Sunday, July 25, 2004
Nowhere in Casimirland.
P and I watched a movie the other night called Nowhere in Africa, which I would actually recommend with enthusiasm. It was about a German Jewish family who fled Nazi Germany for Africa just in time, and had to get used to living in Kenya, where there was no bockwurst or bier. Normally sad movies like these bother me ever since I jumped through the mother hoop. Apparently I didn't care about my family members enough before to cry with empathy in sad movies. But now, my brain forces me to immediately imagine little Casimir being forced to board an Auschwitz-bound train with a little tweed cap and knickers and wool socks pulled up to his knees, crying. Motherhood has wrecked me in this way. But anyway, this movie wasn't too sad, since it took place in Africa where the British imperialists were apparently nicer to fleeing white people than their German counterparts who were trying to take over the world, again.
But there was a scene early on where the woman and the young daughter were just arriving after days of travel. They were seeing the dad for the first time in months, as he had arrived earlier to get settled and find work. They drove up the dirt road in a rickety jeep and slowly approached the farmhouse that sat in the middle of nowhere. After they stopped, the woman jumped out and ran to her husband and they embraced and made out while their daughter sat alone in the jeep, the dust swirling around her. P and I both looked at each other with the same expression that clearly said, "what the fuck?!" Obviously he was also imagining little Casimir propped up in that jeep, his nose scrunched up in confusion and the dust settling on his blonde hair. And we both knew that if we were the one waiting in front of that African farm, and we hadn't seen him in months, we'd totally bypass the spouse with a nod and whip Casimir right out of the jeep with a big bear hug and joyful weepies. Sorry, honey. But besides that we liked the movie.
I am a good mother.
I totally got props today from the drugstore clerk for having shoes on my child, unlike the neglected children who had just come in the store with their bad mother. I didn't really know what to say. Yeah, I like to protect his feet now that he's walking, but what is it with shoes? My goodness. There is more to being a good mother than velcro sneakers. But thank you denim velcro sneakers, for making me look so good! At the block party we were talking to a neighbor who was watching his son who is exactly Casimir's age, and he said to his barefoot toddler, "Where are your shoes, buddy? Oh it's ok." I could be wrong, but I don't think he was really suddenly concerned with the absence of his son's shoes. I think it more likely that he was sort of preemptively defending his son's barefoot state. Because my son had the trusty velcro sneaks on. Maybe I'm projecting, but I have totally done that, exclaiming out loud about some minor, potential perceived failure that I've imposed on Casimir in public, like a berry-stained shirt, or something equally horrific. I can't imagine why I worry so much about strangers judging his appearance, though. *cough* DRUG STORE CLERK *cough*
One hip, swanky party. Everyone who's anyone was there.
The block party totally kicked the ass of any block party I ever experienced growing up. They had a bonfire and a police car and fire engine, one of those big jumping blow up castle thingies, a dj, pinata, and goodie bags. I think it will be even more fun for Casimir when he's older and can swing a pinata stick and doesn't have to actually go to bed before lots of the fun stuff goes down. But he refused to nap and was really exhausted, so miss it he did. He didn't get to dance/bounce to the dj either, but that's OK, cause I wouldn't have wanted him to hear the song "I like girls with big butts." I don't think they should have played that, being as old-fashioned as I am. Casimir also got mowed over by an older kid who turned around and started running at full speed without looking. I was right there, but couldn't stop it. He was in the line of danger because he wanted to watch the remote control car the kid had. And he got taken down. I was surprised how upset I was by the whole thing- I mean I better get used to playtime injuries. I put on my best grown up "It's OK, it was an accident" face. I didn't want to brawl with my neighbors, and the father was very gracious about it, forcing his kid to let Casimir touch the remote control car. But that kid didn't seem very sorry. And I know where he lives.
After Casimir went to bed, we sat out front with our beers, staring at the baby monitor which rested in the middle of the little table we set up, and our neighbor pointed out how totally first child that was. So, since it was an unusual occasion, Paul clipped the monitor to his pants like a walkie talkie and we ventured into the street in front of the house, to prove how unbelievably nonchalant we were. I stared at the house and front door a lot though, just to look out for any sudden flames or anything.
And I didn't have to talk to too many new neighbors, but I did get to know the ones I already know a little better. There are two families across the street who are both our age, and they have kids roughly the same age as each other. They are frequently out chatting and watching each others kids and popping in, just like in the wacky family sitcoms where everybody is best buddies with their neighbor. I don't know if they're good with the one liners or at resolving conflicts within a half hour, but they seem pretty cool. So perhaps I can join into that neighborly fraternizing more often, now that we've chatted some more, and since my own neighbor won't talk to me. I do get lonely when I'm home alone with Caz, even though he's fabulous and I totally dig Touch and Feel books and foam puzzles.
General Note to the Grandparents and General Public: His hair sticks up naturally. Yes, I cut it. But it sticks up no matter how I cut it. It sticks up even higher when it's long, so growing it out won't help. When I cut it shorter, it sticks up too. I don't style it. He didn't just wake up or have a bath. It just sticks up. And I like it that way. Please don't suggest gel.
