BrooklynGirl

We Interrupt This Broadcast

More on the hosting dilemma tomorrow.  In the meantime, let me repeat the following conversation which just occurred in BrooklynGirl's non-Brooklyn home after a morning in which I had indulged The Boy in his baser pleasures of chocolate milk and a special viewing of The Jungle Book:

The Boy (sighing contentedly): You're the best mama ever.

BG: Thanks, buddy.  You're the best boy ever.

The Boy: You know what's even better?

BG:  What's that?

The Boy: Dad!

And so it goes.

Public Service Announcement

When your daughter is recovering from the stomach flu--nay, when you think she has recovered as it's been 4 full days with no vomiting and 3 full days with no diarrhea and she has been happily ingesting all sorts of BRAT foods--you may want to wait a few more days before you let her have a hot dog with dinner.

I'm just saying. 

Ugh. Also Gah.

The 18 month sleep regression has begun.  

The Girl has not been a perfect sleeper, but she's a vast improvement over The Seemingly Nocturnal Boy--especially since she got her own room.  But earlier this week I noticed that bedtime (usually some stories, a bottle, and some singing lasting 15-20 minutes) was creeping up toward 45 minutes.      

18 month sleep regression flashed in my mind's eye, but I tried to ignore it.  Not now, I pleaded.  She's only 17.5 months!  She's only been sleeping well for 2.5 of those months!  And The Boy has a cold and won't be going to school!  

Today's utterly failed nap time seemed like a further indication that things were quickly coming unglued.  And tonight's 1.5 hour bedtime battle confirmed that, indeed, we are regressing all over the place. 

I went through this with The Boy so I know that it will pass.  Good Lord, let that be soon.

Size Matters Again

We are just back from The Girl's 15 month check up at our new pediatrician's shiny and clean office.  Good Lord, I can't tell you how much nicer this doctor's office was than our one at home.  They had separate sick and well patient waiting rooms, clean toys and books, and a general air of competence.  This may be reason enough to love the suburbs.

The appointment was fine, but I was finally forced to have a real conversation about an issue I've been wanting to avoid: The Girl's size.

As I've noted before, she's big.  At 15 months, she's 33 inches and 32 lbs.  According to the pediatrician and this chart, that puts her above the 95th percentile for height and weight, but of course it's the weight that's getting the attention.  

The Boy was big too--although not quite this big--back in the days that he was a happy go lucky young toddler who would eat just about anything that I put down in front of him.  He quickly became a picky older toddler who ate almost nothing and was constantly on the move.  He lost his toddler tummy soon enough.

So, on the one hand, since I've BTDT with The Boy, I wonder if I shouldn't just give The Girl more time.  She started to walk 2 months later than The Boy and is only just now becoming truly frenzied in her physical activity.  She hasn't become a picky eater and still eats just about anything (which may be exactly the problem), but if she's anything like The Boy, that window will close soon.

But on the other hand, as a person who has struggled with her weight for most of her life (or more to the point, not really done enough about it to struggle), I want to do anything I can to help my daughter now so that she doesn't have to worry about it later.  The pediatrician suggests being more diligent about portion size, really pushing the vegetables and fruits ahead of anything else, and switching from whole milk to 2%.  None of those changes are earth shattering or particularly difficult (at least in theory), but the milk recommendation gives me pause.  This study seems to say that lower fat milk doesn't jeopardize neurological development, but I've heard the whole milk until age 2 recommendation for so long that I worry maybe I'm somehow prioritizing thinness above brain function.  Would I have worried the same way about The Girl if she was a boy?  What' next?  Giving her a talking Barbie to tell her that math is hard?

I need advice here, people.  Personal stories welcome--and I'd be especially appreciative of any resources about nutrition in toddlers (beyond Ellyn Satter whose books I'm consulting as soon as I press "Save").  

Stupid Parent Tricks

We're on our way to the playground (by way of a few errands) in the late afternoon.  The Boy has not napped (he's giving them up) and is tired  and cranky.  I peer over him in the Phil & Ted's to see if he's asleep and he reaches out and (lightly) slaps my cheek.  "Go away!"

I deliver a brief lecture on hitting that concludes, "We're not going to the playground until you apologize for hitting me."

We accomplish the rest of our errands pleasantly enough, but The Boy has still not apologized.

"Can we go to the playground now?" he asks.

"No, not until you apologize."

"Oh," he says, showing no sign of surrender.

"I guess we're not going to the playground," I say in my best imperious mom voice. He's quiet for a few minutes.

"Mama?" he says.

"Yes," I answer sweetly, already tasting the victory apology.

"What does 'apologize' mean?"

New Highs (or Lows?) in Parental Exhaustion

This morning I fell asleep while I was getting my hair cut--sitting bolt upright in a loud and crowded salon where Kate Perry's "I Kissed a Girl"* seemed to be on a constant replay and my hair guy was giving me his review of "Dark Night," which I was actually interested in hearing.

