I love you to the end of the road, and then stop at someone's house we don't know and eat an apple. Then come home and to the roof, and break through the roof and to the moon and sit on the moon for awhile, and back. That's how much I love you. -Robey
Robey upon getting dressed: Shoes? Check. Pants? Check. Shirt? Check.
Me: That's funny. Where'd you hear it?
Robey: Homer says it in the Simpson's Movie.
Sitting on the toilet in the back bathroom, Robey says to me, "At first when I was back here by myself, I was scared - but then I just said to myself, 'It's okay. Bad guys don't come in the morning. Bad guys don't come in the morning. Bad guys don't come in the morning ...'"
Last weekend Robey won 3rd place in a local wrestling tournament. Jerm says he's never been more proud of him. Not just for winning a few matches - but for sticking it out and not giving up during the matches he wasn't winning.
They hiked for three hours. Jeromy said Robey was an absolute trooper & gung-ho adventurer the whole time. (Click photo to see more.)
"He colored us on a long piece of paper and waited for a long, long time. Then He cut us out and put us on an airplane. Then we were here."
That's what Robey told me at lunch. Shortly afterwards, I was online checking my blog subscriptions and found out from amba that today is Rumi's birthday.
And that reminded me of the quote I put on the first page of Robey's baby book, from Rumi, of course:
"We come spinning out of nothingness, scattering stars like dust."
As realpc says in the comments of amba's post, "... But then I don't think anything is random in this world."
Me: This is Girls, Girls, Girls by Motley Crue.
Robey: Why's him singing about girls?
Me: Because he likes girls.
Robey: Is it about a fox showing his tail to the girls?
Me: No ... well ... actually, I guess it is.
========
Me: This is Jerry was a Race Car Driver by Primus.
Robey: It's about a different Jerry?
Me: Right, not Uncle Jerry. Your daddy and Aunt Shanny really like this song. It's about a strong man and a race car driver.
Robey: Is him gonna wreck his car?
Me: Yep. He's gonna wrap it around a pole.
In the car the other day, Robey asks me, "Mommy, when are you going to grow up to be a Daddy?"
++++++++
After kneeling on top of a bar stool and reaching farther than physics allows for a pack of M&M's, then heading face first for the kitchen floor (still reaching for the M&M's), Jeromy grabs Robey's arm and and suddenly stops him just inches from a certain face brake. Robey says, "Good save Daddy, good save."
"Foe Foe told me a long time ago that when someone loves you, dogs come and poop (on your lawn)."
At first I was shy, but then I talked to them, and now I have new friends. That's how it works.
What are you making for me?
Do they look alike? Can you tell who's who?
Did we get my movie today?
If we send back Spiderman, can I get Batman? And Superman. But Batman first. I want a Batman movie.
Is that my movie in the red envelope? Let me see.
mes after fourteen: five-teen.
Since the Play Doh bug was such a hit and all, we now turn your attention from sculptures to self portraits. Notice the big brown eyes, the brown tuft of hair, the silly little grin, the odd, little nose. Dead on, isn't it?
When he brought this home from school, we asked Robey a series of "If I were ..." questions. You know, to close the loop on the assignment.
If he were a leaf, he'd fall on the ground. If he were a tree, he wouldn't do anything. If he were a daddy, Robey would drive.
The kid likes cars. And trucks. One day a few months ago we went to Office Depot and he saw a white box truck just like his on the loading dock. He took my hand and walked me around the corner of the building to see it. He pointed it out and talked about it for a minute, and then he said, "Okay, let's go back and get Moe." Only we didn't have Moe with us. What? You thought I left my baby in the car to walk around the corner too? Robey was confused. Moe was at home taking a nap.
Later, on the way home from Office Depot, Robey saw a Bronco just like his on the road. But it wasn't his. First he saw his box truck. Then he saw his Bronco. They weren't his. But they were just like his. It was very exciting. He came home and told Daddy all about it.
What was I saying about the drawing? Oh, yeah. I scanned it with this scanner that I finally figured out how to use in conjunction with this computer. But I'm overwhelmed with the list of things I could scan in this house. Old photos. Old documents, journals and scrapbooks. Old wall paper. What about new things, you might ask. New scrapbooks, handmade cards, magazine covers, cereal boxes, rose petals. I didn't know where to start. So I started with yesterday's art.
