MommyBlog

I’ve written before about Kenny’s love/obessesion with crackers.  

New development:   He will now only eat one bite out of each cracker…   then it is apparently ruined, and no longer edible.   And the cry begins anew…     “CRAAAAAAACKER!!!!”

Well, Kenny has finally moved past being fixated on only one thing (that is, playing his Rodney Atkins CD 400 times a day).   He is now also fixated with  putting his “big boy” shoes on and then taking them off at least ten times a day.   That, and carrying around an unfortunate mylar balloon that I thought would be a good idea to buy for him because he loves   “BOOOONS!!!” so much.   I figured that the mylar was a lot safer than the traditional rubber balloons.   Little did I know that he would carry it with him for a week straight.     Snack time, diaper changes, and playtime…. Boon was always there.   It got in his way, irritated him, got tangled around his feet and bonked him in the head.   And yet he loved that shiny floater.

I actually finally popped the sagging and limp metallic blue balloon today when Kenny unexpectedly went down for a nap.   I popped it and hid it in the bottom of the trash can.   When Kenny got up from his nap, he went straight to the closet where we had put the balloon for  its “nappie” and started calling, “BOON!   BOON!”   “Honey, the balloon went away.   Baby, I’m so sorry,”   I said.   We then exchanged these same two sentences for another twenty minutes before he finally walked away and came back a minute later with his shoes.   “OO?”    

So we spent the next twenty minutes putting on his shoes and taking them off again.   When he tired of that, he marched over to the stereo and patted it like a good friend.   “Aaahhh…” he said, smiling.   I keep reminding myself that it could be Barney.  

Isn’t it funny how kids will get so fixated on certain things?     I hear so often that babies and toddlers love repetition.   Then again, I eat the same cereal in the same bowl, leaving it for the same amount of “sog time” every morning, and I still love it.   Maybe I can make this work to my advantage… anyone out there ever get a toddler fixated on matching and folding socks??

Kenny is starting to realize that he is a pretty funny little guy.

Sometimes he is funny on purpose…

                                                                     

                                                                                                                                       

These shots were taken at a church costume party.   Put Kenny in a cow costume, and he turned in to a hamsteak.   Not only did he leave the whole costume on the whole time, but he ran around, crowing and laughing, happy as an oblivious angus.  

And he doesn’t need a costume to entertain: Yesterday I took him to the indoor playground at the mall, and within minutes he was so happy to be playing among the giant soft plastic animals that he started singing at the top of his lungs.   In fact, when he managed to climb to the top of the tallest one all by himself for the first time, he stood triumphant at the top, raised his arms above his head, and gave a true rebel yell of victory.   Sort of a mix between a “yeeeeeehaw!” and a “taaaDaa!”

But the biggest laughs always come when he is earnest and sincere, with no intentional punchlines.   Last night I had to leave for a rehearsal at church before his bedtime.   I bathed him and was putting on his pjs, telling him that Mommy had to to go church and that Daddy would be putting him to bed.   I caressed his face and nuzzled his nose.   He smiled and reached up and gently touched my chest and said, so sweetly and seriously, “Boobie?”   “Yes, honey,” I said,  “Mommy’s taking her boobies, too.”   “Nigh, Nigh,” he said, and walked down the hall.  

He is also a champion initiator of “peek-a-boo.”   Today I took advantage of a quiet moment while he was immersed in painting fingerprints on the sliding glass doors to open and sort the mail.   A moment later, I hear, “PEEEBOO!” and turn around, and there he is, half-hidden by the couch, cackling wildly at his own antics.   I started towards him, and he turned and ran as fast as he could and dove head-first into Dudley’s bed, burying his face it the slime-crusted fleece.   Muffled by the batting, I could hear his wild guffaws and passionate, “PEEBOO!!!!”

The fun never ends around here.

Kenny and Dudley and I were stranded at the house today (the car was in the shop), so both my local family and my visiting relatives came to rescue us from suburban entrapment and spent the day at our house.   Including the three of us, that made for five adults and  four kids age four and under, and one very nervous weimaraner.  

I anticipated that this recipe would make for a fantasy day for Kenny… not only was his Grammy there, but his beloved Aunt Kim, two doting “other” aunts, and three little rugrats all his size.   But for some reason, the suddenly full funhouse was scary for the little guy, and he spent the better part of the day clinging to my pantleg.   When he did start to play, he made sure that I was in his sights, or he would turn wailing and crying and run to find me.  

