Non-Maternal Instincts

Another blast from my past (Nov, 2008). Instead of writing, I'm sprawled out on the couch, sippin' on Diet Coke and munchin' on Cheetos. {in my dreams}

Because week-old leftovers for lunch is better than no lunch at all.

When I found out that I was pregnant with my son, I was in utter denial. We were not expecting to get pregnant, not trying to get pregnant, and in fact, we were trying not to get pregnant. But I have learned that absentmindedness plus carelessness equals baby, and ready or not, baby was on his way.

So to be ready, I became a slave to Google. I joined every parent preparing webscription in addition to tracking the growth and development of my microscopic bambino via baby planning websites. And while I read endlessly about what to expect, eight months into parenthood, I am still far from prepared to be a parent. And I now realize that reading and researching are hardly enough as I failed to learn one important life-changing element about motherhood: cold lunch.

Yes, folks, that is my new reality: cold lunch. And by lunch, I mean any food consumption that occurs between ten in the morning and four in the afternoon, because as parenting will have it, lunch is never a scheduled or guaranteed event. It might consist of Mexican leftovers out of a Styrofoam container, or a frozen TV dinner that has occupied the far back corner of our pathetic freezer, or remnants of finger foods that are sitting on my son’s Bumbo tray.

But as each day is a new day, I wake up enthusiastically and optimistically pronouncing “today I am going to make myself lunch!”

Let me share with you what lunch is like on those rare days that I actually attempt to fix it.

Pull out ingredients for grilled ham-and-cheese sandwich. Baby starts fussing. Sing Hokey Pokey while clamoring around in the kitchen looking for frying pan and spatula (the former is in dishwasher – dirty, the latter is in the sink from my husband’s attempt at breakfast – also dirty). Baby now fussing loudly. Sing louder in the hopes that baby will be so shocked at my obnoxiously loud and out-of-pitch vocals that he’ll stop fussing. Temporarily abort lunch mission. Tend to fussy baby.

Return to kitchen to prepare and cook sandwich. Phone rings. Answer phone (why did I answer the phone?). Realize sandwich is burning, cuss while speaking to very important person on other end of the phone, drop phone because now I’m flustered, and realize baby is now wailing. Wrap up phone conversation. Tend to fussy baby. Back to kitchen after baby settles. Flip and cook non-burnt side of sandwich. Baby fusses, again. This time turn off burner as to not burn other side of sandwich. Grab baby, and back to kitchen with baby in tow. Realize not good idea to fry sandwich while baby reaches toward hot stove. Decide to abort cooking and eat half-burnt-half-uncooked sandwich as is.

Sit down (if I’m lucky) to eat sandwich. Baby spits up. Back to kitchen for dishcloth to clean baby. Pour self glass of Diet Coke while in kitchen. Back to table to eat sandwich. Baby knocks over drink. Back to kitchen for dishtowel to clean up spill. Back to sandwich. First bite – crispy, smoky, room temperature, and undercooked. Say to-hell-with-it and back to kitchen for no fail meal – potato chips.

And I only have one child.

Dear Lord of all things good and yummy,

Let’s be honest. I don’t need a hot ham-and-cheese sandwich. I’ve got plenty of meat on my bones to survive two weeks stranded atop a snow-covered mountain (thank you very much). I’m merely adjusting to a slight misconception that I had before the birth of this roly-poly lunch-delayer. See, I thought that I would be enjoying delicious and nutritious lunches that I prepared fresh and promptly at noon while baby is quietly nuzzled in his crib allowing me time to sit in my neat and tidy house while reading one of my devotionals highlighting scriptures relating to peace, serenity, and blissful mommyhood. Somehow lunchtime at my house doesn’t look quite like that (assuming a time for lunch presents itself at all). But I am patient, Lord. I don’t have to eat promptly at noon. I could easily wait until two or even three, if that is a more optimal time for fresh cooked pasta and grilled asparagus. And until we work out this cold-lunch dilemma, I thank you for preservatives and all things pre-packaged, especially those found in aisle eight (better known as the candy aisle).

Non-Maternal Instincts

I planned, executed, and celebrated my little man's first birthday. And now I recover. So here's another post from the archives (Oct, 2008). Don't hate me for being lazy.

Yes ma'am, that is corn in my eyebrow.

