Conversations with My Son Over Abrasions

Today's guest post is from Mary of The Fish Pond, whom Michael and I had the most terrific playdate with her and her FOUR amazingly well behaved children. Enjoy!! Today Little Man was supposed to go down the street to the next row of townhouses, to his friend's house, to play, but he didn't make it there. He decided to ride his scooter instead, the scooter he isn't supposed to touch without his helmet on, and he went ass-over-teakettle onto the sidewalk. This came to my attention via the screams as he hoisted himself up and limped into the house. They weren't the typical hurt screams, more the "I'm pissed off and embarrassed and somebody better make my world right" kind of screams, so I wasn't alarmed. I brought him in, sat him down in a chair, and ran for the cold wet paper towels. He had a good case of road rash on his left knee, so we dabbed at the spot where his skin used to be, and in between his winces and twitches and howls I asked him what happened. "I was going too fast," he said, breathing out with a whoosh. "I fell like this." He does the disco hand-roll thing with his arms. "Here, let me do it." He took the paper towel and held it on his knee. "How'd you roll like that? Were you running?" "No, Mooooom, I was on my scooter." "Your scooter?! Where's your helmet?" Now I was getting pissed. "Moooom, I don't need my helmet." "We've had this discussion before. No helmet, no scooter." "Oh,I'm alright." He looks alright, so I go back to folding laundry while he sits, talking to me about a Wii game, holding the paper towel to his knee. Then he stretches a bit. "Mom, my shoulder hurts," he whines. I lean over to look at his shoulder as my brain immediately jumps to dislocation, though he wouldn't have sat there that long with a dislocated shoulder, and as I do I happen to see his elbow, also rashed up and bloody and needing cleanup. I helped him out of his shirt as he shrieked in pain. Another rash, another bloody mess, another wad of wet paper towels, this time for the back of his shoulder. No dislocation. My heartrate slows to normal. "Dude. You hit your shoulder there? You are SO LUCKY you didn't hit your head. No more scooter without the helmet." "But Mom, I'm fine." "But Mom, nothin'." I hear my mother's words come out of my mouth. "No more." I stop and thank the powers that be that someone was watching out for him today.

The Milestone

Instead of Quote Book Saturday, your post today comes from Alex Elliot from Formula Fed and Flexible Parenting. She tries not to spend too much time with her head up in the clouds. I'm not going to rain on her parade and tell her how we are doing potty training. Next year I will attain one of my biggest parenting goals. I'm so excited about it that I'm almost ready to count down the days. Perhaps I will even send out invitations. When my younger son (YS) graduates, my husband and I will be, dare I say it, carefree. No longer will we need to contemplate renting a minivan for vacations. No longer will we need a larger room when we stay in hotels. No longer will we need to pay for an extra seat on the airplane. Alright so maybe I'm exaggerating about the second to the last point and flat out lying about the last point. The big event for my family will be that we will finally be diaper free! That's right, if all goes according to plan, next summer YS will be three and out of diapers. Don't spoil the dream for me! I know plenty of kids are 3, particularly boys, and not potty trained. I can pretend, right? I mean my older son (OS) was 3 when he was potty trained. It only took a couple days and was very easy...yeah that pretty much guarantees that it will be more challenging the time around. I'll just readjust my rose tinted glasses. Seriously, I hate packing diapers to go on vacations. It's not even just the diapers, it's the wipes, the spare outfits just in case, the swimming diapers and last year the booster seat and Pack N Play. This year YS can sit at a regular table for a week (if we need to, we will put a phone book with a towel over it on the chair) so we won't need to pack it. We'll still need to bring all the diapers, overnight diapers and swim diapers. Our older son (OS), who's been potty trained for a couple years now, just needs a few pairs of underwear that can be scrunched into a ball and shoved into a suitcase or quite frankly the pocket of the passenger seat if we really wanted. Yes, I know in terms of big deals in parenting, this doesn't even register and no, I'm not really upset. However, I am looking forward to that glorious day when I can dig out my purse from the closet, dust it off, and give my diaper bag away.

