Hurry Up And Grow, Kid, So That I May Live Vicariously Through You

Tags

babies, balance bike, biking, children, cycling, norco, run bike, toddlers

When we were in Nova Scotia, my Bestest Buddy and honorary second godmother to Owl (she couldn’t make it to his Christening) got to see him for the first time since he was 6 weeks old.

She brought him a little gift. And by “little” I mean “a giant three foot long cardboard box”.

Inside it was, no word of a lie, a two wheeled bike.

For the 20 month old.

At first I thought it was a trike, but she quickly explained that there were only two wheels.

I was touched, because I LOVED my bike when I was a kid, and I do want Owl to get his butt on one ASAP, but I thought she was crazy. Owl still gets tangled on his own feet. (Just today I watched him trap himself in a weird downward dog position with by pushing a ball between his legs and then trying to retrieve it with one arm on either side of his right leg. It was highly amusing to watch.)

“He may not be big enough for it yet,” said Bestest Buddy.

You think?

“There aren’t any pedals, either,” she explained.

“No pedals?”

It turns out that this bike works kind of like a scooter. It’s meant to be low enough that the kid can sit astride with his feet flat on the ground, and push himself along. Instead of training wheels, his own feet provide balance and stability. As he gains confidence and speed, he can lift his feet up for short distances, and coast. When he wobbles, down go the feet.

Apparently kids can learn to ride a standard bike by age 4 on one of these things. Youtube is full of videos of toddlers basically riding them like a two wheeled bike.

Owl has a Norco Run Bike, not a Strider, but the principle is the same.

What a brilliant frigging idea.

I’m sure lots of you have probably seen these, but they are entirely new to me. After lunch I insisted on putting Owl on the bike.

He was very excited about it (“bike! bike!”) but sadly, it’s still a good inch or more too high for him. He can just barely touch the ground on his tiptoes.

I have never particularly minded that Owl is small for his age. I am always amused when my friends’ much younger babies surpass him in weight, and I actually feel for parents whose kids are unusually big, because people often expect more from them. There’s a baby in Owl’s daycare who looked like a two year old when he turned one, and the mother said she got a lot of flack from people who said he should be walking and talking. Meanwhile people think Owl is advanced for his age, because he looks younger than he really is.

So I have never really minded having a baby who is in the 15th percentile.

Until now.

it fits fine as long as he doesn’t SIT on it…

Because DAMN, I want to get him on that bike.

Dwelling On The Hellos

It’s morning and I am five years old.

I slip out of bed and pad down the hall to the bathroom. The spare bedroom door is ajar, and I can’t resist a curious peep inside. Sensing my gaze, the woman in the bed stirs and opens her eyes. She spots me and her eyes light up.

“Hello, sweetie! Come in and give me a hug!” she insists.

I break into a smile.

Minutes later, I am in the bathroom and watching with fascination as my aunt shows me how she takes her blood sugar reading. Then she injects herself with insulin while I marvel at her bravery. I hate getting a simple vaccination, and yet she tells me that she sticks needles in her arm multiple times every day?

I proudly tell people that my aunt has “diabeetles”.

At age 5, these are the things I know about my father’s sister:

• She potty trained me as a surprise for my parents when she babysat me one weekend.
• She is very brave and gives herself injections.
• She has diabeetles.
• She thinks I’m special.

As time goes on and I grow older, I realize that my aunt just adores small children. I take this to mean that she didn’t actually adore ME, just my young age. The childhood worship fades, but you can’t help but love a sweetheart like my aunt.

A quarter of a century later, I am peeping in another bedroom door. At first she doesn’t notice me – my father is bending over her for a hug. But then she spots me peeking in the door, and her trembling hand covers her mouth.

“Oh… Carol…You came all this way..?”

I bend over to hug her emaciated frame, eaten by cancer, and tears stand in her eyes.

It was a long trip for one last visit, but it was worth it… to say hi one more time.

April Showers Brought…

A need for better waders.

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Dear History: Please Don’t Repeat Yourself, For The Love Of Beloved Dog

Tags

animals, bloodwork, cancer, cpl, dogs, health, limping, pancreatitis, pets, symptoms, tests, veterinarian

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I love my dog.

I love dogs, period.

When I was little I begged my parents for a dog. First they gave me goldfish, and when I managed to kill them off thoroughly they decided our family was ready for a pet that couldn’t be forgotten about.

His name was Shadow, and I adored him.

I mauled him about constantly and he tolerated my excessive affection with great forebearance. When I was 10 I trained him to walk nicely on a leash, and I worked very hard to teach him to play dead. He eventually would topple over from a “down” position with a big long-suffering sigh.

He adored my father, and when Shadow passed away, it was one of the only times ever saw my father cry.