Foe-Foe has brown hair and blue eyes. He wears an orange shirt and lives far, far away. He is 6-7-18 years old. He talks on the phone to Robey every week, and often - after performing a strange dance or kick/punch/duck combination - Robey will say, "Foe-Foe do that."
If you haven't guessed by now, Foe-Foe is Robey's imaginary friend.
I'm told that when I was Robey's age, Kek was my imaginary friend - and I would often request that my mom draw pictures of this boy that only I could see.
What can you tell me about your imaginary friends - or those of your children?
This is what happens when you videotape a kid counting AFTER you've video'd him saying his ABCs. He gets confused and tries to count to the tune of the ABC song.
Bonus with this post. FAQs!!! (Hey, no need to comment. The crazy lady inside this blog will just talk to herself.)
How cool is YouTube?
YouTube is Cool. I finally took the time to figure it out & it was so easy. Just plopped this thing right in here with the code they offered and ta-da! There it is.
What about the delay between sound and video? What's causing that?
I think that's my camera's fault. But hey, it takes pictures and videos - and fits in my pocket. I NEVER used the bulky camcorder in the closet, but I can use this all the time. I'll live with the sound being off.
Why are the Christmas stockings still hung by the chimney with care?
Shut up. The video was taken weeks ago. We took the Christmas decorations down on Jan. 8 after Robey knocked over the tree. (Had he not knocked it over, they might still be up.)
What's that spot on the front of Robey's shirt?
Oatmeal. What else?
Yesterday Jeromy bought a set of French doors at an auction and made plans to haul five bathtubs and half a dozen rolls of carpet back to Dayton for another contractor that he met at the auction.
There's nothing Robey enjoys more than helping Daddy work. So, when Jeromy came home and started unloading his box truck to make room for the haul, Robey grabbed his coat and went out to help.
While they were outside working, I went downstairs to start another load of laundry. I'm down there for about five minute sorting clothes, with the washer and dryer running beside me. I look up to see Robey coming towards me in his coat and muddy work boots, his hand cupped around his mouth. When he gets close enough that I can hear him over the washer, he whispers, "Come here. I have a secret to tell you for a minute."
I lean in. "What is it?"
"The box truck," he says conspiratorially, "is a mess."
Then he turns around and runs back upstairs to help clean it out.
Nanny (frantically pushing buttons on the DVD player): I don't know how to make it work. It isn't ejecting. We might have to get your Daddy to help.
Robey (responding calmly): You have to be patient, Nanny.
[Brief pause & laughter from the room as the DVD player opens.]
Robey: See, I told you.
I'd love to start a blog called The Oatmeal Chronicles, where I'd document the demanding nature of Robey's breakfast routine. Most of you know he demands oatmeal every morning and that he can eat up to six packs in one sitting. What you might not know is that his demands evolve over time. He used to demand two spoons, now one is fine. For awhile he demanded runny oatmeal, but now runny is out. Those are just a few examples.
Today, I instigated a fit when I added more milk to his bowl from his drinking glass instead of from the container. And lately? He wants three packs every morning. Not any three packs, mind you. It has to be three different varieties of oatmeal all in the same bowl. His favorite combination is strawberry, peach and banana. Today he had strawberry, peach and cinnamon. If you give him one strawberry and two peach, he says, "That's not three," and demands that you add a fourth pack of something different, then says, "There that's three."
You see, I have stories like this that I could post everyday. It has real potential for a niche blog don't you think? Should I do away with Aliblog altogether to make time for The Oatmeal Chronicles?
When Robey was three, he'd hold down his thumb and pinkie and extend the remaining three fingers to indicate his age like a typical three-year-old (like you would sign the letter W). Now that he's three AND A HALF, however, he must display his age differently than before. So he extends his pinkie along with his ring and middle fingers, and holds down his thumb and index finger (like you would sign the letter F). The distinction is significant to him, if not to anyone else.
I'm not sure how we should indicate six months on our fingers, but that's how old Monroe is now: half a year. Jeromy took him to his six-month checkup on Friday, and he's still in the 90th percentile for length and 70th for weight. He's 19.25 pounds, a bit shy of the 20 pounds that I predicted here.