I’m a little perplexed by this new behavior.   Up until recently, Kenny was Mr. Social, life-of-the-party and all around easy-going kid.   My cousin, mom to 17-month-old Olivia, suggested that I get out more with Kenny: playgroups, Kindermusik or whatever it might be, and get him used to being with different kinds of people in different situations.   Now this sounds like a no-brainer.   Even as she suggested it, I realized that “getting out” is something that I’m not very good at.  

Don’t get me wrong; we get out to run errands or go places nearly everyday.   But due to the location of our house, and the location of the rest of our retail and social destinations, I look at nearly a half-hour drive each way, no matter where I go.   So I’ve fallen into a pattern of getting the “things to do” done and getting my sweet little Kenny home.   To be honest, I feel guilty about having him in the car that much as it is.   Then to consider adding frivolous outings and playdates, we’re talking an hour at minimum in the car everyday.   And I just have trouble justifying that.

The solution?   I really don’t know.   I know deep down that I need to give Kenny a better social life.   I also know that we spend too much time in the car as it is.   It’s a quandry, isn’t it?   I suppose I could work to streamline the necessary outings to make more time to fun ones.   I find myself envious of the Moms I know who can actually walk to a friend’s house, or at the very least, pop in the car for a quick five minute drive to fun places to play and hang out.  

My husband grew up in a small town where everyone knew everyone, all the kids knew which cul-de-sac to meet in for an after-school game of baseball and everyone could  recognize their own mom’s dinner bell.   And even though my family moved constantly when I was a kid, we always had neighborhood friends and nearby parks and playgrounds, no matter which town we were currently living in.   I think I took for granted that when I had kids, we would magically be transfered to a picture-perfect small town paradise where the tree-lined sidewalks were all you needed for transportation to fellowship and socializing.

I need to stop this stream of writing, or I’m going to start writing an essay supporting the re-instatement of communal living.

In other news, Kenny  is still enraptured by Rodney Atkins.   It’s Rodney in the morning, Rodney in the  evening, Rodney at suppertime.   The louder it is, the happier Kenny is, the more adorable his wiggling and the more excited he is to play it again.    He dances, he sings, and he revels in the spirit of American  Country:

 

I’ve tried playing other CDs, but he will only tolerate a song or two, then his earnest little face pleads with me to give him more of the good stuff.   I’m thinking of writing a letter to Mr. Atkins and suggesting that he  consider coming over to babysit sometime.   It’s the least he can do.

I realize that in the world of blogging, a four-day haitus from posting is nothing short of neglect, or at the very least, bad manners.   So please forgive the lapse, and know that Kenny and I  are here, alive and kicking!

In these past four days, we have spent loads of time at my parent’s house with my visiting grandparents (otherwise known as “Gigi and Papa” to Kenny),

 

my visiting cousin and her one-year-old daughter, Olivia,

 

 and my sister and her kids:

(that’s four-year-old Kaitie with Kenny and Papa in the picture)

…and we went to another pumpkin patch, this time with Daddy:

We also bought Kenny’s first pair of “big boy shoes” (hard soles, as opposed to his beloved leather-soled StarChild shoes) … let me tell you, that has gone over like a funhouse at a funeral.   You would think that we were practicing the art of footbinding the way he carried on.   It wasn’t until today, four days after the purchase, when Casey took him outside to play some football in the yard that he finally forgot his discomfort, and kept them on the rest of the day.   The previous record had been fifteen seconds.

And finally, I had my first ever “girls night out” since Kenny’s birth!  

I went out last night with my sister and my cousin.   It was very tame and suburban, but fun all the same.   Let me clarify – I have had opportunities to “go out” before, but, call me a sentimentalist, I just love  hanging out with Casey so much, I’ve chosen to be with him everytime there’s been an chance to have someone else watch Kenny.     What can I say, my husband is my best friend!

So while I was away from the computer, the time was well-spent.   Lots of fun, lots of memories made, and I even had a night off to boot.

Anyone out there remember the Erma Bombeck book titled, The Ties That Bind… and Gag!?   I used to chuckled a little at that phrase, before I had my own kid, but without any kind of recognition or empathy.   I have to admit that I once thought that only Moms who “could’t really hack it,” or Moms with “kids with issues” must ever relate to a phrase like that.

So I’m either one of those aforementioned Moms, or I’m slowly realizing that some things are beyond even my control.

Kenny hates being left behind.   Oh, he loves to have Gramma Ruby and Papa George, or Grammy and Grampy, or even Aunt Kim (with only a little  screeching at the begining) babysit him for a little while.   But it has become virtually impossible to leave him in either the church nursery or the MOPS “moppets” so that this poor lonely Mommy can have a little cranial stimulation or girly fellowship.   He doesn’t just cry when I take him into the nursery… he wails.   And he screams, howls and generally looks so pathetically miserable that I totally cave and take him back with me wherever I am going.