But there was a scene early on where the woman and the young daughter were just arriving after days of travel. They were seeing the dad for the first time in months, as he had arrived earlier to get settled and find work. They drove up the dirt road in a rickety jeep and slowly approached the farmhouse that sat in the middle of nowhere. After they stopped, the woman jumped out and ran to her husband and they embraced and made out while their daughter sat alone in the jeep, the dust swirling around her. P and I both looked at each other with the same expression that clearly said, "what the fuck?!" Obviously he was also imagining little Casimir propped up in that jeep, his nose scrunched up in confusion and the dust settling on his blonde hair. And we both knew that if we were the one waiting in front of that African farm, and we hadn't seen him in months, we'd totally bypass the spouse with a nod and whip Casimir right out of the jeep with a big bear hug and joyful weepies. Sorry, honey. But besides that we liked the movie.
I am a good mother.
I totally got props today from the drugstore clerk for having shoes on my child, unlike the neglected children who had just come in the store with their bad mother. I didn't really know what to say. Yeah, I like to protect his feet now that he's walking, but what is it with shoes? My goodness. There is more to being a good mother than velcro sneakers. But thank you denim velcro sneakers, for making me look so good! At the block party we were talking to a neighbor who was watching his son who is exactly Casimir's age, and he said to his barefoot toddler, "Where are your shoes, buddy? Oh it's ok." I could be wrong, but I don't think he was really suddenly concerned with the absence of his son's shoes. I think it more likely that he was sort of preemptively defending his son's barefoot state. Because my son had the trusty velcro sneaks on. Maybe I'm projecting, but I have totally done that, exclaiming out loud about some minor, potential perceived failure that I've imposed on Casimir in public, like a berry-stained shirt, or something equally horrific. I can't imagine why I worry so much about strangers judging his appearance, though. *cough* DRUG STORE CLERK *cough*
One hip, swanky party. Everyone who's anyone was there.
The block party totally kicked the ass of any block party I ever experienced growing up. They had a bonfire and a police car and fire engine, one of those big jumping blow up castle thingies, a dj, pinata, and goodie bags. I think it will be even more fun for Casimir when he's older and can swing a pinata stick and doesn't have to actually go to bed before lots of the fun stuff goes down. But he refused to nap and was really exhausted, so miss it he did. He didn't get to dance/bounce to the dj either, but that's OK, cause I wouldn't have wanted him to hear the song "I like girls with big butts." I don't think they should have played that, being as old-fashioned as I am. Casimir also got mowed over by an older kid who turned around and started running at full speed without looking. I was right there, but couldn't stop it. He was in the line of danger because he wanted to watch the remote control car the kid had. And he got taken down. I was surprised how upset I was by the whole thing- I mean I better get used to playtime injuries. I put on my best grown up "It's OK, it was an accident" face. I didn't want to brawl with my neighbors, and the father was very gracious about it, forcing his kid to let Casimir touch the remote control car. But that kid didn't seem very sorry. And I know where he lives.
After Casimir went to bed, we sat out front with our beers, staring at the baby monitor which rested in the middle of the little table we set up, and our neighbor pointed out how totally first child that was. So, since it was an unusual occasion, Paul clipped the monitor to his pants like a walkie talkie and we ventured into the street in front of the house, to prove how unbelievably nonchalant we were. I stared at the house and front door a lot though, just to look out for any sudden flames or anything.
And I didn't have to talk to too many new neighbors, but I did get to know the ones I already know a little better. There are two families across the street who are both our age, and they have kids roughly the same age as each other. They are frequently out chatting and watching each others kids and popping in, just like in the wacky family sitcoms where everybody is best buddies with their neighbor. I don't know if they're good with the one liners or at resolving conflicts within a half hour, but they seem pretty cool. So perhaps I can join into that neighborly fraternizing more often, now that we've chatted some more, and since my own neighbor won't talk to me. I do get lonely when I'm home alone with Caz, even though he's fabulous and I totally dig Touch and Feel books and foam puzzles.
General Note to the Grandparents and General Public: His hair sticks up naturally. Yes, I cut it. But it sticks up no matter how I cut it. It sticks up even higher when it's long, so growing it out won't help. When I cut it shorter, it sticks up too. I don't style it. He didn't just wake up or have a bath. It just sticks up. And I like it that way. Please don't suggest gel.
Friday, July 23, 2004
Deedle Deedle, Dee!!!
That's Casimir's rallying cry. He shouts out Deedle Deedle Dee! and then goes charging, after the cat or down the sidewalk. Of course I think this is ever so cute, and we are enjoying weaving "deedle" into our everyday speech and our future gerbil has been named.
Another one of my favorite behaviors is the car key panic. Phones, car keys, and remotes are his most sought after toys. Screw blocks, balls, or plastic phones on wheels. He wants the fun stuff. And sometimes we just inconsistently give in and let him hold them to avoid the meltdown that would ensue when he sees them and cannot have them. We don't do this with knives or anything. He just likes to push the buttons. Accidentally calling his uncle via speed dial and changing the channel are no big deal, but the car keys can make the car beep even from the back of the house. The little "locked now!" beeps the car lets off are kind of fun for him, but the Nissan has this red panic button that he sometimes hits, which sends him running at us, holding the car keys up to us, as if to say, "help! help! fix it!" But then he wants to go right back to playing with it again. We try not to do this on early Sunday mornings.