Moe was still exhausted and running a high fever Saturday from the immunizations, but he was back to being his regularly, smiley self on Sunday. Then Sunday night he was miserable again, which means he was up all night last night, fussing and crying every couple of hours.
I never noticed any reaction at all when Robey had his shots but the effects are clear with Moe. He was inconsolable after his four-month immunizations too. We spent an hour or two that night pacing around the cottage in Michigan wondering what to do to calm him down.
It's strange, because - in most other ways - Moe is more laid back and easy going than Robey was as a baby. I'm amazed at how different two babies can be.
Robey was standing and sitting and crawling by now. He was a quick, wiry little guy who wanted to be on the go from the onset. Moe is much more content to be a baby and to hit his physical milestones on time. He hasn't even thought about crawling yet, but Robey was up on all fours, trying to figure out how to move before he turned five months.
I'm enjoying the differences. Right now, Moe is trying very hard to sit up. He lays on his back and does a whole series of crunches and ab exercises, and usually ends up on one side with his elbow propped under his belly and his knees curled into his chest. It looks like a new, baby yoga pose.
I don't remember Robey putting any effort into these things at all. He just woke up one morning and sat up. A month or so later, he stood up in his crib without so much as a grunt. It was as if he simply decided, "Today I think I will stand," and then he did.
Robey was so busy moving, however, that he didn't have time to pay attention to words or hands or the actions of others. These are the things that Moe is accomplishing earlier than his big brother. He is watching us all rather intently. He mimics simple noises and is much busier with his hands than Robey ever was.
Moe is also cuddlier and snugglier and happier to be held than Robey was as a baby, but Robey has made up for that as he's grown. He is the lovingest toddler ever, offering these giant hugs that melt right into you. "I squeeze you," we say as we grab on for a bear hug. When he's tired he "tucks in," holding both arms in front and letting you wrap his whole body with a snuggly hug.
The "Moe hold," on the other hand, has been perfected by his grandmother, who rocks him on his side and tucks his bottom arm under her arm, then wraps her other arm around him. He also likes to fall asleep upright with his head on your shoulder - and that's how we slept most of the night last night. He grew angry each time we laid him down, so Jeromy and I took turns with him in the recliner. We're tired today, but we don't mind. It's worth it to spend the extra time with our baby Moe.
Yeah. Sure.Two kids later, and I'm still fascinated with the fact that I can make milk. So, it seems, is Robey. Lately he's been making milk in the bathtub. Only Robey's milk - it comes out of his calves. He holds up his leg, places a plastic cup near his ankle and pumps his calf for milk. Then, he hands me the cup full of water and commands me to drink. Every night when he's done with his bath, he leaves two full cups on the edge of the tub for later. If they spill in the process, he screams, "MY MILK! MY MILK!"
Uh-oh, Mommy. The lights are broken again. The computer doesn't work ... [looks around] ... but my puzzles work ... and my wagon works ... [tries to turn on TV] ... the TV doesn't work ... mmmm my books work ... [runs to rocking chair, rocks it] ... the chair works ... [runs to desk, opens lid] ... and my desk works too!
(Alternative title: Why I Need a New Digital Camera)
I've been trying to get pictures of Moe's smile and Robey's new haircut, but the boys move too fast. You take what you can get, I guess.
I wish you could see how Moe's eyes light up when he smiles:
People keep telling me he has big hands. I don't notice in person, but here it's obvious.
Robey's short hair makes him look older:
When I told him he always looks older after a haircut, he said, "Four? Or Five?"
The other night at bedtime, Robey and I had a detailed conversation about keeping his door open at night. "Daddy always closes it," he said. You could tell it was something that had bothered him for quite some time, but he was only just now realizing how to lodge his complaint. I assured him that I'd ask Daddy not to close his door anymore then left to get him a cup of water. When I returned to his room, he asked if I'd talked to Daddy about closing the door. I said that I had. "Did he say okay?" Robey asked, and I told him Daddy had promised not to close his door at bedtime anymore.
