It's too bad my son wasn't born in Germany 2,000 years ago. Watching him run through a wedding reception, screeching gibberish at the top of his lungs, all I could think was, "He would have been a wonderful Berserker."
Is it wrong that I just loaded Khan's high chair tray with Jell-O so I could have five minutes to look at Facebook?
I saw my brother's girlfriend give their 1-year-old son SODA. Bad for the teeth, and also that much concentrated sugar would turn Khan into a Looney Tunes Tasmanian Devil.
Speaking of Looney Tunes, I put a bunch on our Netflix instant stream. I want Khan to see cartoons that don't teach some moral or educational lesson. Mindless violence, stupid jokes and no preaching. REAL cartoons.
I've lost ten pounds in 2 months. My secret? I have a 15-month-old boy.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
A Severe Case of the Curlies
Khan was born with straight, dark hair. But as the months passed, his dark hair fell out, leaving behind soft blondish-brown hair. Then, at nine months or so, Khan suddenly contracted an extreme case of Curly Head.
It's like he woke up one day and his head was covered with soft, blonde Slinkys, corkscrew-porcelain doll curls. It's uncombable, so I don't even try. And it's long, falling over his ears and collar. It's almost foppish in its luxuriance. It's also a pain in the butt. I'm constantly pushing it out of his eyes, have to wash it almost every day, and Heaven help us if a handful of oatmeal finds its way into the mop. And dirt...and leaves. Not to mention the confusion it causes: at least three times a week, someone mistakes Khan for a girl. I don't like gender stereotypes, but it always seems to happen when he's wearing camo pants and a shirt with something terribly masculine on it, like a bulldog or Spider-man, or when he's oohing and ahhing over some big trucks, or throwing a ball. It has to be the hair.
But it's worth it, all the washing and brushing it away and the gender mistakes. Because it's hella cute, and it makes him stand out. Some people say curly hair is a waste on a boy. I don't think so. They're just jealous their girls have straight hair. Even better, his curls have given us the idea for the most geek-tastic family Halloween costumes ever: Tiny Tom Baker will be the 4th Doctor from Doctor Who, I will break out the vintage clothes for Sarah Jane (good thing I just got my straight hair cut), and The Scientist will grow a goatee for the Master. None of the other parents will get it, but people on the Internet will. Geeks.
In a few years he'll probably hate it and want a mohawk or to shave his head. Whatever, it's his hair. But until then I will bask in the reflected attention, and spend long minutes picking leaves out of it.
It's like he woke up one day and his head was covered with soft, blonde Slinkys, corkscrew-porcelain doll curls. It's uncombable, so I don't even try. And it's long, falling over his ears and collar. It's almost foppish in its luxuriance. It's also a pain in the butt. I'm constantly pushing it out of his eyes, have to wash it almost every day, and Heaven help us if a handful of oatmeal finds its way into the mop. And dirt...and leaves. Not to mention the confusion it causes: at least three times a week, someone mistakes Khan for a girl. I don't like gender stereotypes, but it always seems to happen when he's wearing camo pants and a shirt with something terribly masculine on it, like a bulldog or Spider-man, or when he's oohing and ahhing over some big trucks, or throwing a ball. It has to be the hair.
But it's worth it, all the washing and brushing it away and the gender mistakes. Because it's hella cute, and it makes him stand out. Some people say curly hair is a waste on a boy. I don't think so. They're just jealous their girls have straight hair. Even better, his curls have given us the idea for the most geek-tastic family Halloween costumes ever: Tiny Tom Baker will be the 4th Doctor from Doctor Who, I will break out the vintage clothes for Sarah Jane (good thing I just got my straight hair cut), and The Scientist will grow a goatee for the Master. None of the other parents will get it, but people on the Internet will. Geeks.
In a few years he'll probably hate it and want a mohawk or to shave his head. Whatever, it's his hair. But until then I will bask in the reflected attention, and spend long minutes picking leaves out of it.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
License to Look Like Crap
One of the great things about parenthood is that you lose all sense of shame.
It begins right away. I mean, a small group of people just saw you push a baby out of your vagina (or, in my case, saw a baby extracted from your abdomen). And since I was breastfeeding, there was also a steady stream of lactation consultants and nurses coming into my hospital room and grabbing my breasts to show me the right way to do it. By the time my six-week postpartum exam rolled around, I was like, "Sure, everyone else has had a peek, go right ahead."