So we've got a vacation coming up. Both of our parents were planning a Whole Entire Family get together, which ended up being planned during the same exact week. Sadly, we had to choose between the shared cabin in northern Minnesota and accompanying his family to the Polish Doctors and Lawyers convention in the Pokonos, and could not attend both. The luck we have. It was a tough decision, but I think we made the right one. We took the free vacation. So we are facing a looong drive with a budding toddler and heading up to par-tay with the loons and mosquitos. Actually, Minnesota is one of my favorite places in the summer, so I am looking forward to it. But I'm not totally keen on the place my parents have chosen in the last few years (last year our fire alarm went off in the middle of the night and the owner of the resort cared so much he said, "I don't know what to do" and went waterskiing first thing in the morning.) And then there are the family spats that I am going to just walk.away.from this year, I swear. Even the ones I start. But the Trivial Pursuit games get pretty jamming. I will give us that. I'm both looking forward to it, and feeling slightly apprehensive about it at the same time.
And my son is going to be saying the same ungrateful thing in thirty years, isn't he??
Anyway, block party tomorrow, and we've got lots of kids who aren't mine coming over. I'd like to meet more of my neighbors, and it sounds fun and well planned, but I'm sort of nervous about it. I might have to talk to one of my next door neighbors for the first time, ever. We've been so good at barely nodding these past eleven months. If any single person with an apartment downtown would like to switch places for the day and come experience a suburban-ish block party with a fire engine and a pickle toss, please let me know! Just bring a dessert! Lemon bars will do.
Another one of my favorite behaviors is the car key panic. Phones, car keys, and remotes are his most sought after toys. Screw blocks, balls, or plastic phones on wheels. He wants the fun stuff. And sometimes we just inconsistently give in and let him hold them to avoid the meltdown that would ensue when he sees them and cannot have them. We don't do this with knives or anything. He just likes to push the buttons. Accidentally calling his uncle via speed dial and changing the channel are no big deal, but the car keys can make the car beep even from the back of the house. The little "locked now!" beeps the car lets off are kind of fun for him, but the Nissan has this red panic button that he sometimes hits, which sends him running at us, holding the car keys up to us, as if to say, "help! help! fix it!" But then he wants to go right back to playing with it again. We try not to do this on early Sunday mornings.
So we've got a vacation coming up. Both of our parents were planning a Whole Entire Family get together, which ended up being planned during the same exact week. Sadly, we had to choose between the shared cabin in northern Minnesota and accompanying his family to the Polish Doctors and Lawyers convention in the Pokonos, and could not attend both. The luck we have. It was a tough decision, but I think we made the right one. We took the free vacation. So we are facing a looong drive with a budding toddler and heading up to par-tay with the loons and mosquitos. Actually, Minnesota is one of my favorite places in the summer, so I am looking forward to it. But I'm not totally keen on the place my parents have chosen in the last few years (last year our fire alarm went off in the middle of the night and the owner of the resort cared so much he said, "I don't know what to do" and went waterskiing first thing in the morning.) And then there are the family spats that I am going to just walk.away.from this year, I swear. Even the ones I start. But the Trivial Pursuit games get pretty jamming. I will give us that. I'm both looking forward to it, and feeling slightly apprehensive about it at the same time.
And my son is going to be saying the same ungrateful thing in thirty years, isn't he??
Anyway, block party tomorrow, and we've got lots of kids who aren't mine coming over. I'd like to meet more of my neighbors, and it sounds fun and well planned, but I'm sort of nervous about it. I might have to talk to one of my next door neighbors for the first time, ever. We've been so good at barely nodding these past eleven months. If any single person with an apartment downtown would like to switch places for the day and come experience a suburban-ish block party with a fire engine and a pickle toss, please let me know! Just bring a dessert! Lemon bars will do.
Sunday, July 18, 2004
Peekaboo, I See You.
I went swimsuit shopping the other night. I really needed a new one, even though I wasn't sure what kind I wanted. Well I got with the program. I conformed. I'm playing along. I got a goddamned bikini. When we got to the pool the next day I took my shirt off and saw that my nipple was peeking out nicely from it, too. It stayed back in for the duration of our kiddy pool frolicking, but I knew I wore the mom suits for a reason. The thing is, most of the one pieces I found were more low cut and exposed more bottom than the bikinis. So whatever. I'm bikinified. I'm adequately striving to reject the Mom image, as I'm supposed to. At least I fit in at the local pool now. Me and my nipple.
Everyone has to love him like I do.
I'm afraid to go back to the YMCA daycare with Casimir. It ocurred to me that maybe even the good ones might dread him as the child who cannot be set down without crying. Omigod. What if they don't love him? I thought of that one time that the woman went on about how beautiful he was when I brought him in, and then when I picked him up thirty minutes later, said tersely "He was not happy." Well. I think I know why those remaining pounds are not coming off. It's not me at all. Or the cookies. I wonder if I should take presents or cookies in or something to bribe them. If only it were closer to Christmas. Then it wouldn't be so fishy.
Hello, my name is Rant.
I read a weblog review of a parenting blog that the blogger herself posted. The review was along the lines of: Another parenting blog...blahblah...ohno not another one of those boring things...but this one was different..and this mom has a life.. blahblah blahSTUPIDFUCKINGBULLSHIT.
