he asks as he charges out of our bedroom.

“They just called and want me to bring Avery something new to wear.  Apparently her skirt is way too short so I need to bring her some pants or something,” I growl as I start tossing things out of her drawers.

“I don’t get it.  Why would you dress her in such a short skirt?”

“Um, I didn’t Jer.  It was absolutely fine.  Obviously, unbeknownst to us, Avery has been transferred from public school to Quaker school.”

“Well, that’s just great,” he adds.

“Uh, yah.”

I drove to the school in a fury and approached the office doors willing myself to settle down a little bit and deal with the situation in a calm and collected manner.  I’m pretty sure my look said it all as I walked through the doors.  The school secretary smiled at me, immediately sensing that I was in no mood to talk and called Avery down from her classroom.  As she walked towards me I recognized, as I already had that morning, that her skirt was absolutely fine.  She could have practically fit in as a member of the Duggar clan with that skirt.  She looked properly innocent and young.  Not a harlot in sight.

We switched out her skirt for a (long) pair of bootcut pants and I sent her off to class, me still bristling a bit and her completely oblivious to there ever having been a problem.  Like it’s absolutely common for a kid to switch outfits halfway through the day.  That’s so Avery.

I learned something about myself today.  I learned that I really don’t appreciate having my judgment questioned.  I learned that sometimes saying nothing speaks volumes.  I learned that when it comes to my kids I have a very low tolerance for nonsense and I learned that Avery’s school has a ridiculously low tolerance for jean skirts.  (I also learned that anger triggers for me an insatiable craving for Otis Spunkmeyer cookies.  Thank you cookie dough fundraisers for accomodating me.) 

But most importantly, I’ve learned that my ‘Mama Bear’ instinct is alive and kicking.  And although, ultimately, today was not that day, when I do choose to unleash the beast she will be ready and willing. 

Keepin’ it real on Friday,

Mindy