Jeromy and I were both amused by the conversation and the fact that it came up so randomly. I noted in particular Robey's use of the word always. "Daddy always closes it," he said more than once, and I was amazed once again at the way children learn to grasp complex concepts and test them out in conversation. He did the same thing last month with the words almost and backwards. Their meanings became clear in a flash, he used them in conversation repeatedly for a few days, then they just became part of his regular vocabulary.
Recently, Robey's been testing out a word of a different sort. When he's frustrated, he says, "F#ck!"
I wish I could blame this on the kids at school - the kids who've taught him to say, "hi-ya" and "nanny-nanny, boo-boo" and "pow. pow. pow." But I'm afraid I have to take the blame. He says it under his breath just like I do, somehow strong yet understated all at the same time.
I'm not especially proud of my potty mouth. But I'm not really bothered by it either. I've studied rhetoric and the philosophy of language enough to know that words are just words. Any sense of immorality or dirtiness that we impose upon them is of our own making.
Regardless, as Jeromy has pointed out, "You can't use your kid as a social statement." F#ck is a bad word in our culture, and it's not fair to him to let him say it. So ... what's my strategy now? I can't punish him for a behavior that he learned directly from me.
The first few times I heard him say it, I tried to explain that it was a grown-up word and one that kids shouldn't use. Of course, that didn't work. He wants to be a big boy too after all. So - in addition to working harder to stop cursing myself, I'm taking advantage of the fact that Robey doesn't really know what he's saying, and - most likely - neither does anyone else (he's still working on his enunciation in general).
Now, whenever he says, "F#ck," I say, "Fox!" Then I say, "Shoot! Dang it! Oh, man!" and other such "clean" exclamations. He invariably repeats it all back to me, so it's bound to sink in soon.
Already, I can tell that his f#ck is starting to sound more and more like fox, so that's a good sign.
Hey, let's do a caption contest. What is each boy (Sammy, Max, Robey) thinking here?
(I just downloaded a boatload of photos from Jeromy's mom's camera. How many can you handle?)
Robey's preschool teacher helped him answer the questions and fill in the blanks.
Robey likes watching movies with bad guys, cutting with scissors, playing puzzles and playing games. Everything is a game: play dough games, letter games, board games, Lego games, card games, dice games, etc. Lion King is his favorite movie, and he wants to watch it three times a day.
He says please, thank you, no thank you, excuse me and I'm sorry. When you can't understand what he's saying, he gets frustrated and cries real tears. The other day, he was talking about his Grandpa Buddy and trying to tell me that he wanted to go see "My Buddy far, far away," but I didn't understand.
"Listen to me," he demanded before repeating himself - a phrase I admit to saying gruffly all day long in addition to "Look at me," and "Focus, focus, focus," because three-year-olds - they are so easily distracted.
He snuggles when he's sick and takes his own temperature and accepts chewable medicine agreeably but refuses liquid medicine. Chewable vitamins are called "my gum," though he's never chewed a piece of gum in his life.
He eats at least two packs of oatmeal every morning for breakfast using two spoons. He averages three packs of oatmeal per day but I've seen him eat up to five in one sitting.
He knows every letter of the alphabet and at least two or three words that start with each letter, but he can't say his ABC's. He loves to sing and dance and march and play instruments. Itsy Bitsy Spider, Bringing Home a Baby Bumble Bee, Elmo's World and Heads, Shoulders Knees and Toes are a few of his favorites. He won't let anyone but Aunt Susan sing Heads, Shoulders, Knees and Toes, though. That's her song, and he loves to hear her sing it real fast.
He can turn almost anything into a gun, which he'll use to shoot the bad guys or to play pow-pow with his daddy. He especially loves to say, "Ahhh, you got me," and play dead. Recently, he picked up an impressive right hook at school, which he'll swing at the air after saying, "Hi-ya," then follow up with a left jab.
When you ask him why, he says, "Cause I want to," and when you tell him no, he says, "But Max does it," even when you know it's something Max has never done in his life.
He wants to do everything "Right now," and he likes to do things, "Just right."
He refuses to wear sandals or lotion, and he won't let you touch him with hair products, hair brushes or nail clippers, but he's fascinated with my nail file.