And here I thought I was clever, having a theme, instead of just writing another politics or random blog. I figured I didn't care if people dismissed this or me as nothing more than another sad case of being obsessed with one's child (and actually, this is all more about me dealing, than it is about him). As if every drop of my life is represented in a blog. But I guess I'm not that easy going, because I have to say, I really resent the idea that parenting blogs are seemingly considered booorrrinng at first glance by some people. As if all those other "look what happened to me today!!!!" blogs are inherently more fascinating when they don't involve children or parenting. As if the thousands and thousands of nonparenting blogs are really fresh and rare, unlike those parenting blogs, that just won't go away. I mean, two are too many, right? What is there to say? Frankly, I don't think it matters what a good writer is writing about. I enjoy lots of different blogs, including a lot of parenting blogs that move me and make me laugh out loud. And one of the things I love about the good ones is that they bust all the stereotypes of what a dedicated mom has to be, and what it's about. Not everyone thinks every topic is interesting- fair enough. But I think that comments like the one made by that reviewer have less to do with truly riveting topics and more to do with people's attitudes about parenting and mothers and women. But maybe that's because I'm one of those moms without a life.
Everyone has to love him like I do.
I'm afraid to go back to the YMCA daycare with Casimir. It ocurred to me that maybe even the good ones might dread him as the child who cannot be set down without crying. Omigod. What if they don't love him? I thought of that one time that the woman went on about how beautiful he was when I brought him in, and then when I picked him up thirty minutes later, said tersely "He was not happy." Well. I think I know why those remaining pounds are not coming off. It's not me at all. Or the cookies. I wonder if I should take presents or cookies in or something to bribe them. If only it were closer to Christmas. Then it wouldn't be so fishy.
Hello, my name is Rant.
I read a weblog review of a parenting blog that the blogger herself posted. The review was along the lines of: Another parenting blog...blahblah...ohno not another one of those boring things...but this one was different..and this mom has a life.. blahblah blahSTUPIDFUCKINGBULLSHIT.
And here I thought I was clever, having a theme, instead of just writing another politics or random blog. I figured I didn't care if people dismissed this or me as nothing more than another sad case of being obsessed with one's child (and actually, this is all more about me dealing, than it is about him). As if every drop of my life is represented in a blog. But I guess I'm not that easy going, because I have to say, I really resent the idea that parenting blogs are seemingly considered booorrrinng at first glance by some people. As if all those other "look what happened to me today!!!!" blogs are inherently more fascinating when they don't involve children or parenting. As if the thousands and thousands of nonparenting blogs are really fresh and rare, unlike those parenting blogs, that just won't go away. I mean, two are too many, right? What is there to say? Frankly, I don't think it matters what a good writer is writing about. I enjoy lots of different blogs, including a lot of parenting blogs that move me and make me laugh out loud. And one of the things I love about the good ones is that they bust all the stereotypes of what a dedicated mom has to be, and what it's about. Not everyone thinks every topic is interesting- fair enough. But I think that comments like the one made by that reviewer have less to do with truly riveting topics and more to do with people's attitudes about parenting and mothers and women. But maybe that's because I'm one of those moms without a life.
Saturday, July 17, 2004
Iced, double shot, no whip Casimir mocha.
I got to sleep in today! That means I got to sleep until 6:45 am! I'm still finishing coffee and doing breakfast dishes by 7:30 am on a Saturday, which I cannot get used to. But I noticed when I take Casimir for a walky round the block after breakfast and divert him from all the parked cars that there really are a lot of folk up and about that early, all sprinkling and gardening and walking, like little elves emerging with the dusk. I just wasn't aware of this early morning subculture all these years until I was shaken out of my lazy-ass existence. It's kind of a nice time of day. Sort of.
Talk to me.
Casimir seems to understand a lot, and will go get his bowl and plate when we say "Time for breakfast!" or fetch his red sandals when I say "Where are your shoes!?" It's very sweet and sort of doglike. But he still cannot say many words, unless you count dawdee, dawdle, gogogogo, and a whole other repertoire of utterances strung together, many of which involve slightly sticking his tongue out repeatedly with each new syllable in a way that I can't imitate even with practice. It's quite difficult to clearly enunciate dawdee while sticking the tip of your tongue out and back in again. I think it's similar to the click of the tongue the !Kung people use in their language. He just utilizes unique tongue movements, which I imagine are used for emphasis or perhaps to clarify his speech, to distinguish between direct objects and indirect objects or to signify possession, for example. It's all very complicated I'm sure, and I'm looking forward to him teaching me the nuances of it when he's in preschool.
But he does say "Ba!" while pointing at his ball, and Mama and Dada. According to the books, I get to count "ba" as an actual word, so long as I know that he knows it means ball. That's what they say, anyway. It's all very odd, this tallying up of words. This woman in Gymboree has a very well spoken one year-old who can shout out a few impressive words, and when I commented on this she mentioned that he knows 50 words. Or it may have been 15, I'm not sure. But still, how do you tally that up? Do the words like "ba" count? Do you keep a notebook open on the kitchen table and write it down each time you hear a new one? I guess I keep track, but that's because we've been stuck on Mama and Dada and dawdee for a while now. I wonder what it will be next. Hopefully not fu when he gets frustrated. I was hoping for "Thank you mother and I love you, please read me a book." But maybe that won't be for awhile.
Talk to me.
Casimir seems to understand a lot, and will go get his bowl and plate when we say "Time for breakfast!" or fetch his red sandals when I say "Where are your shoes!?" It's very sweet and sort of doglike. But he still cannot say many words, unless you count dawdee, dawdle, gogogogo, and a whole other repertoire of utterances strung together, many of which involve slightly sticking his tongue out repeatedly with each new syllable in a way that I can't imitate even with practice. It's quite difficult to clearly enunciate dawdee while sticking the tip of your tongue out and back in again. I think it's similar to the click of the tongue the !Kung people use in their language. He just utilizes unique tongue movements, which I imagine are used for emphasis or perhaps to clarify his speech, to distinguish between direct objects and indirect objects or to signify possession, for example. It's all very complicated I'm sure, and I'm looking forward to him teaching me the nuances of it when he's in preschool.