The other thing is that you will do anything, and I mean anything, to make your kid smile (or at least make them stop crying), even in public. Before Khan, I might have belted out Cheap Trick's "The Flame" in the privacy of my driver's seat. Now I will happily sing it in front of anyone, because he likes it (he is only one who likes it- he hasn't been around long enough to be able to differentiate between good and bad singing).
I also sing "Old MacDonald" and "She'll Be Coming 'Round the Mountain" in checkout lanes, and I've done This Little Piggy and Criss, Cross, Applesauce in restaurants. I've come close to exposing myself to everyone at the pool when Khan nearly yanked my bathing suit down.
But who cares? My kid is happy. That's all that matters.
This laissez-faire attitude extends to my appearance. So what if I haven't shaved my legs in a week? Maybe my hair has cottage cheese in it, and my toenail polish is chipped, and there's crusty dried oatmeal on my sleeve. Maybe I still need to lose twenty pounds of baby weight. I have a one year old. What's your excuse? My kid looks cute, and as long as he looks cute no one will be paying attention to me anyway.
I haven't felt this free to act silly in public since I was in high school. And I haven't cared so little about how I look since I was Khan's age. So maybe having strange women squeeze my breasts was worth it.
It begins right away. I mean, a small group of people just saw you push a baby out of your vagina (or, in my case, saw a baby extracted from your abdomen). And since I was breastfeeding, there was also a steady stream of lactation consultants and nurses coming into my hospital room and grabbing my breasts to show me the right way to do it. By the time my six-week postpartum exam rolled around, I was like, "Sure, everyone else has had a peek, go right ahead."
The other thing is that you will do anything, and I mean anything, to make your kid smile (or at least make them stop crying), even in public. Before Khan, I might have belted out Cheap Trick's "The Flame" in the privacy of my driver's seat. Now I will happily sing it in front of anyone, because he likes it (he is only one who likes it- he hasn't been around long enough to be able to differentiate between good and bad singing).
I also sing "Old MacDonald" and "She'll Be Coming 'Round the Mountain" in checkout lanes, and I've done This Little Piggy and Criss, Cross, Applesauce in restaurants. I've come close to exposing myself to everyone at the pool when Khan nearly yanked my bathing suit down.
But who cares? My kid is happy. That's all that matters.
This laissez-faire attitude extends to my appearance. So what if I haven't shaved my legs in a week? Maybe my hair has cottage cheese in it, and my toenail polish is chipped, and there's crusty dried oatmeal on my sleeve. Maybe I still need to lose twenty pounds of baby weight. I have a one year old. What's your excuse? My kid looks cute, and as long as he looks cute no one will be paying attention to me anyway.
I haven't felt this free to act silly in public since I was in high school. And I haven't cared so little about how I look since I was Khan's age. So maybe having strange women squeeze my breasts was worth it.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Water Wars
Khan has a love/hate relationship with water. To be specific, he loves swimming, and hates baths.
I'm not sure what his deal is. Isn't a bath just swimming with bubbles, and really shallow water, and scrubbing...and...um...
The kid is a swimming fiend. At first he was content to sit on my lap on the steps and splash. That lasted all of 4 minutes before he wanted to get out into the deep water. If I hold his hands, he even kicks and flails his arms like he's actually swimming. He cries when we get out. I see Olympic gold and a possible marijuana bust in his future.
But baths...he's always hated baths. He screamed through his first-ever bath at the hospital, his second-ever bath at the hospital, his third-ever bath at home, and every bath since then. It's like water is acid, or dirt is some kind of armor against disease (thanks, dark ages). It was bearable for a while, but now he's no longer a baby, but a little boy. Being a little boy involves being as dirty as humanly possible and having snot on your face 24/7, so he definitely needs a bath.
At a yard sale, my mom found the solution: an inflatable duck bath by a company called Munchkin. Squeeze its inflatable beak, and it makes obnoxious quacking sounds. Blow it up, pop it in the tub, fill it with water, deposit baby in water, and he'll splash happily through hair washing and even bottom-scrubbing. It's amazing. We went to the pond today and I had to restrain him from climbing out of his stroller and over to a group of unsuspecting ducks; I envisioned him trying to climb on the poor birds and squeeze their beaks.
Lately he's started drinking the water, in both pool and bath. I figure, chlorine kills anything, and baby bath soap is sure not toxic, so whatever makes him happy (and gives me a few minutes' peace to sit on the toilet and read a book).
Thanks, Munchkin duck bath!
I'm not sure what his deal is. Isn't a bath just swimming with bubbles, and really shallow water, and scrubbing...and...um...