He reminds me often that "Daddy works hard," then says, "Uncle Andy too. And me." I'll say, "Yes, I know. The boys in this family are hard workers." Then he'll say, "But not Mommy," because I'm a girl and because he's still to young to realize that he demands nearly every piece of me everyday from breakfast to bed time - and even in the middle of the night. It's a good thing I'm in it for the long haul, because someday (maybe when he's 30?), it'll hit him, and he'll realize that Mommys - they're the hardest workers of them all.
On my first mother's day, when Robey was 6 weeks old, he peed on me four times.
Today, during Moe's first changing of the day, let's just say he made such a huge mess I wasn't sure what to clean first: his bum, his clothes, my hands, my clothes, the changing table or most of the items on the changing table.
Both times I imagined the little buggers saying, "Here ya go, Mom. Happy mother's day. That's all I've got to give ya."
And I was proud.
My problem is that I have very little tolerance for irrational behavior. This has been true throughout my life. I've always been too logical for my own good. It has kept me from enjoying otherwise fun and harmless movies. It has led me to judge people I should not. And now, as a mother, it tries my patience everyday.
Okay, patience is not my strong suit either. So that adds to the problem. Plus, I'm pregnant and tired and pumping out enough female hormones to make up for all the estrogen and progesterone lacking from your average women's rugby team. So my nerves are shot.
And let me tell you, there is nothing more irrational than a three-year-old throwing a fit.
My three-year-old? He will cry for 15 minutes over a Kleenex dropping to the floor. He will enter into a ten-minute tantrum if you turn off the water faucet when he wanted to complete the task himself. He will slam himself down on the kitchen linoleum for three quarters of an hour and beg to eat sugary cereal for dinner while you stand your ground.
Time outs, yelling and spanking will not help the situation. Discipline and punishment will only stir the fire. And logic? No way. You can't reason with a three-year-old throwing a fit. That's always my first instinct, too. I try to explain the situation and discuss Robey's feelings with him calmly and gently, countering his irrational behavior with some reason and common sense. It used to work - but not anymore. I might as well be counseling a camel in heat for all the flailing and spitting and tears that I get in return.
And that's usually where my calm, rational behavior ends too. I get frustrated and start acting like a wild camel myself. My entire body tenses up. I punch the air. I curse the world. And I stomp out of the room to remove myself from the situation.
I once heard someone say, "I know better than to pray to God for patience." Why? Because that's a sure-fire way of asking for a year full of traffic jams, unruly behaviors and misunderstandings in your life. After all, testing your patience is the best way to gain a sense of patience, right?
Well, I've never prayed for patience, but someone up there must have decided that mine needed testing. Daily. And I don't think it's working. I'm at the point where even the slightest hint of a whine in Robey's voice will cause my shoulders to tighten and my jaw to clench - without hesitation.
Maybe three days in the hospital is just what I need. But another baby? Is that what I need? Sleepless nights and added responsibilities and more crying in this house? What are we getting ourselves into? WHAT WERE WE THINKING?
Of course I'm over-reacting and play-panicking here just a bit. And it's certainly too late to turn back now. I realize that.
The truth is, I know this baby will bring more hope and joy into our lives than I can even imagine. And maybe - if we're lucky - he'll help Robey grow into a more mature older sibling. A brother with responsibilities and behaviors to model. A big kid who understands the world does not revolve around him, his Kleenexes and his water faucet foibles.
So that's my prayer for our family. Not a prayer of patience or rationality or common sense. Just a prayer for positive change. Just a wish that this baby will bring out the best in each of us and teach us all to love one another even more than we already do.
Does that sound like a logical prayer? I hope so. It's all I've got ... and I'm pinning my hopes up high on this one. (Amen)
Things Robey can do - overnight - now that he's three:
Things Robey thinks he can do - but can't - now that he's three:
Things Robey says he'll wait to do until he's this many (open hand, palm forward to indicate five):
They made the hat at school. He loves it.
Robey has a hard time pronouncing certain sounds, especially the letter M. Milk still sounds like "book" in Robeyspeak. Max sounds like "Box" and Max's mom's name - Marcy - sounds like "Bossy." Max's dad Rob is "Hop," and Robey will even hop up and down when he says it. So their whole family is Box, Hop, Bossy and Baby O. That's funny.
What's even funnier, though, is how he refers to my good friend Mich. He likes to stake a claim on his favorite people by saying, "My Mommy," or "My Box," or "My Beau." Mich is also one of his favorite peoople. So, lately when he talks about Mich, he says, "My Bitch."