Parenting in the DC 'burbs of Montgomery County means...

Today's guest post is brought to you by Jessica from A Parent in Silver Spring. She is as delightful in person and she seems in this post. We both live in Montgomery County, Md.

being lulled to sleep by the sound of trucks on 495 or 270 and telling yourself they sound like waves crashing on the beach.

you pay more for the babysitter than the tickets to see your favorite band's show in DC.

making three separate grocery trips when hosting a dinner party in order to buy wine, liquor, and food.

getting to use your native or school-learned Spanish on a daily basis.

your hometown relatives should never be told what you paid for your mid-century 3 bedroom house or 1990's townhome.

mommy politics at preschool drop-off and pickup is like a flashback to the high school lunchroom.

you weep when entering the palatial homes of friends in Missouri and Colorado.

the word "immersion" brings elusive French- and Spanish-language public school classrooms to mind, not swimming lessons.

you've been to children's birthday parties fancier than your own wedding.

your children use chopsticks at age 1; at age 2 can differentiate between the meatballs at Pho 75 and Pho 88.

the kids have enjoyed the benefits of free admission to the Smithsonian more than an entire charter bus of traveling 8th graders.

preschool admissions "counselors" show you the lists of colleges whom miniature alumni have gone on to attend, and when you laugh they make pencil marks on your kid's chart.

your liberal-hippie-vegan-free

-trade-only-product-purchasing and conservative-Evangelical-prairie-garb-wearing neighbors are both homeschooling.

you chat up moms at the playground like you used to pick up guys in bars.

your 4 year old tells you he wished you worked so he could have a cute tube-top-wearing Austrian au pair like his friend Steve. Child is immediately sent to Time Out.

you wake from a vivid dream of your old pre-SAHM job and can't figure out if it was a nightmare or a fantasy.

you've adjusted your hours to a part-time or flexible hours arrangement and can't decide whether this is a godsend or a pact with the devil.

you work in a town where women's rights are fought for on the Senate floor, yet you still have to pump your breastmilk in a supply closet.

you know exactly what times to avoid rush hour at your local park in order for your baby to get a chance at the bucket swings.

when parents talk about "summer camps" they don't mean sleep-away mountain destinations, but $500 per week daycamps that end at lunchtime and still leave you hanging for day care for 5 hours.

you have to decide between 1 week at the Outer Banks or pool membership for the entire summer when figuring out the summer extras budget.

the stay-at-home dads are the 30-and-40-something equivalent of the cutest boys in your predominantly-female English major seminar. Just like in college, you're too chicken to talk to them and they're all taken.

when planning playdate snacks, you don't just ask the other mom about peanut allergies, but clear any servings of dairy, processed sugar, gluten, soy or non-organic foods...and imbibe shots of tequila before they arrive.

family bonding means watching Sprout's Goodnight Show cuddled together on the couch, your refuge of love from the lightening fast-pace of the MoCo.

Vacation All I Ever Wanted, Vacation Have to Get Away

I am going on vacation tomorrow, for 10 days. I know I always say I am going on vacation and I'm not going to blog, and I blog, but this time I'm actually not going to blog. I'm not going to whine about how blogging is OH SO HARD and I just need a break from all the attention and glamour, but you know what, I need a break. Since I have started this blog I have noticed that I now view my life in blogging terms, can I blog this? Can I blog this? I've stopped spending time with my husband and kid and do nothing but blog and work. So, I'm actually going to take 10 days off. Which is the longest I will have gone without blogging since I started jodifur a year and a half ago. I have been a walking ball of stress lately, sending panicked emails about potty training and pissing off people I probably should refrain from pissing off. It's time to re-charge, re-connect, and figure out why I got into the blogging biz in the first place. But, don't despair. I have amazing guest bloggers lined up and please, please, please, make them comfortable and show them some love. Happy America's Birthday Party (That's what my nephew used to call July 4th.)