Now, “attached” can be good:

“Attached” can be sweet:

“Attached” can even be silly:

But this kind of “attached” is horribly frustrating.   Sure, I’m secretly touched that my little boy hates the thought of being anywhere without me (or his Dad).     It’s partially my fault… For the first year of his life, we never really  left him with anyone but our own parents or siblings.   How could I expect him to magically be ready to be left behind in a strange place with strange people so that I could attend a church service or a Bible study or a women’s group?   Yet, I somehow thought that the prospect of playing with little people his own size (which he loves, as long as I’m in his sightline) would outweigh any anxieties he might have about me leaving the room.   Well.   We all know what happens when we assume.

I don’t really know what the solution is.   Part of me believes that if I just stick to it and leave him for those two short times within the week that he’ll get used to it and stop crying after a while.   The other part of me is afraid that he will hate it so much, and be so scared that I’ve really left him for good, that he’ll start wailing every time we even get near the entrance to the church.   Where is the line between forging independance and nurturing insecurities?

Is it just the age and stage?   The stranger anxiety / separation anxiety peak?   Or have I waited too long to start leaving him with other people?   I would love to hear from anyone out there who has faced this problem and had success.   Thanks in advance…

 

The title of this post is merely a record of Kenny’s favorite words.   I have no earthly idea what “Gabbledy Gabbelty” means, but he’s been saying it a lot.   “Dinkle Dinkle” is the sound he makes typically to accompany the sign for “milk” but now does any time he’s hungry or thirsty, leaving me to interpret the correct translation.

Really, though, his vocabulary is growing remarkably, though I may still be the only person who really knows what he’s saying.   And his personality is growing at an even faster rate.   He is a certifiable flirt; a comic, a miniature politician, and a clown all rolled into one.   He runs like a marathoner with the finish line in sight, like a linebacker ready to break through the offensive line.   He sings like a karaoke king.   He laughs like a champion in a tickle contest.   And he kisses and snuggles like no one else I know.

But it’s his non-stop talk that grabs my attention and intrigues and perplexes me.   I understand a lot of it… “apple,” “cracker,” “Ba!” (his stuffed sheep), “Dougey!” (Dudley), “Dougey, Dop!” (Dudley, Drop!), “Da DA DA DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA” (Daddy’s home!), “Nack?” (snack), “Teddy,” “ba ba?” (bathtime), “Bay BA!” (baseball), “mmmmmmmm   ma?” (Mommy, can you turn on the music, please?).   But the rest is a mystery.   He will talk for thirty minutes in the car to his sippy cup (we live in the boondocks, so we drive thirty minutes everywhere.)   He will walk over to Dudley and passionately give an entire, unintelligible address.   He wil scold me with his nose scrunched up and finger pointed and I know that he really means what he’s saying, but how on earth am I supposed to know what it means??   He is facinating, this boy of mine.

I only hope I am as facinating to him as he is to me.

And I would be remiss not to report that Kenny is just about weaned.   The last two days he has gotten by with two very small feedings (morning and bedtime) and a very half-hearted midnight snack.   I can tell that I definitely have much less milk to give as well.   My goal was to have it all done with by the first of November, and it looks like we’re right on track.   As much as I will be glad to say goodbye to my role as the Dairy Queen, I will be sad to see it go.   I guess this is a foretaste of all that motherhood holds in the future.   Ah, how  bittersweet it is to watch these precious ones grow!

One of the blogs that I regularly read for its gorgeous prose and thought-provoking posts, The Wallpaper of My Mind, caught my breath tonight.   Her entry from Friday,  speaks some of the most beautiful words a mother could about the lovely and sometimes heartbreaking sacrifice it can be to put all of your life’s ambition on hold to stay home a raise a child.   Not that this sacrifice is not both noble and exciting.   The rewards are priceless, the thrill of watching your little one morph from a helpless infant into a little person is incredible joy.   And yet…

And yet there are things that you may want to do that you slowly realize you may never will.   Pieces of yourself, preferences, idiosyncrocies even, that you have to deny and suppress, all for the greater good of staying home to be with your child.   There are no lazy afternoons, sitting at cafes, reading and writing, sipping coffee and letting the air and the setting envelop you.   That was something I used to do several times a week when I was single… and I kind-of know that those days won’t really come back again for a long, long time.  