Now that's really funny. I can't help but laugh everytime he says it.
Last week when my grandmother was in the hospital (she's home now and doing better), Robey and I said a special prayer for her at bedtime. We talked about her being sick and how we wanted her to get better.
After saying our prayers, per our usual routine, I turned off the light, laid in bed with him for two minutes ("Two BIG minutes," Robey asks every night), then quietly left the room.
A few minutes later Robey called me back into the room, also as part of his usual routine. Sometimes he asks for a cup of milk. Sometimes he asks for another kiss. Sometimes he asks for bedtime music. On this night he was crying, and he asked about Grandma Peg. "Grandma Peg sick?" he asked with a shaky, tear-filled voice.
"Yes," I replied, "But she's going to get better."
"Grandma Peg sick," he said again, "Go tell Daddy." So I did. And then he went to sleep.
I forgot to mention that Robey's sleeping in a big bed now and has been since the first day of 2006. For New Years, he and Daddy tore down his crib and moved the queen-sized bed from our guest room into his bedroom. (What used to be the guest room/office will soon be a nursery.)
He still talks about his big bed almost everyday, and I thought he had shown it to everyone who'd come to visit recently too. He's very proud. If you mention his room at all in conversation, he'll tell you, "I have big bed." You might be talking about the colors of the wall or the shape of the ceiling, but he'll change the subject and say, "I have big bed."
But somehow, even though they've been here a handful of times since January, we must have forgotten to show the big bed to Grandma Dee and Grandpa Bruce. This Saturday he spent the night at their house where he usually sleeps in a playpen. He went to bed for them without too much of a fight, they said, but when they brought him home he immediately grabbed Grandma Dee's hand and marched her back to see his big bed.
Some nights bedtime is easier than others, despite our routines. Tonight it drug on well past our standard two books, one set of prayers and two BIG minutes of Mommy in bed after the lights are out. First he had to get out of bed to pee, then we brushed our teeth since we were there, then when I finally tucked him back into bed and left the room, he called Dadddy back in to talk about going pee again. That's when I came down here to type this post.
So here's my question: how cruel is it to threaten to take down his big bed and replace it with the crib if he doesn't cooperate at bedtime? And how long will an empty threat like that last before he calls my bluff?
Do toddlers - by definition - suffer from obsessive compulsive disorder? Can someone ease my fears that this walking, talking, 30-pound pile of neuroses won't always be so ridiculously obsessive?
Need a few examples? Here's what I recall from the last few days alone:
And yet - here's the good news: he threw away his beloved pacifiers last night without the slightest bit of remorse. We spent a few days not using them and talked about how they were causing sores on his tongue, then asked him if he was ready to throw them away. He was. So he plopped them unceremoniously into the trash can one by one.
It's scenes like that one that give me hope and keep everything in perspective. So, whenever I start to worry that we're facing a giant hurdle, obsession or battle that we'll never get past, I'm going to remember those colorful, plastic pacifiers settling comfortably into the trash alongside Robey's dirty diapers and the remains of his untouched dinner.
Robey (shouting through mouthful of cookies):
C for cookie, Mommy. C for cookie.
Me (deadpan):
C is for cookie, Robey. That's good enough for me.
Robey (excited):
Is good enough for me too!
The five minutes I spend snuggling with Robey after waking him each morning: the sleep still in his eyes, the dreams still filling his imagination, and the long, lean toddler limbs still too tired to do anything but cling ...
I am not a morning person, and I often have a hard time dragging myself out of bed, but I look forward to this time alone with my son almost everyday.
According to a Denver testing instrument of some sort and a professional screener, Robey can:
Then, we're given a column of "next skills" to teach him, half of which he already knows. And in the comments section, we get a patronizing note that says, "Your kid is perfectly average for his age." Not really. It said, "Robey did a nice job! Keep up the good work!" Which is probably what you'd find written on every other child's evaluation sheet as well.
I don't know why I'm being snarky about this. It was a free assessment at his school, so it was silly of me to assume they'd tell me something I didn't already know. I'm not sure what I was expecting: Ink blots? A complex character evaluation? Screening for grad school?