It was only a few seconds (I think), but jeez.

*Does anyone else think that Jill Sobule's "I Kissed a Girl" is a much better song or am I just showing my age?

Repercussions

When you write something like this, you worry about repercussions: what happens if, at some point in the future, your kid stumbles upon what you wrote and is driven into therapy by this evidence that there were times that you preferred to have a distance from him? 

Or, in this house, what happens a few hours later when you pick your son up at camp, and it's clear that he's enjoyed his distance as well--so much so that he throws the loudest and most impressive tantrum of his life. "I want you to stay home," he'll scream before kicking you and pushing you away.  "Go away!  I want to stay here."

Your heart will break into a million pieces in full view of his teacher and the other parents there for pick-up.  He will say other hurtful things that you've blocked out of your memory because you were too busy trying to remember how to breathe when he said them.  You will spend 45 minutes trying to coax him out of camp, and the 4 hours until his bedtime trying not to cry.

You will be too beaten down to be surprised when your daughter has a 13 month old version of the same tantrum when you pick her up from the sitter. You will feel like the worst mother in the history of mothers.  You will cite as evidence the fact that you've been counting down the days until your son started camp. 

You will be torn between wanting to make what's left of the afternoon with your son amazingly fabulous and filled with ice cream, hot dogs, water balloons, and unlimited viewings of The Wonder Pets on the one hand and a four hour marathon of room straightening and tooth brushing (his least favorite activities) on the other. 

You will mull over not sending him back to camp. 

You will start counting down the time until he goes back to camp again.

     

Friday Funnies

We're recovering from our various illnesses in these parts, but I'm too wiped out to write anything of substance.  Instead I give you this:

We've been working a little on social niceties, you know, saying excuse me when you burp or fart (which I genteelly call  "tooting").  Yesterday,  The Boy tooted quite un-genteelly while we were having a snack.  "Is there anything you want to say?" I prompted.

"Yeah, The Boy said proudly.  "A big snort just came out of my butt!"

Indeed.

*****

The Boy is enamored of the super soaker water guns that are everywhere.  He's quite pathetic about it, actually.  He follows the (invariably) older kids with the guns all over the playground and keeps asking, "Can I have a turn, pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease?" until someone takes pity on him and lets him have an all too brief turn with it (these turns have been so brief, in fact, that he hasn't really figured out how to fill or fire the guns). 

As a crunchy, liberal, gun-control sort, I'm not crazy about The Boy playing with toy guns, but I also feel like there's a certain inevitability to it.  I played with toy guns when I was growing up (whether it was my finger, a stick, or an actual plastic gun), and yet here I am my crunchy, liberal, gun-control self.

Recently, we encountered some kids whose crunchy, liberal, gun-control parents had gotten them water squirters in the shape of animals, and I hustled myself down to the toy store to acquire the same.  The Boy is mostly happy with them--until he sees the super soakers.

What are your feelings on water guns for the under 5 set?

Wit's End

The Girl recovered from her stomach virus as predicted on Wednesday, and we were an illness-free household for almost 36 hours.  Then The Boy came down with coxsackie.  I kid you not.  It presented with high fever and listlessness, and about 18 hours later the mouth sores showed up (conveniently while we were in the waiting room at the pediatrician). 

The fever has abated and the sores seem to be healing (none have appeared on his hands or feet), and the only symptom that remains is unbearable crankiness: he is the surliest, most unpleasant toddler you've ever met.   And though I'm filled with sympathy and plying him with treats to buy his happiness if only for a moment, I'm also...annoyed.   And frustrated.  And feeling just generally awful because what kind of mother has the temerity to be annoyed at her sick kid?

The pediatrician assures me that all this sickness is normal, but I feel like somehow it's my fault--that maybe I've been wrong not to hose them down with Purell at every opportunity.  Maybe I should have been more hardcore about the sleep training and they're getting sick because they're tired. Or maybe I shouldn't have pushed The Boy into school and all its germy goodness so soon.

I need everyone to be healthy for a week.  Maybe two.  Just so I can remember what it's like.

Monday

So now The Girl's got the stomach bug The Boy had last week (the one I thought she already had back in April).  If she runs the same course as he did, it's 2 days of diarrhea, followed by 4 days of lethargy and occasional diarrhea punctuated by vomiting.  We're on day 2 of the lethargy stage, looking forward to recovery on Wednesday.

Before it became clear that The Girl was sick, we left town for the weekend, but decided to return when the barfing began.  Gunning for father of the year, my husband drove us back in the driving rain on Saturday night (as soon as we could pick up New York area radio stations they were warning of flash flooding and road closures); somehow we made it.   The Father's Day celebrating has been rescheduled for some time when we are all puke free.

I did, incidentally, get the project finished on time so no discussion of children or vomiting was required.