My little man is eating now, and I mean really eating. Not just sucking or drinking or slurping from a bottle (or boob). No, he is EATING. Eating crackers, puffs, yogurt, fruit, cereal, rice, pasta, veggies, mashed stuff, pureed stuff, chopped stuff, cold stuff, warm stuff, not-quite-hot stuff, and his favorite – nearly-frozen stuff.

Combine that with two fat teeth poking out of his once soft gums resulting in a never-ending string of drool hanging from his lip, and ladies and gentlemen, we have ourselves a HOT MESS.

Cute, right? Yeah, it was cute, for a second, maybe. Now it’s a nightmare. And my sweet-and-tender, “oh look at the cute baby” mommy voice has turned into a constant drone of, “oh look, more green crusty crud in his hair, and in his ear, and between his toes, and oh look, my couch has speckled cracker crust splattered across it.” I’m covering the house in vinyl.

But the part that really irks me, I mean just takes me to a whole new level of mommy’s-gone-cuckoo, is that my son is not the only one layered in meal bits. Naturally a six-month-old cannot feed himself. No, mommy must feed baby. And baby reaches out and tries to grab mommy with baby’s mushy-crumb-encrusted fingers.


I kid you not, I disrobe every night only to find dried up sweet potatoes and vanilla wafers stuck underneath my bra and in my socks. Only God knows how this baby-food-in-the-undergarments phenomenon occurs, but it never fails that my son manages to cover me and all my 2000 parts in regurgitated snacks (isn’t it the mamma bird that is supposed to do the regurgitating?)

It’s one thing that mommyhood has caused me to revert to wearing elastic-waisted cotton sweatpants and wrinkle-free t-shirts, but must I look schlumpy and dirty? Honestly, on those rare occasions that I manage to leave this pigsty and enter civilization, people must wonder if I wash dishes for a living. Except a dishwasher is probably wearing an apron (good idea) and manages to wash, not soil, themselves.

I, on the other hand, am a walking dog biscuit, and it is a miracle that I have not been eaten alive. But then maybe the remnants of my son’s dinner are even too dingy for the appetite of a stray dog or sewer-dwelling rodent.

Dear God of all things pure and clean,

Why did you decide that babies should first learn to crawl, walk, and talk before they learn to properly feed themselves? I wonder if you realized that those things could come second to a clean and tidy meal experience. And in case you are still contemplating that decision, maybe you could rewire things so that my future children (if I dare) learn to carefully and meticulously feed themselves shortly after, let’s say, month six.

Or, maybe we could work something out similar to what goes on in my oven when it gets all yucky and crusty. Shut the hatch, lock ‘er up, and self-clean she goes! Babies can be self-cleaning, can’t they? My dog is (and thank you very much for that, by the way).

But in the meantime, help me to scrounge up the last particles of my patience so that next time my son flings mushy carrots across the room and it lands in my over-priced-shampooed hair, I grin and say, “eating is fun, isn’t it baby!” rather than beckoning the dog in hopes that he'll clean my son with his coarse yet effective dog tongue.

Non-Maternal Instincts

Between life, selling a condo, life, planning a boy's first birthday part, life, chasing after a small child, and life, I have failed miserably at writing a creative and fresh tale about my mothering woes. Instead, I am republishing a post from October, 2008.

Do forgive me.

The curse of the toy

So there's this toy.

To protect the not-so-innocent manufacturer, I will refrain from disclosing the make and model of this toy, but know this, said manufacturer is no small fry.

So this toy. My son loves this toy. It's colorful, it lights up, it has a mirror, it has gadgets, it has gizmos, and well, he absolutely loves it. So you would think that I would also love it, right?

 

WRONG. 

This toy's gimmick is that it teaches kids the lyrics to songs - you know the songs I'm talking about - those gotta-love-childhood-with-goofy-lyrics-and-over-the-top-hand-motions songs. This toy has two volume settings: ear-deafening and imax-theater-blow-out-your-ear-drums.

And did I mention that my son loves this toy. I want to like this toy. It's the perfect babysitter toy. I sat my son in front of this toy yesterday and almost saved the world, that's how productive I was. But when I reviewed the proposal that I wrote while my son was near-seizing in front of loud, happy, light-up toy, I realized how distracted I actually was (grammatical horrors and misspellings galore). Oh for the love of my son's hearing and my work-at-home productivity (I pretend that I work from home, but this is mostly a joke). Why must these toys be so loud and obnoxious?