As a child I spent a lot of time worrying that my parents would euthanize Shadow while I was off at University. Unfortunately, when he was 8 years old he had several large fatty tumors removed.

Shortly after, he began to limp.

The vets couldn’t find a thing wrong with his feet. After a lot of medications on his paws had failed, a biopsy revealed that his liver was excreting toxins through his sweat glands in his paws, causing the discomfort.

Within a few more months he had wasted away.

He died on the same day as Princess Diana.

His loss hit me hard. I loved him deeply, and I grieved his loss in a way that I have never grieved the loss of a human being. 8 years after he died, I woke up from a bad dream about him, and when I realized that it was a dream, I burst into tears – because my dog was dead.

When I graduated university, I got a new dog. I specifically picked a sheltie who was a different colour than Shadow, so I wouldn’t feel like I was “replacing” him.

That dog healed eight years of pain in a few short weeks. I no longer cry for Shadow. I love him in memory, but memories of him no longer cause me pain.

They’re nice memories.

Beloved Dog is now 8 years old, and I don’t know where the time went. It seems like the 8 years between Shadow’s arrival in our family and his painful exit were very, very long. But Beloved Dog was a puppy mere minutes ago.

Beloved Dog has started to limp.

This, combined with a couple of other nebulous symptoms that my friend The Farm Fairy clubs under the heading of “Ain’t Doin’ Right”, led me to take him to work with me and say,

My dog is limping. I need you to tell me that he doesn’t have cancer.

I got a laugh from people, but not when the vet looked at my dog.

My boss found that he looks anemic, but his bloodwork says he’s not anemic. She found that his abdomen seems painful, but he isn’t vomiting or having any diarrhea. His blood chemistries indicate normally functioning organs.

Except for one.

The spec cpl test is specifically designed to test dogs for pancreatitis. Normally panreatitis is an insanely painful condition brought about by fatty diet and not enough exercise, and is indicated by vomiting, diarrhea, and sheer misery.

My boss suggested it because it was all she could think of to explain the discomfort in his tummy, and because if there was inflammation in his organs, it might explain why he looks so pale.

It came back indicating pancreatitis.

So I fasted him for 24 hours, fed him on white rice for three days, and kept Owl and his fistfuls of cheese well away from Beloved Dog. I retested him for pancreatitis and it came back abnormal AGAIN.

So I changed his already low-fat diet to a corn-free diet, feeding him dehydrated fish with fruits and vegetables. I added digestive enzymes to his food.

He doesn’t look old, does he?

His paws began to show sores from his constant licking and chewing.

I took him in again yesterday, and the other vet, who has a very good ear, identified a mild heart murmur. Is that new, or is it so mild than no other vet has ever spotted it before?

The other vet, who reminds me of a Hank Azaria character, also thinks Beloved Dog looks anemic. He insisted on rechecking the red blood cell count.

Normal.

We rechecked him for pancreatitis.

Abnormal.

WHAT IS GOING ON?

I’ve sent his blood to the lab to get a more detailed report. They’ll be able to tell me whether my dog’s pancreas are just a LITTLE funky or a LOT FUNKY.

I’m trying to tell myself that just because Beloved Dog is the same age, and showing some of the same symptoms, does NOT mean the Beloved Dog has cancer.

It doesn’t help that my Aunt is dying of cancer. I’m flying home on an emergency visit to see her again, because apparently she’s wasting away fast.

It doesn’t help that today is Shadow’s birthday, or would have been, if he had lived to be 24 years old.

I just need Beloved Dog to be okay.

He says he just needs me to take off this damn cone.

Veronica Palmer is My New Role Model

Tags

better off ted, confidence, Portia De Rossi, role models, television, tv shows

Guys, I think I’m in love, and it’s with a woman.

And she’s gay.

Okay, actually, the ACTRESS is gay, and it’s really the character I am in love with.

Also, it’s totally a platonic love.

BUT THAT DOESN’T SOUND AS GOOD SO LET’S JUST SAY I’M IN LOVE.

I Bet No One Has Ever Had THIS Diaper Problem Before

Tags

babies, child care, child development, cloth diapers, diapers, disposable diapers, health, toddlers

Our baby has no bum.

When rear ends were being handed out, Owl was at the back of the line, or possibly not even in the building. I sometimes wonder whether the reason he hovers in the 10th percentile is simply because other babies have bums.

Normally, we don’t really notice our child’s complete lack of buttocks. His cloth diapers are thick and bulky, and they hold his pants up very well, while also providing a nice cushion for landing on.

^artificial bum

But when we travel, and we put him in disposables, we REALLY NOTICE. First of all, when he topples over he is much more likely to cry, as there is very little padding to protect his wee tail bone. Secondly, his pants DON’T STAY ON.