Oh, but I wouldn’t trade a minute, a second of this blissfully wild life of motherhood for a thousand sun-soaked afternoons at a sidewalk cafe.   You see, Kenny fills me up with something I didn’t know was missing until I had him.   Just like my marriage to Casey has made me  more than I was before, and deeper than I could have been alone.   Just like God created us to become man and wife, no longer two, but one.   Just like He called us to live in community, to have families and to put others before ourselves.   That’s why I stay home.   I want to watch my little one in all his triumphs and trials; I want to take care of my home so that Casey can come home to a haven.   I want to give more than I take from the people I love most in the world.

But just today I caught myself several times in a silent “woe is me” state, staring into space  with tears threatening to spill out of my eyes.   Why?   Because I couldn’t sit through a whole church service without pulling out cheerios and toys from my purse, only to end up in the fellowship hall  anyway during the sermon.   Because I couldn’t go for a long bike ride in the autumn air and forget about the clock.   Because I remembered all the housework I’m behind on and laundry to fold instead of just enjoying the day and loving on my man and my boy.  

After reading Misha’s post, I find myself contemplating the depth of love that I have for Casey and Kenny.   Remembering the miracle that is my marriage, the miracle that is our child and the incredible blessing that our life is.   Is it possible to remember to keep that at the forefront of my head all the time, instead of indulging myself in the selfish attitude I so often find myself in?   I resolve to try.   Because I really wouldn’t trade any of this for the world.

Kenny is thirteen months and five days old, and is still nursing.   Yes, I had planned to “nurse for the first year” in that vague, wholesome sounding way.   But little did I know that the reality would be a much more difficult undertaking… my boy is hooked!

However, today is the first day that I have seen evidence that the end is really in sight.   You see, he woke up at 12:23 AM and screamed and screeched until I gave into going into his room and nursing him back to sleep (why is he suddenly waking up in the middle of the night, after beign an all-nighter for so long??), and he didn’t want  my milk  again until 6:30 PM this evening, when it was time for bed.   I even tried to  get him to nurse  at 3 PM, partly because of my own discomfort, and partly because he was getting cracky, but he was way more interested in playing with the helium balloon in the living room than in cuddling close to Mommy.

This is the first day that he didn’t have at least a little milk at breakfast time, or at least a little during the “witching hour.”   One feeding in the whole day, and even that was half-hearted and sleepy.   I can’t believe it.   I’m a little hurt, and hurting a lot.   That is to say, my feelings are a little wounded, that he didn’t want Mommy at all for nourishment today (though that is my goal, right?), and I’m hurting because my poor body isn’t quite ready to go it cold-turkey.     I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but I think that it might be a relief if he wakes up in the middle of the night tonight and wants a little of  the good stuff.

I never thought that a day at the pumpkin patch could be so much fun. I never would have believed that Kenny could enjoy it so much:

…The maze of haystacks, which he ran through after the “big kids”…

…the “Pumpkin Bowling,” which showed off his pitching abilities…

And the beauty of the autumn day…

Yet another reminder that my little boy is no longer a baby, but a little kid! You’d think after all that running around, Kenny would crash into a two hour nap when we got home, but I think all that fresh air energized him. He was more of a joyous circus today than the last week combined. By dinner time, though, he was a Rascal with a capital R. Pizza (which I fixed as a treat, by the way) went flying off his tray, the sippy cup was catapulted into the air and and skid across the hardwood floor, and Dudley ate more than his fair share of cheese. I actually gave into the war cry of “CRACKER!” only to be thanked by Kenny practicing his discus throw with the first three of them.

So bedtime was a little early, Casey is at the Met’s vs. Cardinals playoff game (lucky man) and I am wiped out, sitting on the couch, belly unsettled from cold pizza and mushy crackers. ( I still can’t make myself throw away all that food! I’m hopeless.) I’m wondering if there is a way I can justify going to bed at eight PM. You see, the weaning is going “well” – Kenny is down to three feedings a day, and none of them are very significant. But he has somehow gone from a kid that would sleep straight through from six-thirty to six-thirty, to waking up at three-thirty every morning, wanting milk. And not just a little. We’re talking thirty minutes worth. I can’t believe how exhausting it is. I was finally taking sleeping through the night for granted! I tried letting him cry a few times, but he will go on for an hour, more frantic and insistent as each minute passes. I know I need to be strong and just not get up for him, but I always second guess myself… is he cold? wet? did he poop? Did he lose his “Baa” (the stuffed sheep he sleeps with)? Is he stuck in the blanket? Is there a bee in his pjs?

You see how exhausting that is. So I can hardly convince myself to ignore his cries and go back to sleep.

Maybe I can figure out a way to get Dudley to go in and check on him.