So here is my question to the manufacturer: you make toys for children, I get it, but who do you think purchases these toys? Not my 6-month-old, that's for sure. We parents have enough noise and chaos in our lives, why not make a toy that puts my child to sleep for the afternoon so that I can kick my feet up and watch reruns of Murder She Wrote put the finishing touches on the roast and potatoes & vacuum thoroughly underneath my spotless furniture (because what mom doesn't do that in her free time - Ha!).

But until I turn into a complete non-maternal git, I'll succumb to plopping little man in front of this regrettable purchase while refraining from ever again using Q-tips in the hopes that I build-up a permanent earwax plug.

Dear God (who made my son's precious little ears),

Whaddya think of me teaming up with one of these big-wig toy makers and creating a line of toys that is kid AND parent friendly? Like a toy ball that houses a hidden compartment perfect for containing mom's special juice and a couple of ice cubes - baby shakes the ball (what fun!), and voila, momma's gotta herself a happy surprise (don't worry, God, I'm a one-drink-only-kind-of-gal). I am very much afraid that these toys are going to take my sanity and roll it right down the driveway. Which reminds me, thank you for back-up sensors. Without them, someone might just smash my sanity into smithereens, and you and I both know, I desperately need my sanity. Lord, I want the best for my son, I really do. But I need to find a better alternative to this toy situation before I accidentally drop said toy from our balcony and endanger all its cute little, shiny plastic parts. Please help.

Non-Maternal Instincts

When in doubt, blame Star Wars.

At our son's 6-month appointment, the pediatrician informed us that our son would soon begin demonstrating a new emotion: frustration.

Surely not my baby? We have the perfect baby. Seriously, perfect.

In fact, I often down-played my son's perfection so as not to make other moms jealous. But the reality was that my son slept through the night at an early age, he was never colicky, he hardly fussed unless obviously tired or hungry, and he was content in most all situations. So when my his 9-month appointment rolled around and still his 'frustrated' ego had not emerged, I thought, "yep, that's my baby - Perfect!"

Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.

However wrong I was.

Yes, my baby is still perfect.

Perfectly FRUSTRATED!

Somewhere between months ten and eleven it was as if, out of nowhere, a mini demon emerged. Don't get me wrong, my son is still the joy of my heart (if you follow this blog, you know how delightfully darling he is). But there is a side of him that would make anyone, even the Dalai Lama, turn inside-out.

Here are just a few of my son's triggers:

• When his push-toy truck hits a wall or piece of furniture and can no longer push forward anymore, my son absolutely loses it.

• When he crawls inside the buffet table and then finds himself stuck because that's what curious boys do, he turns blood-red and smoke begins pouring out of his nostrils.

• When he discovers a favorite toy in his toy box but simply can't seem to reach it, he begins sweating and making screeching noises that only the dog can translate.

• When the food just can't reach his mouth fast enough (because my hand attached to the spoon can only move so quick), he tenses his head in such a way that even his ears begin to wiggle.

Ahh, yes, my precious son.

Not even a year-old, and already he has discovered the dark side (I blame his father's obsession with Star Wars).

Dear Lord, 

What is a mother to do? I can help him change the direction of his truck, or rescue him from the buffet table, or make his coveted toy more accessible, or switch to bionic feed-speed during lunch, but at one point do I let the little guy simply work it out for himself? 

And what's worse is when he begins his fit of rage and realizes that I am not going to rescue him, he gives me such a pitiful look of confusion.

Even worse, at times he gives me a look of defeat.

Oh, how it breaks a mother's heart. And the worst part is, people tell me that two will be worse and three is the new two, so I suppose I'm doomed. 

But until I figure out what to do with my roid-ragin' baby (An exorcism? I'll do anything!), I'm banning all Star Wars movies and Pink Floyd albums from this house.

Amen.

 

 

Golf is dumb. And I'm always right.

Why do men watch golf?

Honestly, why?

On Saturday, my husband, remote in hand, surfed the channels and excitedly landed on golf. G-O-L-F. Which, by the way, is basically fluorescent green grass, fancy houses, and preppy clothes. And that equates to overpriced lawn care, obnoxious square footage, and dorky attire. That's right. I'd much rather watch a sport that results in sweat on the court or blood on the field with fans dressed in baggy jerseys while scarfing down hot dogs. That's my kind of sport!

And golf is so, well, boring. Admit it. It's BORING. Quiet British guy gives the play-by-play which is actually one play - a swing. That's it. No steals or facemasks or shoves or fouls. Nope. Just one swing, an untraceable ball, and a minuscule hole. BORING!