But he does say "Ba!" while pointing at his ball, and Mama and Dada. According to the books, I get to count "ba" as an actual word, so long as I know that he knows it means ball. That's what they say, anyway. It's all very odd, this tallying up of words. This woman in Gymboree has a very well spoken one year-old who can shout out a few impressive words, and when I commented on this she mentioned that he knows 50 words. Or it may have been 15, I'm not sure. But still, how do you tally that up? Do the words like "ba" count? Do you keep a notebook open on the kitchen table and write it down each time you hear a new one? I guess I keep track, but that's because we've been stuck on Mama and Dada and dawdee for a while now. I wonder what it will be next. Hopefully not fu when he gets frustrated. I was hoping for "Thank you mother and I love you, please read me a book." But maybe that won't be for awhile.
Thursday, July 08, 2004
Velcro Sneakers Can Be Strangely Soothing
I'm pretty sure that if I end up in hell, I will be faced with a stadium of high chairs. A squash bomb will be dropped, the sun will emerge from the clouds and bake it all for an hour, and I will be handed dishrags and told to get to work. And it will never end.
Moo
I think I am effectively weaning (I really hate that word, it sounds like weenie), and this generally makes me happy when I'm stirring a rum and coke or shaking up an iced coffee, but I do have some mixed feelings about it. Fourteen months is a long time to nurse, but not in the Attachment Parenting universe. So I'm trying not to feel guilty about giving up for basically selfish reasons. And while I will miss it a little bit, I really just wanted to stop. I think it's time for Oberweiss to take over. It's hard though. When he occasionally wakes in the night, they were like my two secret weapons to get him back to sleep. I almost didn't know how else to soothe him back to sleep at first, once I started to wean. I'm getting better at just rocking him to sleep, even though I'm also sort of reinforcing the pacifier habit. I think we might need some serious rehab when we wean off those in five or ten years.
It's just so darn hard to keep track.
The other day when my mom was over she commented that our jade plants should probably be moved, because they were on their way to death. They were fine until Casimir started eating them, I said.
"Casimir is eating them?" she asked.
"Yeah, he just climbs up there and chews on them."
She looked a little concerned. It took me awhile to realize I used the wrong name again. Casimir/Magnus, Baby/cat. Same thing. Not. I wish I could stop doing that. Who knows what the heck else I may have said in public wihtout realizing it.
In riveting conclusion...
Maybe all the daycare workers at the Y are not so bad, after all. I took Casimir there today for the first time in a long while. He was characteristically fussy when I departed for the awaiting stairmaster, and I returned to find him cuddled in the woman's lap watching Finding Nemo and clutching his shoes. Apparently he didn't cry as long as he was held or allowed to sit in her lap, but if she set him down on the fiery ground, he'd wail. And he had to hold on to his shoes. He clutched onto them for dear life, perhaps clinging to that last memory of the mama who abandoned him there. So it was nice of her to hold him. I mean he was the only child there at that time, so it couldn't have been too hard, but still. It kept him happy. And she let him hold onto his precious sneakers, which are supposed to go in the cubby. It reminded me of the time my parents went to Spain when I was little, and I carried around the light blue socks I wore on their day of departure until they returned, six days later. Maybe it runs in the family.
Moo
I think I am effectively weaning (I really hate that word, it sounds like weenie), and this generally makes me happy when I'm stirring a rum and coke or shaking up an iced coffee, but I do have some mixed feelings about it. Fourteen months is a long time to nurse, but not in the Attachment Parenting universe. So I'm trying not to feel guilty about giving up for basically selfish reasons. And while I will miss it a little bit, I really just wanted to stop. I think it's time for Oberweiss to take over. It's hard though. When he occasionally wakes in the night, they were like my two secret weapons to get him back to sleep. I almost didn't know how else to soothe him back to sleep at first, once I started to wean. I'm getting better at just rocking him to sleep, even though I'm also sort of reinforcing the pacifier habit. I think we might need some serious rehab when we wean off those in five or ten years.
It's just so darn hard to keep track.
The other day when my mom was over she commented that our jade plants should probably be moved, because they were on their way to death. They were fine until Casimir started eating them, I said.
"Casimir is eating them?" she asked.
"Yeah, he just climbs up there and chews on them."
She looked a little concerned. It took me awhile to realize I used the wrong name again. Casimir/Magnus, Baby/cat. Same thing. Not. I wish I could stop doing that. Who knows what the heck else I may have said in public wihtout realizing it.
In riveting conclusion...
Maybe all the daycare workers at the Y are not so bad, after all. I took Casimir there today for the first time in a long while. He was characteristically fussy when I departed for the awaiting stairmaster, and I returned to find him cuddled in the woman's lap watching Finding Nemo and clutching his shoes. Apparently he didn't cry as long as he was held or allowed to sit in her lap, but if she set him down on the fiery ground, he'd wail. And he had to hold on to his shoes. He clutched onto them for dear life, perhaps clinging to that last memory of the mama who abandoned him there. So it was nice of her to hold him. I mean he was the only child there at that time, so it couldn't have been too hard, but still. It kept him happy. And she let him hold onto his precious sneakers, which are supposed to go in the cubby. It reminded me of the time my parents went to Spain when I was little, and I carried around the light blue socks I wore on their day of departure until they returned, six days later. Maybe it runs in the family.