It’s really quite ridiculous. We had to pin all of his pants at the waist to keep them on when we went home for Christmas, and my mother in law had to actually hem and alter the pants on his little suit that my mother gave him – it was a 12 month size and he was 15 months old but WE HAD TO ALTER HIS PANTS.

Altered pants: STILL TOO BIG

Even then, the pants didn’t stay on well.

When Owl is in disposables, even the pants that are normally too snug on him hang down until he looks like a little gangster.

Owl in disposables

There’s simply no way to keep them on, because he has no waist for them to hang on. His body tapers from the shoulders like a carrot.

and this is in a swim diaper, which is still pretty bulky

But we never considered that we might actually be causing his bum deficiency.

We were shown the error of our ways by the Helper Lady at Owl’s daycare.

I picked Owl up a couple of days ago and found him wearing a disposable diaper.

“Helper Lady put him in that, and I didn’t have the energy to argue with her,” said Daycare Lady. “She asked me to pass on a message to you, because her English isn’t good enough for her to explain it to you in person.”

“Oh?”

“She thinks that his cloth diapers are the cause of his diaper rash.”

“You mean the diaper rash that started when we tried using wet wipes on him, and that has been clearing up ever since we went back to cotton wipes and water?”

“Yes. It’s looking a lot better. Um, she also wanted me to tell you that she thinks that the cloth diapers are constricting his bottom, and that’s why it’s so small.”

“…what?”

“She thinks that they don’t breathe properly, and they are snug on him, and that’s keeping his bottom from growing as fast as his top part…”

Guess who has two thumbs and a corset on his bum? THIS BABY

“…REALLY?”

“You’re lucky she doesn’t speak English! She used to be a high school teacher! She’s very DEFINITE about her views!”

I brought Owl back to daycare in a cloth diaper the next day anyway, but if anyone knows a website where I can find information about the risks of disposable diapers or the benefits of cloth diapers in Farsi, I’d greatly appreciate it.

Meanwhile, I need to think about warning Happy Nappy about this unanticipated effect of their diapers on infant bum development.

Because apparently baby bums are like goldfish: they only grow if given a roomy enough container.

WHO KNEW?

The Scientist In The Kitchen: Owl Experiments

Tags

babies, child development, experimentation, exploration, learning, parenting, play, research, science, toddlers, videos

Alison Gropnik of The Scientist In The Crib claims that babies, especially toddlers, are like little scientists who constantly experiment with the way the world works. That’s why they’re always dropping spoons, smearing things on the wall, trying to provoke you with bad behavior and so on.

I took this video of Owl interacting with a new toy that I picked up at a swap meet. In under 5 minutes, I counted 14 separate scientific experiments, all unique, although some were repeats of previous experiments but with a new variable being introduced. It’s adorable and fascinating all at once. If you have a few minutes, check it out:

If any of you have kids, I’d love to see 5 minute videos of their play. How many experiments can you spot? Post them on your blog, or in the comments here, and encourage others to do the same. Let’s observe the scientists at work!

The No-Cry Discipline Solution: The New Model For My Future Dog Training Book

Tags

babies, behavior, book reviews, books, child development, children, discipline, Elizabeth Pantley, literature, No-Cry Discipline Solution, parenting, reviews, strategies

As you may remember, Elizabeth Pantley of the No-Cry Sleep Solution sent me some more of her books for me to check out. Since I love books, this made me pee my pants with excitement just a little bit. (Although that’s also a side effect of having given birth. Still working on those Kegels.)

So I started with The No-Cry Discipline Solution.

I really enjoyed this book, and I actually found it more useful than Harvey Karp’s The Happiest Toddler On The Block.

And how was YOUR weekend?

We had First Blood on Saturday morning.

I think that he got down from bed in the morning and then tried to climb back up, but toppled backwards onto the corner of the bedside table. That’s my theory, anyway. I just woke up to a loud thud and Owl bursting into tears. PH, who usually spends the last hour or two of the night voluntarily exiled to the couch, came dashing up the stairs.

He seemed fine, at first, until I moved my arm and realized that it was COVERED WITH BLOOD. And there was blood down the back of his pyjamas. AND ALL OVER THE BACK OF HIS HEAD.

It takes a scalp wound a surprising amount of time to stop bleeding. 

Owl has given himself some fantastic shiners before, but this is the first real bloody wound he has ever inflicted upon himself.

I was mostly just concerned with staunching the blood and wondering if he needed stitches. PH was concerned about concussion. So there I was, frantically trying to guesstimate the size of the head wound while PH went “can you count to ten, Owl? Count with me. One… two…”

Meanwhile Owl, who had already forgotten all about it (hopefully because he is a baby with a goldfish memory, not because of the head wound) kept trying to play and starting to fuss when we tried to hold him still to examine the HOLE IN HIS HEAD.