And absolutely NO yelling. NO screaming. NO cussing. And worst of all, NO clapping. You can delicately pat while watching golf, but don't even think about puttin' on your game face, poundin' your fists together, and knockin' out the guy next to you because you're swinging your arms so wildly. Okay, so in the off chance that Mr. Tighty Whitey (because you know these guys aren't wearing boxers) actually gets the ball in or near the hole, the 'gallery' (whatever that is) does get a bit riled up. But then it's back to hushing, shhshing, and whispering. LAME.

And to prove my point (because I'm always right) this is what happened on Saturday after golf had been on for maybe five minutes:

Yep. Snorin' and all.

Funny thing is, I didn't mind it one bit. Sure, the honey-do list wasn't getting any shorter, but how can I be upset about something so peaceful? Ahh, God does answer prayers!

So maybe this week's non-maternal post is anything but non-maternal - oh well, I couldn't resist sharing this with you:

Plus, I like proving my point. Just another opportunity for me to say, "Hey, honey, I'm always right. Golf is dumb."Oh, and if my son ever asks to play one of those sweat-on-the-court or blood-on-the-field sports, I'll surely say, "no, baby, but you can play golf." Because what mother, in her right mind, would want her baby to get hurt?

 

Non-Maternal Instincts

Forget to bathe the baby? Have I got a solution for you! Though necessary, babies and baths don't always click.

For instance, until an infant's u-cord falls off, parents are recommended to sponge bathe the belly, keeping the button as dry as possible. There is a cleaning regime that is encouraged, but soaking the baby in water is a big, fat no-no.

So basically baby comes out of mommy's super gooey insides (I know, nice visual), and until baby loses his crusty dead-skin attachment, baby can't be fully bathed. {Anyone hungry for jello salad?}

And any mother of an infant boy who has been, uh, well, you know, "trimmed," knows that cleansing 'down there' requires special attention until the little guy's little guy heals properly.

And when it's finally kosher (pun intended) to give sweet, little, vomity, poopy baby a real bath, it's usually in an enclosed 'baby tub' lined with a net or mesh attachment allowing baby to feel snug and secure. But the problem is that sometimes nature calls when baby is swaddled in mesh, so if you can imagine seedy, grainy, mustard-colored paste draining through a sifter, well, it's not a very sanitary way to clean God's most precious miracle (seedy, grainy, mustardy? Yep, that's newborn poop. Kind of looks like spicy dijon. Another one of God's twisted jokes, I'm sure).

And then baby grows up, and bathtime becomes fun for baby, but not-so-much for mommy. Like the time my son began playing with a squishy, cylinder toy that I could not quite identify until I realized he pooped in the tub and was playing with his own stool. That was a special moment. We really bonded that day. I cussed a lot, but we bonded nonetheless.

Or the first time my son discovered splashing and left the tub completely empty of water and the bathroom completely flooded.

And the time I had nakey baby ready to go, waiting for the tub to fill, and seconds before I set him in, he peed all over the bathroom rug.

So while my son now LOVES the bath (actually, he always has), it hasn't always been the most enjoyable experience for me.

And that is where our four-legged pal comes in. See, in the wild, mothers bathe their young. Not with a bathtub, sponge and faucet, but with saliva and tongue. But if you think I'm going to lick up all the funk that is stuck to my son by the end of the day, you must have misread the title of this meme. This is non-maternal instincts! Meaning there ain't nothin' maternal about my actions. Heck. No. I am NOT licking up anyone's funk, not even my own.

But our dog, the same one who eats his vomit after upchucking all over the carpet, doesn't seem to mind the baby's funk. In fact, I think he rather enjoys it.

You might recall this video from little man's third month of life.

What a deal! I don't have to mess with filtered feces and minor flooding, I simply let the dog do the dirty work!

And guess what? Bathtime is only getting better. Check out this recent escapade.

This laid-back mommy is in lazy town heaven! Sit back, relax, and let the dog run the show. Happy puppy. Clean baby. And water conservation at its finest.

Dear Lord,

Thank you for four-legged companions and their maternal instincts (and our pup's even a dude!). Thank you for dog saliva and a dog's apparent ability to turn bathtime into the most-fun-ever! While he's at it, I'm thinking of letting the pooch teach little man to do his thing out back, lifting his leg, squatting - no wiping necessary! Whadya think?