Monday, July 05, 2004
Why Is My Child Obsessed With Cars?
And don't tell me it's because he's a boy. He can't stop squealing when he sees one.
I took Casimir to the pool the other day, and I think we had a pretty nice time in the kiddy pool and weaving around the towels, just walking up to people to wave and stare. I didn't realize that all females age 5 to 50 wears string bikinis these days. I decided to wear this suit, which I like because it doesn't ride up anything or fall down or off when I swim. Although you don't really "swim" when holding a toddler, and I don't think I have actually been swimming in any manner since I was pregnant and floating around the YMCA pool like a sea manatee. But anyway, about the suit- I like it because I always felt it was kind of wacky rebellious in its own Victorian way, kind of fuck-your-fascist-beauty standards, you can't make me feel uncomfortable in some stupid bikini.
But now that I have a tot attached to my arm, I realized suddenly among the throngs of bronzed, bikini-clad preteens that it's no longer rebellious. It's a mom suit. And then I felt like a dork. So I decided I would wear my polka dot bikini next time. However, I almost wasn't allowed into the pool, on account of my mom suit. The crazy suit-checking lady at the door insisted that it was not a suit, it was shorts. A manager had to be called out to check that there was indeed a lining on my suit, only to find me frothing that they could not tell me that I cannot wear swimsuit shorts in that pool, there is no law requiring me to show half my butt. So I can't go back in a bikini. I have to wear my husband's suit that goes down past his knees. That's what I'll do.
The Grill is Hot.
We failed to get any kind of flag up for the 4th. We're just not good with seasonal outdoor decorations. And I guess I just don't like flags? We may as well just wave some kind of Al Quaeda flag now, though, because judging by all my neighbors neat red, white, and blue lights and flags, I don't think this is the neighborhood to forget your flag. Firecrackers were really bursting in the air around here. I guess that's what happens when you live around a lot of firemen and cops, because maybe they don't get in trouble or something. It sounded like we were being bombed, which thankfully we weren't, and I was lucky they didn't even wake Casimir up.
Anyway, fun family time on the fourth. I really like taking Casimir anywhere I can in this nice weather, because I just want to get out of the house. We played with blocks and books all winter long, so I just don't want to be inside anymore. I'm always extra vigilant around Caz when we go anywhere, because once you leave the babyproofed zone, all bets are off. He's on an invisible leash, and it's a short one. Once you're used to babyproofing, you enter another home and it's like a different world you barely recall where clutter resides, open containers of water abound, and breakables and windpipe-sized objects can exist within six feet of the floor. And he lives to explore- he is Columbus, only without all the killing and enslaving. We generally walk around and around and around and I trail him hunched over, ready to intervene, intercept, or redirect. I don't think I could get any closer or safer unless I chained him to my chest and put helmuts and smoke detectors on each of us.
Today before dinner we were seated at the patio table, which is a few feet from the grill, watching hot corn being plucked off the grate. Casimir slid down from my lap, still next to me.
"Careful the grill is hot!" I was told.
Later, we were sitting there again, and Casimir twitched a muscle, still next to me, several feet from the grill.
"Careful the grill is hot" said my father in-law.
Later P told me that the grill is hot. Okay, once I can handle. But not three (3!) times. Is this a normal courtesy, or me just being thought at idiot, because I think I've lost perspective. Wouldn't I know the grill was hot though, if corn was being taken off of it? Caz won't sit placidly, so he'd start to walk, I'd be right next to him, and I'd hear "Careful, the grill is hot..."as if the trailed words left out would say something like "and you're obviously about to let him go play with the coals, because I know how you are, woman."
The stairs are close, the door is open, the oven is hot. I was waiting for someone to let me know that that thing in the yard was a pool. And kids can drown. You can never be too careful! Maybe I'm getting oversensitive, but I feel like I live a life of perpetual warning. Should I say that I'm not old, like you, and I can cross that six inch divide between Caz and me before he gets to that screen door? That I'm OK with him taking two crawling steps on a hard patio if he is, and didn't all those kids over there break their arms while little? How? I know that a grill is hot and unsafe for children. And I also know I've never warned someone that a grill is hot. He doesn't want to stop exploring, so all I can do is occasionally pick him up and redirect him. Casimir has never been burned or scraped or broken or bent or anything, and has never had an accident in one of these baby unfriendly environments, so I must know something. And only certain people do it. I probably am paranoid at this point, but it's driving me nuts. Oh, is the grill hot? So it will hurt if I throw coals at you, then? It was enough to put me off my pineapple cake with USA spelled in blueberries. And, careful, those blueberries are chokables.
I took Casimir to the pool the other day, and I think we had a pretty nice time in the kiddy pool and weaving around the towels, just walking up to people to wave and stare. I didn't realize that all females age 5 to 50 wears string bikinis these days. I decided to wear this suit, which I like because it doesn't ride up anything or fall down or off when I swim. Although you don't really "swim" when holding a toddler, and I don't think I have actually been swimming in any manner since I was pregnant and floating around the YMCA pool like a sea manatee. But anyway, about the suit- I like it because I always felt it was kind of wacky rebellious in its own Victorian way, kind of fuck-your-fascist-beauty standards, you can't make me feel uncomfortable in some stupid bikini.