Is this the way it always is until high school - or after? Do teachers and screeners primarily reinforce what you already know about your kid? I guess if you're an attentive parent, you're already in tune with what your child can accomplish to a certain degree. But when does that change? When does it get to the point where you gain insight into your child's behavior from skilled professionals?
Maybe only when you really need it?
Robey's daycare teacher wants us to bring him in wearing big boy pants next week. I have my concerns.
You see, when it comes to reaching childhood milestones, my general theory is to "let it happen when it happens." Some will say that's the lazy approach, but I say trying to make things happen before a kid is ready for them to happen is just not worth the hassle.
I learned this the hard way after a year of blame and worry over Robey's sleeping habits. Between the ages of 4 and 14 months, Robey was not a sleeper. He awoke at all hours of the night, rarely took a second nap during the day and always - without fail - awoke from sleep screaming in bloody horror. I worried myself sick that it was all my fault, that I was doing something wrong, that I'd never figure out how to fix it - and believe me I tried every method. They all worked - for about a week or two, and then he'd fall back into bad sleep habits again and none of us would get any sleep.
But then - out of the blue - when he turned 14 months, Robey decided to sleep through the night, to nap like a champ and to put himself to sleep without anyone holding or rocking him into slumber. We've gone through a few bad phases since then, but for the most part, he's still a great sleeper.
And here's the thing. It's not because of anything I did. There was no magic method or perfect solution. He just figured it out on his own when he was ready.
And eventually, he'll figure out how to eat new foods, overcome fears, give up his pacifier, use the potty like a big boy, and many other things. Jeromy and I will help him along gently, but we're not going to push or force or cajole.
So, that brings me back to the diaper dilemma at daycare. You see, a few months ago, Robey's daycare teacher said he was ready for big boy pants, and that we should try wearing them over the weekend to see how things went. Up until then, he was picking things up with the potty - remembering to pee in it most of the time and even pooping in it if we caught him at the right moment. But after one weekend in big boy pants which involved a few messy accidents, he lost interest altogether. Now, he'll pee in the potty when it's convenient, but he absolutely refuses to poop anywhere but in his diaper.
I feel like the big boy pants set us back a couple of months. He regressed after those accidents and now he freaks out about the prospect of not wearing diapers. And I don't want to push it. I want him to be comfortable with the process and figure it out on his own.
But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe that's part of the process - the moving forward, then moving back. I don't know. I do respect the opinions of Robey's teacher. She's with him 7 hours a day and has a lot more experience with kids than I do. So I'm going to think about it over the weekend and keep talking to Robey about it too. Right now, our conversations go like this:
Me: Robey, do you want to wear big boy pants? Like Max and Jason?
Robey: Yeah!
Me: Will you go pee in the potty?
Robey: Yeah!
Me: Will you go poop in the potty?
Robey: No. Id care me.
Me: Why?
Robey (singing dramatically with arms outstretched): iiiiiiid carey! Pooooo care me. Carey, carey, careyyyyyyyyyy!Poooo careyyyyyyyyyyy!
So, what do you think? After an operatic rendition of his very own Poop Is Scary song, do you really think he's ready? Like I said, I have my doubts.
You guys and your needs are too much. Here are my recent favorites (with comments in parentheses):
And from my e-mail:
But my very favorite part is that you kept this blog alive with your comments while I was being lazy. Okay - actually, I was being sick. My sinuses are in revolt. My stomach is handling this pregnancy very well, but my sinuses are a different story.
For the last two months, I've pretty much suffered one cold and sinus infection after another. I don't mean to whine. But it's frustrating. I'm typically the kind of person who can ignore a cold and work right through it. I don't call in sick. I don't cancel vacations. I still stay up late. I keep up with my house work. But I finally had to admit to myself that things are different when you're pregnant.
When you're growing a baby inside your womb and your body says slow down, it's best to listen. So, for most of this week, I've done nothing. I called off work. I slept in. I let the dishes and the laundry pile up. I even ignored my blog!(I did attend a really good poetry reading, but I've a separate post planned on that.)
But - the good part - is that I went to the doctor again. This time, with Robey in tow. As we were waiting for the doc, Robey walked around the room, pointing at everything - cupboards, drawers, stools,
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