 

Non-Maternal Instincts

If you work for Children's Services, please stop reading.

So I guess you could say that when it comes to protecting my child from all the crap that he can (and will) get into around the house, I suck.

Baby proofing just ain't my thing. I tend to be more of a he-needs-to-listen-to-me-and-learn-for-himself kind of mom. And if you don't agree with me, then don't send your child over here for a playdate.

That's not to say I don't baby proof at all. We have one stair-blocking gate (an open stairwell leading to our basement), a half dozen outlet covers (I have yet to know anyone who has been electrocuted, but I don't want my son to be the first. Not cool), and cabinet locks on two cabinets containing hazardous materials (ironically these are the same materials used to clean the bathtub where he bathes and the windows that he smears his grubby paws across all day, but whatever).

Until this happened.

Yes, folks, that's a martini glass. Strangely my husband and I don't even like martinis. I've never even consumed a martini, ever. Seriously. Back in my alcohol consuming days I was a beer and wine girl, thank you very much.

So heck if I know why we have martini glasses. I think it was part of the oh-we're-getting-married-and-need-sophisticated-things-like-cone-shaped-glassware-in-order-to-appear-more-married. Um, that lasted a whole second considering baby was born seven months after our wedding day. You do the math.

And naturally we have these very fancy glasses stored in the back of a cabinet that we never open. My son, on the other hand, didn't get the memo. He opened the cabinet. He found fun-shaped shiny things. He grabbed. He whacked. He said, "uh-oh."

Okay, chill out. He's fine.  Not a scratch on his body. Maybe my son is meant to be one of those crazy mad scientists who walks on glass and eats fire. Rock on.

And in case you are wondering, this occurred immediately after the broken glass incident.

Don't worry, we didn't get all whacky with the baby proofing after that. And trust me, baby proofing can get whacky - I've seen folks: put straps around the T.V. and bolt the straps to the wall so that the T.V. doesn't fall (because T.V.'s do that sort of thing, apparently), place rubber corner protectors on everything in sight including rubber corners, lock toilets and refrigerators, fence in play areas inside an enclosed room inside a locked house, and mount their dresser to the wall so that it doesn't tip over and fall on baby (right).

There are even people who pay people to come to their house and tell them all the ways that their kids will die because of the type of blinds they have or the door knobs they don't have.

Not us. My son does not and never will live in a bubble. He has fallen off of a couch, out of a bed, and down a few stairs. And now with the broken glass incident on his record, I surely should be in jail for child endangerment, don't ya think?

Dear Lord,

 

Am I a terrible mother? I simply want my son to explore and go on adventures and journey through his childhood. So, yeah, the glass breaking incident wasn't one of my mothering highlights, but I learned from it, ain't that the point? And my son, well, he learned that breaking glass can be fun. Because, well, it can be. 

 

Are you going to put me in a bubble when I get to Heaven? Because I probably deserve it.

 

Non-Maternal Instincts

Whose food is it anyway?

What would possess me to make a meal for my 10-month old? Oh yeah, the fact that he needs to eat (something about food, water, shelter, blah, blah, blah).

So then why is it that my I've-already-devoured-two-scoops-of-premium-dog-food chow hound ends up eating more of my delicately grilled bread with cheese than the young, growing boy for which it was intended?

This has become a bit of a game at my house. I slave over lunch (and breakfast and dinner, but who's counting), I cut it up all cute and tiny, I place it sweetly on my son's tray, I bless it with love, and he SMASHES it, SPITS it, FLINGS it, CHUCKS it, and ultimately DROPS every last morsel on the ground for the I-eat-my-own-poop dog to consume. Oh, the horror.

So not only am I spending hard-earned money on a fifty-pound back of wholesome, all natural dog morsels, but I'm serving hard time in solitary confinement my kitchen on the dang pooch's fifth and sixth course as well.

And they say kids will eat if they're hungry - Ha! Maybe if I left him in an empty cell giving him his meal on a tray through a slot in the door. But not if eating also means playing "catch the over-priced organic strawberries" with a boy's best friend.

Dear Lord, 

What's it going to take to make my son eat? Maybe dogs, like cows, should instinctually regurgitate their food and force it into the mouth of its young (and by its young, I mean my son). Oh, you find that disgusting? Geesh, how is it any different than when I found the two of them chewing on different ends of the same dog toy? 

 

Seriously, people, my son chews on dog toys. Judge me if you dare.