The kid is a swimming fiend. At first he was content to sit on my lap on the steps and splash. That lasted all of 4 minutes before he wanted to get out into the deep water. If I hold his hands, he even kicks and flails his arms like he's actually swimming. He cries when we get out. I see Olympic gold and a possible marijuana bust in his future.
But baths...he's always hated baths. He screamed through his first-ever bath at the hospital, his second-ever bath at the hospital, his third-ever bath at home, and every bath since then. It's like water is acid, or dirt is some kind of armor against disease (thanks, dark ages). It was bearable for a while, but now he's no longer a baby, but a little boy. Being a little boy involves being as dirty as humanly possible and having snot on your face 24/7, so he definitely needs a bath.
At a yard sale, my mom found the solution: an inflatable duck bath by a company called Munchkin. Squeeze its inflatable beak, and it makes obnoxious quacking sounds. Blow it up, pop it in the tub, fill it with water, deposit baby in water, and he'll splash happily through hair washing and even bottom-scrubbing. It's amazing. We went to the pond today and I had to restrain him from climbing out of his stroller and over to a group of unsuspecting ducks; I envisioned him trying to climb on the poor birds and squeeze their beaks.
Lately he's started drinking the water, in both pool and bath. I figure, chlorine kills anything, and baby bath soap is sure not toxic, so whatever makes him happy (and gives me a few minutes' peace to sit on the toilet and read a book).
Thanks, Munchkin duck bath!
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Creation Myths
We are fully aware that someday, Khan is going to ask where he came from. The Scientist and I plan to prepare a detailed explanation, with charts and graphs and diagrams. We just need help deciding which explanation to prepare for him.
1. Mommy and Daddy decided they wanted a baby. They placed some chew toys and some snacks in the backyard. Then they used a stick to prop a box up over the treats, and tied a string to the stick. After a while you crawled under the box and we trapped you.
2. Mommy and Daddy were in a restaurant when the waiter brought over a baby. Neither if us had ordered a baby; the kitchen must have made a mistake. The waiter said we could have the baby; he wouldn't charge us for it and if we didn't take it they would have to throw it out. We figured, hey- free baby! and brought you home.
3. Mommy and Daddy had the house sprayed for all kinds of pests. But one day Mommy accidentally left some sweet potatoes on the kitchen counter. The spray kept all the other babies out, but you must have had a really strong constitution (and love for sweet potatoes) because you got in and set up shop in the kitchen. You ate all the sweet potatoes. We finally set up some glue traps, and when we caught you, you were just too cute to release into the wild.
So readers- which should we choose?
1. Mommy and Daddy decided they wanted a baby. They placed some chew toys and some snacks in the backyard. Then they used a stick to prop a box up over the treats, and tied a string to the stick. After a while you crawled under the box and we trapped you.
2. Mommy and Daddy were in a restaurant when the waiter brought over a baby. Neither if us had ordered a baby; the kitchen must have made a mistake. The waiter said we could have the baby; he wouldn't charge us for it and if we didn't take it they would have to throw it out. We figured, hey- free baby! and brought you home.
3. Mommy and Daddy had the house sprayed for all kinds of pests. But one day Mommy accidentally left some sweet potatoes on the kitchen counter. The spray kept all the other babies out, but you must have had a really strong constitution (and love for sweet potatoes) because you got in and set up shop in the kitchen. You ate all the sweet potatoes. We finally set up some glue traps, and when we caught you, you were just too cute to release into the wild.
So readers- which should we choose?
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Wal-Mart Baby
My friend calls then White Trash Babies. My husband calls them Wal-Mart Babies. I even composed a song in their honor:
It's Naked Baby Time
It's Naked Baby Time
Time to Be
A Naked Baby
It's Naked Baby Time!
...what? I never said I was Burt Bacharach.
Little babies in nothing but a diaper are probably the happiest babies in the world, whether they're at Wal-Mart or in my backyard. I think Khan agrees with RuPaul's famous quote, "You're born naked, and the rest is drag." (I probably misquoted that...)
Naked babies don't bother me, as long as they're wearing a diaper and the weather is warm. But I always dress Khan when we go out in public. I want to get it into his head that we get dressed when we see other people, BEFORE he learns to undress himself.
But at home, on our own property...I let him roam. All summer it's been 90 degrees or hotter. Perfect Wal-Mart baby weather. Khan naked = Khan happy = Mommy happy.
Ao glory in the naked babies and their exposed fat tummies and soft skin and all their unclothed chub. Love the naked babies. And maybe envy them a little, too.