Slave to Marketing

I was at Target yesterday (yes, I spend a lot of time there) and wandered upon Kandoo. Toddler soap and flushable butt wipes, awesome! And I convinced Michael that this was special big boy uses the potty lizard soap. And, if he would finally poop on the potty he could use special big boy lizard butt wipes. I bought one of each, came home, and Michael was way intrigued. Except I put them in his bathroom upstairs and he used the bathroom on the main floor. And I can't be expected to carry wipes and soap to each of our four bathrooms. (Here is a question, why do I have a tiny house with four bathrooms?) Clearly, the answer is to go back to Target and buy 3 more of each. Yes, companies love me. P.S. Is that a frog or a lizard? I say frog, Michael says lizard. I don't really care, as long as Michael uses the potty. P.S.S. Kandoo is in no way affiliated with this blog, nor did they send me any products to review. I don't even know if we like them, but that is another conversation. And even I am sick of my potty training posts.

You Know You All Have Been Dying For Me To Tell This Story

Alex is hosting a blog carnival for everyone to tell their birth stories in honor of her younger son's 2nd birthday. And, since I started this blog when Michael was a year and a half, I realized I never told Michael's birth story. Hold onto your hats, because this is going to be a long one.

I had a very difficult pregnancy, and suffered through preeclampsia through most of it. I was on and off bed rest from about the 4th month of my pregnancy. After 38 weeks, my doctor really wanted to induce me. But, my ob won't induce unless you are dilated at least 1 centimeter, because she believes that is walking you into a c-section. (Not that there is anything wrong with a c-section, my doctor just felt your body had to be ready for an induction.)

For two weeks I went to the doctor every day. And every day I was not dilated. My due date was March 17th. (We called Michael in utero, baby shamrock, the Irish Jewish child.) On March 14th I went to the doctor and was told I was (finally!) dilated 1 centimeter and my induction was scheduled for tomorrow morning at 5:30 am. I went to work for a few hours, cleaned my office, and left around lunch time. I grabbed lunch and bought a book for the hospital and went home. I wasn't feeling great, my stomach was all knotted up, but I thought it was nerves. I mean, come on, who is really ready to be a mom?

Doug worked until after midnight. He was a tad paranoid about taking 2 weeks off. We had to be at the hospital at 5 am. Needless to say, we didn't get a lot of sleep. I woke up at 4 am in labor. Yes, the morning of my induction I was in labor. Stuff like that can only happen to me. I had this weird fear throughout my pregnancy that I would not know when I was in labor. Um, there was no mistaking it.

As we were driving to the hospital I turned to Doug and said we really need a boy's name. We only had a girls name, which should have guaranteed we were having a boy. (We didn't found out ahead of time.) We needed an m name to follow a Jewish tradition of using the first letter of a name to name after a deceased relative. He said Michael, I said fine, but I hate Mike, so he has to be Michael forever. I still don't like the name, but that is whole other post.

The hospital was of course overloaded, so I was shuttled off to an overflow room, not one of the gorgeous new birthing suites. Michael was essentially born in a storage closet. But, labor progressed quickly. At 10 am I was 3 centimeters and got the epidural. And 12 pm Doug mentioned he was going to go downstairs to grab something to eat and I said Doug, "get the nurse, I think I need to push." He got the nurse who looked at me like I was insane. But, she checked, and I was a fully dilated and ready to go. The doctor hadn't even changed his clothes yet.

I pushed for an hour, and I really think that was the hardest part. I was convinced I was pushing wrong. I mean, how come they never tell you how to do that. He was born at 1:04 pm. After announcing it's a boy the doctor said, and he has "golden retriever feet." And he still does.

But, there was one small problem, I thought he was dead. See, his heart rate dropped during labor and he was born with the cord around his neck, and when they put him on my stomach he was gray and didn't move. And for that split second, I thought he was dead. Now, looking back I realize that they would not have put him on my stomach if he was in fact dead, but I really honestly did not think he was alive. And I wouldn't touch him. The nurses must have thought I was the coldest person. And finally, the nurse took him away, cleaned him up, and he started to cry. And so did I.

And then, they handed him to me. And our eyes met. And the minute I saw him, I thought, of course, it was you, all along. And I couldn't believe how much he looked like his Dad.