Thankfully, it DID stop bleeding… eventually… and doesn’t appear to need any stitches. It’s quite small, actually, only a few millimeters wide, but for the rest of the morning he left little blood splotches on his changing pad, his coat, his shirt, MY ARM…

Also, that same day he successfully counted to 15, so there doesn’t appear to be brain damage.

But I have to take Owl to daycare tomorrow and I’m going to have to show them the head wound.  I feel like a terrible parent.

Oh, and he also has The Diaper Rash Of Death.

I’m so tired. Is it the weekend yet?

 

A Little Child Should Seriously Lead Us

Tags

bad days, forgiveness, love, motherhood, parenthood, patience, toddlers

I got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. No real reason for it. I mean, yes, I had started the morning at 5 am when a little hand smacked me excitedly and a tiny voice announced insistantly (and proudly) “PEE! PEE! PEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!! PEE!” until I eventually mumbled,

“Didjoupee?”

“Yes!”

“Goo’feryou. Thanksfor tellin’ me.”

I rolled over. The same small hand grabbed my nipple, and the teeny voice said “mush? MUSH? PEASE?” and a needle-teethed lamprey re-attached itself to my breast at a bizarre angle.

It was my usual start to the day.

If anything, it was a slightly better start than some other mornings, because after forty five minutes of:

• sitting on my head
• running around the room
• trying to open the door to the dog’s crate
• demanding help to get back up on the bed with me
• and insisting on “mush” whenever I tried to roll over

…Owl actually went back to sleep and I got an extra half hour shut eye.

But I still woke up with a big black cloud over my head. I blame the rain, because there was a lot of it, and I really didn’t want to walk in it.

Every morning I offer Owl the chance to choose his footwear and coat for the day.

It usually goes like this:

“Go get your shoes.”

“No!”

“Do you want to go for our walk?”

“…Yes.”

“Then you need to put on either your boots or your shoes.”

This simple logic always convinces him and he grabs one pair or the other. We have the same conversation over his coat.

“Which coat do you want to wear?”

He invariable chooses his raincoat, but then resists when I try to put it on him.

“Okay, we’ll stay in,” I always say, and start to hang up his coat. This makes him change his mind instantly and he cooperatively holds out his arms for the coat. Then we leash the dog and go outside for our walk.

 

Today, though, it was pissing rain, I was running a little late due to the sleep-in, and I was not loving the idea of trying to convince the dog to poop in the rain while Owl soaked his pants in the puddles.

Everything went wonky today.

I told Owl to get his boots. He didn’t budge. I set out his boots and he said “no.”

“Well, pick either your shoes or your boots,” I said, laying out the options for him. He stared at them and dithered and dithered while the time and my patience began to run out. So I made an executive decision.

“Okay, you’re wearing your boots.”

“NO!”

“Yes.”

“NOOOOOOOOO!”

I pulled his boots on him against his will while he flailed and wailed. When I finished he sat on the floor crying and pulling desperately at his boots. Within seconds he had them off again. Rather than re-enter that battle, I moved on to coats.

“Which coat to you want to wear?”

“SOOS!”

“Owl, which coat?”

“SOOS!!”

Most mornings I would have dealt with the shoe issue and then revisited the coats afterwards. But for some reason, today, my patience was still upstairs in bed, cuddled under the duvet.

“Okay, fine, no walk today.”

I put the dog out in the yard while a horrified and protesting wail went up behind me. Owl spent a couple of minutes throwing his “soos” at me, but quickly allowed himself to be distracted by his toys while I took a moment of deep breathing.

Skipping the walk put us back on schedule for time, if Owl didn’t dawdle too much on our walk to the car. I contemplated just carrying him to the car, but that didn’t seem fair – he should get at least part of his walk. I brought the dog in, put on Owl’s “soos” (pick your battles) and he cooperatively chose his raincoat and put it on without a fuss.

When he saw that we were leaving the dog behind, though, he realized that he had missed the morning walk, and that we were now headed right to school. He immediately began to whine.

“Nooooo! Da! Wa? Mama!!”

“Well, we couldn’t go on our walk because you wouldn’t leave your boots on and you wouldn’t pick your coat,” I snapped. “That’s what happens.”

I waited irritably and self-righteously for the tantrum. To my surprise, he just held up his arms and said “up!”

So I picked him up, and when his face was level with mine he studied me carefully. Then, gently, with a little smile, he leaned forward and gave me a kiss on the lips. Then he let me carry him out of the house, to the car, and into his car seat without a single complaint.

My son is 24 pounds and 30 inches tall, and he is a bigger person than I am. 

Go take a nap, Mama.