But now that I have a tot attached to my arm, I realized suddenly among the throngs of bronzed, bikini-clad preteens that it's no longer rebellious. It's a mom suit. And then I felt like a dork. So I decided I would wear my polka dot bikini next time. However, I almost wasn't allowed into the pool, on account of my mom suit. The crazy suit-checking lady at the door insisted that it was not a suit, it was shorts. A manager had to be called out to check that there was indeed a lining on my suit, only to find me frothing that they could not tell me that I cannot wear swimsuit shorts in that pool, there is no law requiring me to show half my butt. So I can't go back in a bikini. I have to wear my husband's suit that goes down past his knees. That's what I'll do.
The Grill is Hot.
We failed to get any kind of flag up for the 4th. We're just not good with seasonal outdoor decorations. And I guess I just don't like flags? We may as well just wave some kind of Al Quaeda flag now, though, because judging by all my neighbors neat red, white, and blue lights and flags, I don't think this is the neighborhood to forget your flag. Firecrackers were really bursting in the air around here. I guess that's what happens when you live around a lot of firemen and cops, because maybe they don't get in trouble or something. It sounded like we were being bombed, which thankfully we weren't, and I was lucky they didn't even wake Casimir up.
Anyway, fun family time on the fourth. I really like taking Casimir anywhere I can in this nice weather, because I just want to get out of the house. We played with blocks and books all winter long, so I just don't want to be inside anymore. I'm always extra vigilant around Caz when we go anywhere, because once you leave the babyproofed zone, all bets are off. He's on an invisible leash, and it's a short one. Once you're used to babyproofing, you enter another home and it's like a different world you barely recall where clutter resides, open containers of water abound, and breakables and windpipe-sized objects can exist within six feet of the floor. And he lives to explore- he is Columbus, only without all the killing and enslaving. We generally walk around and around and around and I trail him hunched over, ready to intervene, intercept, or redirect. I don't think I could get any closer or safer unless I chained him to my chest and put helmuts and smoke detectors on each of us.
Today before dinner we were seated at the patio table, which is a few feet from the grill, watching hot corn being plucked off the grate. Casimir slid down from my lap, still next to me.
"Careful the grill is hot!" I was told.
Later, we were sitting there again, and Casimir twitched a muscle, still next to me, several feet from the grill.
"Careful the grill is hot" said my father in-law.
Later P told me that the grill is hot. Okay, once I can handle. But not three (3!) times. Is this a normal courtesy, or me just being thought at idiot, because I think I've lost perspective. Wouldn't I know the grill was hot though, if corn was being taken off of it? Caz won't sit placidly, so he'd start to walk, I'd be right next to him, and I'd hear "Careful, the grill is hot..."as if the trailed words left out would say something like "and you're obviously about to let him go play with the coals, because I know how you are, woman."
The stairs are close, the door is open, the oven is hot. I was waiting for someone to let me know that that thing in the yard was a pool. And kids can drown. You can never be too careful! Maybe I'm getting oversensitive, but I feel like I live a life of perpetual warning. Should I say that I'm not old, like you, and I can cross that six inch divide between Caz and me before he gets to that screen door? That I'm OK with him taking two crawling steps on a hard patio if he is, and didn't all those kids over there break their arms while little? How? I know that a grill is hot and unsafe for children. And I also know I've never warned someone that a grill is hot. He doesn't want to stop exploring, so all I can do is occasionally pick him up and redirect him. Casimir has never been burned or scraped or broken or bent or anything, and has never had an accident in one of these baby unfriendly environments, so I must know something. And only certain people do it. I probably am paranoid at this point, but it's driving me nuts. Oh, is the grill hot? So it will hurt if I throw coals at you, then? It was enough to put me off my pineapple cake with USA spelled in blueberries. And, careful, those blueberries are chokables.
Thursday, July 01, 2004
Godzilla Turns 50. Come Celebrate With Us.
I saw that stated on a local movie theater marquee. I was by myself but really couldn't wait to get home and share that with P, because for some reason it just amused me. Maybe because it seems a little too somber to be talking about Godzilla? I think Come Celebrate With Us should refer to religious matters, the birth of Jesus, weddings, and the like. Not Godzilla.
I've been deliberately avoiding the internet in an attempt to actually live my life in real time, and then the first time I go a-blogging again I nearly hit "delete blog" instead of "save template settings." Evidently I am saying "shit" and other bad words more than ever, so I figured I might as well just put it in my intro. I don't even realize I'm swearing until P is making fun of my cussing and asking me to stop saying fuck and shit already. And then I'm totally infused with shame because we all know that mothers are just not supposed to swear. That's just the way it is, doggonit.
See how selfish I am?
Anyway, I mention my mom a lot here, because she comes to help out on occasion. Sometimes I think I give the impression that she is just next door, popping in every day, like in those wacky family sitcoms where the grandparents show up every day just to say hello and help with the kids. In truth I'm lucky if I can get her to squeeze me in bi-monthly. Lately she sails in around ten and then usually has to go off to the next appointment by around two or three. I don't fully get why retired people enjoy packing their schedule, but I guess she and I are just different. I think maybe staying with a baby might be a bit boring for someone who wants to go go go, which probably explains why she often takes him on those multi-hour stroller rides. And lately she has been really upping the time she spends assisting refugees, this volunteer gig she's got going on. So basically I'm competing with displaced peoples who have nothing, and I sometimes get really selfish about it. It's not like I can compete with them. So what if I'm employed, housed, clothed and fed. She likes the Sudanese family better. Why else would she choose them over me? It's not fair.