It's Naked Baby Time
It's Naked Baby Time
Time to Be
A Naked Baby
It's Naked Baby Time!
...what? I never said I was Burt Bacharach.
Little babies in nothing but a diaper are probably the happiest babies in the world, whether they're at Wal-Mart or in my backyard. I think Khan agrees with RuPaul's famous quote, "You're born naked, and the rest is drag." (I probably misquoted that...)
Naked babies don't bother me, as long as they're wearing a diaper and the weather is warm. But I always dress Khan when we go out in public. I want to get it into his head that we get dressed when we see other people, BEFORE he learns to undress himself.
But at home, on our own property...I let him roam. All summer it's been 90 degrees or hotter. Perfect Wal-Mart baby weather. Khan naked = Khan happy = Mommy happy.
Ao glory in the naked babies and their exposed fat tummies and soft skin and all their unclothed chub. Love the naked babies. And maybe envy them a little, too.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Poopie Particulars
Before I became a parent, I used to wonder why everyone who had a baby was totally obsessed with its fecal material. Now that I have a kid, I understand. Poopie is vitally important in monitoring your baby's health (and it provides you with great gross-out stories to embarrass them with when they're teenagers).
I've discovered that what people told me before Khan was born is true: you don't care how disgusting your own child is. And it's a good thing, because they WILL get urine, spit-up, and/or poopie on every available surface in your home. There, now no one will ever want to visit me again.
I breastfed Khan from birth to nine months. There's a lot of advantages to breastfeeding; you pass on immunities, it encourages bonding and (my main reason for doing it), it's free. One of the other great things about breastfeeding is that, as long as your kid is exclusively breastfed, their poopie doesn't smell bad. As The Scientist put it, it kind of smells like 'weird popcorn'(I thought 'buttermilk'). Of course, it's also almost completely liquid and will sometimes leak out of the diaper, but hey, everything's a trade-off.
At four months we had to begin supplementing Khan with formula- don't judge me, he's a big kid and my breasts couldn't take it- and around the same time we started giving him real food. Out with the weird popcorn smell, in with the nasty poopie smell. On the up side, his cloth diapers were easier to clean; solid poopie is simple to scrape off, as opposed to liquid poopie.
Solid food also introduced a whole new range of...colors. Well, really only orange and green (and, once, hot pink, when I caught him gnawing on a chunk of sidewalk chalk). It also introduced constipation. Khan seems prone to it. We keep a supply of prunes on hand for this reason. It's pretty pitiful to see the little grunt and strain until he's red in the face. It's probably also pretty pitiful to see The Scientist and I cheering him on. "You can do it! Push! Out, bad poopies! Out!"
I never thought a smelly, disgusting diaper could make me so very happy.
Everything about your kid is fascinating, even their poopie. And that's totally OK so long as you don't go sharing it with everyone else.
Oh, oops.
I've discovered that what people told me before Khan was born is true: you don't care how disgusting your own child is. And it's a good thing, because they WILL get urine, spit-up, and/or poopie on every available surface in your home. There, now no one will ever want to visit me again.
I breastfed Khan from birth to nine months. There's a lot of advantages to breastfeeding; you pass on immunities, it encourages bonding and (my main reason for doing it), it's free. One of the other great things about breastfeeding is that, as long as your kid is exclusively breastfed, their poopie doesn't smell bad. As The Scientist put it, it kind of smells like 'weird popcorn'(I thought 'buttermilk'). Of course, it's also almost completely liquid and will sometimes leak out of the diaper, but hey, everything's a trade-off.
At four months we had to begin supplementing Khan with formula- don't judge me, he's a big kid and my breasts couldn't take it- and around the same time we started giving him real food. Out with the weird popcorn smell, in with the nasty poopie smell. On the up side, his cloth diapers were easier to clean; solid poopie is simple to scrape off, as opposed to liquid poopie.
Solid food also introduced a whole new range of...colors. Well, really only orange and green (and, once, hot pink, when I caught him gnawing on a chunk of sidewalk chalk). It also introduced constipation. Khan seems prone to it. We keep a supply of prunes on hand for this reason. It's pretty pitiful to see the little grunt and strain until he's red in the face. It's probably also pretty pitiful to see The Scientist and I cheering him on. "You can do it! Push! Out, bad poopies! Out!"
I never thought a smelly, disgusting diaper could make me so very happy.
Everything about your kid is fascinating, even their poopie. And that's totally OK so long as you don't go sharing it with everyone else.
Oh, oops.
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