The Bigger They Are, The Harder We Fall

When I was little, it seemed to be taking forever for me to grow up. My mom would sigh over how quickly my brother and I were growing, and I would honestly believe she was completely nuts. All of the cool big-kid stuff (then the high-school stuff, then the grown-up stuff... all the hyphenated stuff, really) seemed so far out of reach, and time dragged as I waited.

Oh, how the tables have turned! People tell you before you have a baby, "Enjoy him while he's little! They grow up so quickly..." I can honestly say I have taken this advice, and I have tried to enjoy as much of my time with Baby Simon as I could. I'll admit that there have been moments that I wouldn't exactly want to bronze and stick on a shelf, but I've reminded myself that nothing lasts forever, good times or bad. Still, I didn't understand exactly what people were telling me until he started growing up.

Yes, I know he's not grown up yet; he's not even a year old. We still have a few years before he's off to school, blah, blah, blah. But the tiny lump of newborn I once held in my arms is now a sturdy little guy who won't sit still long enough to get his diaper changed; he's just too busy! And the little critter that looked to me to satisfy every want and need is crawling around exploring the world independently (under careful supervision), and he'd prefer that I not interfere, thank you very much.

Oh, he still needs me. Every bump on the head requires kisses, and he hasn't mastered cooking quite yet. There's no question that he's getting away from me, though; Simon, who was once a part of my own body, hardly needs my breastmilk anymore. His needs are changing from physical to emotional, social, psychological... Where once I could fix almost anything by sticking a boob in his mouth (sorry for that mental image, folks), I now have to try to understand the complex needs of a little boy, and accept that I might not be able to fix everything.

I'm not going to try to hold him back. One of the most important measures of a parent's success is how well a child can live on his own when the time comes. I'm glad that time is still many years away... but when we get there, I know that years will seem like days. I pray that I'll continue to cherish every day-even the boring ones, the teething ones and the upcoming "Mommy-you're-not-my-friend!" ones. They'll be over far too soon.

Yards, Pens, whatever...

When we were shopping for baby stuff oh, so many moons ago, I noticed that stores and catalogues were offering a fine selection of "playards". This, I learned, is a clumsy abbreviation of "play yard", what we used to call a playpen.

I'm assuming that the name change comes from ultra-sensitive people being offended at the use of the word "pen" in relation to the containment of precious babies. "Pen!" they screamed (or so I imagine), "Pigs live in pens! My pwecious widdle snookums will not be contained in a pen, play or otherwise!"

The manufacturers of the much-maligned pens in question scratched their heads and brainstormed for endless... minutes before coming up with a new name. "Yard! Play Yard! Better yet, Playard! Sounds like Juliard! And Har-vard! They'll love that!"

Let's call a spade a spade, folks. We do use these convenient baby-containment systems to, well, contain our babies. It is a pen. It's there so we can let our kids play in a safe place while we pee, cook on a hot stove, or for when need to keep Junior away from marauding toddlers.

In protest of the unnecessary changing of perfectly good (if un-P.C.) names of products, I will now be using my own name for this one.

Now excuse me... I have to go put Simon in his Baby Cage while I make some spaghetti.

(Gender) Identity Crisis

I was out grocery shopping yesterday, and I had an exceedingly unhappy baby with me. It wasn't nap time, he wasn't hungry; Simon just really hates grocery shopping. The novelty of sitting in the shopping cart has worn off, and now the only time he's happy is when another customer or a store employee is fawning over him. He's such a flirt!So he was happy when a very nice lady came over to us... and told me what a beautiful little girl I had.

To be fair, I should tell you that he was wearing yellow, which is just about the most gender-neutral colour you can dress a baby in. Plus, my baby boy has massive blue eyes and long, dark lashes that make his mommy jealous, so you can see where someone might get confused."Um, he's a boy, actually," I replied, adding that he was 10 months old (in response to her second question).

Now, if I make a mistake like that, my first instinct is to attempt to achieve complete invisibility; the closest I've gotten so far is to turn bright pink. This woman handled the situation perfectly; she said, "Oh! Well, he's just got a pretty face. He's going to grow up to look like Tom Cruise or someone like that!" Well! Tom Cruise isn't girly. Off his rocker, but not girly. Nice save, friendly lady!

I admire people who aren't afraid to talk to other people. I've met a lot of them since having a baby; nothing brings people flocking to you like a baby (except maybe a really cute puppy). I hope that as I work at getting over my shyness I'll become less afraid of people.

In the meantime, I'm dressing my pretty little boy in blue, thanks very much.

Martha Stewart I Ain't...

First of all, let me just say that I LOVE Martha Stewart's magazine. I like the pretty pictures, and I dream of having a home where every sheet set (if and when I own more than one) is neatly folded inside a coordinating pillowcase, where friends gather outdoors for a feast of "marin-aaah-ded" steak and fresh-squeezed lemonade, and where the cat isn't the only one who could, in theory, eat off the kitchen floor.

Yeah, right. No, I really do love that stuff, it's just that IT'S NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN. My perfectionist days are over, thank you very much; it only took two stints in outpatient therapy to figure out that those tendencies weren't exactly helping my depression. I'm not saying we live in a pig sty; it's just that my home isn't quite ready to be featured in Better Homes and Gardens.
I vacuumed today, which is good. I only found three dead spiders while I was doing that... does anyone out there know the equation for figuring out how many LIVE spiders that means there are in my house? I did dishes, too, and managed not to gag from the smell of the 2-week old bottle of formula I dumped down the sink. Yummy! As for the bathroom, I keep it as clean as I can, scrub the toilet and pray that people take my word for it that those are rust stains in the can and not the result of a combination of severe colon blow and poor housekeeping skills. Really.

It's not all my fault. I have a baby, and he keeps me busy. He also contributes to the mess. OK, maybe I shouldn't give him Cheerios in the living room, but he gets so much joy from dumping them all over the floor. He's learning about GRAVITY, people; who am I to take away that valuable educational experience?! Also, my vacuum sucks. Or rather, it doesn't suck. I almost cried the day I used my mom's itt-bitty "carpet sweeper" and found that it was approximately four-hundred eighty-three times more powerful than my full-size, upright vac. Yeah, I said vac. I'm down with the lingo, yo. So is it really MY fault if you can't walk across the living room carpet without emerging wearing socks coated in cat hair? No. Blame the un-sucking-ness of my vacuum. Thank you.

I do what I can. Yes, there's clutter, but nothing choke-able within reach of the little monkey's paws. Clothes are piled all over my dresser, but I have a pretty good idea of what's clean and what's not. Besides, I'd rather spend my time enjoying my baby's baby-hood than trying to keep his mess off the floor.

Oh... and writing my blog. That, too!