Who Knew Being A Parent Meant Questioning Everything?

You know when you feel something in your heart of hearts, when you think something is wrong, but you just can't admit it to yourself, you are normally right. I think something is wrong with Michael. There is just something off. He hates organized activities. And by hate, I mean violently, violently hates. It started at 18 months when we enrolled him in a funfit class and has continued through music class, swimming, and soccer. He does not want to participate. He does not want to follow directions. He screams, he carries on, he makes himself such a distraction I remove him from the situation and go home, which is bad because that's what he wants in the first place. It's odd, because he is generally a good kid. He listens at home (mostly), he gets star reports from babysitters and grandparents, and at daycare. It is just organized, class like settings. Who knows what is going to happen when he starts pre school next year. Doug says I'm always trying to diagnose him with something because of my job. That he is just 3. But this is just not being 3. This started long before he was 3, and has gotten so much worse with time. I have run through a bunch of diagnoses in my head. Is he anti-social? No, he loves play group, and generally gets along with other kids. Is he oppositional defiant? No, then he wouldn't be ok at home and with others. ADD? No, he has a pretty good attention span for a 3 year old. Is there a diagnosis for hating organized activities? Is it that we live in a world of diagnosing and medicating children? That I'm looking too hard to find something wrong because somehow I don't believe that it's possible that I, jodifur, who tends to have bad luck, managed to get lucky this time? Managed to get a non-autistic, non-handicapped, "normally developing," healthy kid (knocking on so much wood right now.) Maybe I'm just over analyzing, us lawyers are taught to do that. I tend not to be a neurotic mom. (Shut out, stop laughing, it's actually true.) I don't freak out over every bump and bruise and fever and tantrum. But I feel like something is wrong, something is off. Am I doing something wrong? Am I reacting to the tantrums and that's why he does this? Is it about upsetting me or is there something more organic there? Should I bring it up to the pediatrician? Will they laugh at me and tell me to leave their office? But what if I am right? In my gut, I feel like there is something to this behavior. And I've always been a strong believer in mommy intuition.

If You Spent All Weekend Wondering How Potty Training Was Going...

You can find out here.

Quote Book Saturday HIMYM Edition

"If you are really honest about what you want out of life, life gives it to you." End of Season 2, and I, am caught up. Not that I picked D or anything. Legen-dary.

DCMM: Potty Wars

I've just spent 4 days, hunkered down in my house, waging a war.  A war that I had to win.  A war of epic proportions.

A war against diapers.

Yes, I've just spent the last 4 days potty training.  Actually, I've spent the last couple of weeks potty training, but the last 4 days have been potty training boot camp.  Not leaving the house, naked child, go to the potty every 20 minutes, potty training boot camp.

I have found potty training to be the hardest thing I have done in my little over 3 years as a parent.  At first, I didn't really care about it.  I was in the "he'll do it when he is ready camp.  And he is clearly not ready yet."  My pediatrician told me you need three things, verbal skills, sensation, and desire.  Michael clearly had the verbal skills, we didn't know if he had the sensation, but he definitely did not have the desire.

And then it became clear that if I waited for him to want to do it, he was never going to do it.  Because he simply didn't care.  It was not an issue that was important to him.  Not like Steve finding the last clue on Blue Clues, or how much milk he had to drink before he could have some juice.  But more and more, he wanted to be a big boy.  And the more I told him he wasn't a big boy until he wore underwear, the madder at me he got.  And I knew I had my strategy.  Big boy=underwear, baby=diapers.

So we went to he store and bought underwear, and a week later he started wearing them around the house.  And then to daycare.  And then 4 days of intensive nothing but going to the potty boot camp.  And some of the worst temper tantrums I have ever seen.

I wish I could say it was easy.  I tried a lot of different methods.  The timer, being naked, m & m bribes.  But really, it just took time and patience.  And being patient is not something I'm good at.

And I think we may be there.  I think we may have cleared my biggest parenting hurdle to date.  But I'm sure the next one is right around the corner.