So anyway P and I were off running baby unfriendly errands today while she watched him, and we were trying to squeeze in as much as possible in our three hours. We went to this fancy gym to see if we want to join, because I'm going all neurotic mom on our YMCA's daycare. But before you could take a gym tour at this place, they have to sit you down and talk about your nutrition and fitness goals and show you diagrams. I rudely answered "How many meals a day do you eat and do you take a mutlivitamin?" with "Do you have basketball leagues for him and can we see the daycare?" Because there's something about having a sitter that feels comparable to a ticking clock that keep you moving, even when you don't have to pay them. I was a little disillusioned to find that their daycare has the dubious caregiver-child ratio of twelve to one, in which Casimir could get mowed over by a three year-old for sure. Not good. One hundred children most weekday mornings?? How could they see how wonderful and worthy of individual attention my child is in that kind of crowd?
And as it turns out, I don't think we can afford it anyway. So the whole thing was kind of depressing, because we wasted our time and we need to go back to the Ymca that has a replica of the leaning tower of Pisa in front of it instead of joining the mega fancy fitness complex. At least we got to talk about our fitness goals, though.
Sometimes I want to be 12.
In case it was annoying how I was bragging about my spouse having the summer off and how easy and breezy my life was because of this, I can atone by admitting that it's not been all wistful summer breezes and lemonades here lately. I've been getting a little stressed out, perhaps thinking we could do a bit too much on our house since we were both home. As it turns out, you can't paint the basement in a day and then go to the pool afterwards.
A couple weeks ago we were getting ice cream and I found myself actually envying the teens and tweens congregating in the ice cream shop. Because I remember what summer meant when I was thirteen. It meant sleeping in, biking to the pool with my friends, going for a slurpee at the White Hen after, having dinner made for me and perhaps being driven to a movie. Sometimes as an adult I could totally go for one of those days. I know I'm romanticizing it and it's not all Abercrombie and Fitch and laughs. I think I remember all that teen angst being hard work. But I could still go for a day at the pool and a slurpee.
I've been deliberately avoiding the internet in an attempt to actually live my life in real time, and then the first time I go a-blogging again I nearly hit "delete blog" instead of "save template settings." Evidently I am saying "shit" and other bad words more than ever, so I figured I might as well just put it in my intro. I don't even realize I'm swearing until P is making fun of my cussing and asking me to stop saying fuck and shit already. And then I'm totally infused with shame because we all know that mothers are just not supposed to swear. That's just the way it is, doggonit.
See how selfish I am?
Anyway, I mention my mom a lot here, because she comes to help out on occasion. Sometimes I think I give the impression that she is just next door, popping in every day, like in those wacky family sitcoms where the grandparents show up every day just to say hello and help with the kids. In truth I'm lucky if I can get her to squeeze me in bi-monthly. Lately she sails in around ten and then usually has to go off to the next appointment by around two or three. I don't fully get why retired people enjoy packing their schedule, but I guess she and I are just different. I think maybe staying with a baby might be a bit boring for someone who wants to go go go, which probably explains why she often takes him on those multi-hour stroller rides. And lately she has been really upping the time she spends assisting refugees, this volunteer gig she's got going on. So basically I'm competing with displaced peoples who have nothing, and I sometimes get really selfish about it. It's not like I can compete with them. So what if I'm employed, housed, clothed and fed. She likes the Sudanese family better. Why else would she choose them over me? It's not fair.
So anyway P and I were off running baby unfriendly errands today while she watched him, and we were trying to squeeze in as much as possible in our three hours. We went to this fancy gym to see if we want to join, because I'm going all neurotic mom on our YMCA's daycare. But before you could take a gym tour at this place, they have to sit you down and talk about your nutrition and fitness goals and show you diagrams. I rudely answered "How many meals a day do you eat and do you take a mutlivitamin?" with "Do you have basketball leagues for him and can we see the daycare?" Because there's something about having a sitter that feels comparable to a ticking clock that keep you moving, even when you don't have to pay them. I was a little disillusioned to find that their daycare has the dubious caregiver-child ratio of twelve to one, in which Casimir could get mowed over by a three year-old for sure. Not good. One hundred children most weekday mornings?? How could they see how wonderful and worthy of individual attention my child is in that kind of crowd?
And as it turns out, I don't think we can afford it anyway. So the whole thing was kind of depressing, because we wasted our time and we need to go back to the Ymca that has a replica of the leaning tower of Pisa in front of it instead of joining the mega fancy fitness complex. At least we got to talk about our fitness goals, though.
Sometimes I want to be 12.
In case it was annoying how I was bragging about my spouse having the summer off and how easy and breezy my life was because of this, I can atone by admitting that it's not been all wistful summer breezes and lemonades here lately. I've been getting a little stressed out, perhaps thinking we could do a bit too much on our house since we were both home. As it turns out, you can't paint the basement in a day and then go to the pool afterwards.
A couple weeks ago we were getting ice cream and I found myself actually envying the teens and tweens congregating in the ice cream shop. Because I remember what summer meant when I was thirteen. It meant sleeping in, biking to the pool with my friends, going for a slurpee at the White Hen after, having dinner made for me and perhaps being driven to a movie. Sometimes as an adult I could totally go for one of those days. I know I'm romanticizing it and it's not all Abercrombie and Fitch and laughs. I think I remember all that teen angst being hard work. But I could still go for a day at the pool and a slurpee.
