Straight from the Bottle : Toddlerhood

Crying With Scissors

GirlsGoneChild — Tue, 18 Sep 2007 03:52:00 GMT

I have been dragging my feet about the whole hair-cutting thing. Sure, I've trimmed Archer's locks once or twice but I've never sat down to give him a bonafide haircut.

Any new parent knows that a haircut is so much more than just a haircut. It's this weird new world of non-babydom. Where hair grows like a weed and there is nothing you can do to stop it. Even though it seems too soon. Too soon for haircuts and size 9 shoes and 3T clothes. How is he already in a 3T? HOW!?

First or even second or third haircuts are a hard pill to swallow for some parents. Myself included. And I'm pretty sure Kate Hudson knows what I'm talking about.

Today I bit the bullet and decided it was time to cut Archer's hair. Because it seemed like maybe it was bothering him, falling down in his face as I pushed him on the swing. One hand on the chain, the other in his face, pushing his bangs out of his eyes.

Archer in "The Before."

It took about an hour to get it right, carefully snipping little bits at a time as not to stab him with the scissors. Trying to distract him with the television as I scurried around him on my knees.

The whole time I kept shaking my head, muttering to myself like a mad woman.

"This is a horrible idea, Rebecca. Just horrible."

I gathered the hair up in a little pile. I made a little ball out of it, rubbing it in my hands for a moment before realizing how silly I was to feel so attached to a pile of hair. I quickly threw it away.

And then I cried.

Because I know that it won't be long until he needs another haircut. And then another. Because there is nothing I can do to keep his hair from growing. Or him from growing up. And because tonight I looked out across the living room at him dancing back and forth to Yo Gabba Gabba, his hair out of his beautiful eyes, dirt on his shirt, and food all over his chin and there was nothing baby about him. Not even a little bit.

He had suddenly become a little boy.

***

Home, Sick

GirlsGoneChild — Sat, 28 Apr 2007 21:11:00 GMT

We're on day three of sick and I'm moping around the house in my pajama pants and tee-shirt, hair pulled back in haphazard pony-tail situation, rubber-banded with the stretched out elastic from a deceased shower cap.

I look like a bag lady. I feel like someone is kicking me in the face and squashing my heart. I haven't slept in two days but that's not why. I hate that my baby is in pain and I wonder how mothers of chronically ill kids deal.

Archer's fever peaked at 103.7. That was yesterday so at least the worst is behind us. I may bitch and moan about how difficult it is to raise a toddler but chasing Archer around the neighborhood like a maniac is nothing compared to lying on the couch, rubbing his little back and singing "the ants go marching one by one..." for two days.

Last night he cried "mama" for hours, pulling my arms around his waist, burrowing into my chest and there was nothing I could do.

And that sucks. Worse than poop for presents and tantrums in the street. That stuff is easy breezy compared to watching Archer writhe in discomfort. Now that's torture.

And so I sit, with my computer in my lap and Archer curled up at my elbow with his red blankie and his binky and his red cheeks, hoping with all my might that the fever will pass soon so we can go back to the usual toddler shenanigans.

***

Revenge of the Sippy Cup

GirlsGoneChild — Tue, 10 Apr 2007 17:05:00 GMT

Archer never cared for the sippy cup. He went straight from the bottle (heh) to the glass. He took swigs from my water and ONLY my water and until last night drank only out of a tall clear glass, sippy cups be damned.

I gave up on the sippy cup thing months ago after collecting dozens of them, thinking eventually one might catch his eye.

"Maybe a superman sippy cup would do the trick?"

"Aha! An insect sippy cup! Perfect!"

"A red sippy cup! To match his blankie! Why didn't I think of this earlier?"

I was told I was lucky that Archer rejected sippy cups because "they're just one more thing to become fixated with" and you have to "carry them around everywhere" and "they will spill and soak your purse." But in my head I always fantasized about the sippy cup and how much easier it would be for me if Archer could drink by himself without me holding his glass for him every time he was thirsty.

So when last night Archer decided he (finally!) wanted to ~~make out with~~ drink out of his sippy cup, I was thrilled... for about thirteen minutes.

The sippy-cup as practical drinking mechanism soon turned into an obsession with drinking, spilling, sucking, biting and not going to bed. I suppose Archer thought it was a good idea to make up for lost time....?

And so... A year of denying ye olde sippy cup became hours (and hours) of this:

A real drinking problem, to say the least.

Three hours past bedtime and two pairs of soaked pajamas later, I changed my mind about sippy cups.

***

The Quirk of it All

GirlsGoneChild — Tue, 06 Feb 2007 21:24:00 GMT

I feel like I am always saying this but it's true: This is the greatest age.

Archer, now twenty-months old, is rich with absurdities. He plays with his hair in the mirror, is obsessed with his belly button and just for fun, likes to run into things. He laughs when he hears other people laughing and poops in the coat closet with the door closed. He insists on sleeping with all of his shoes next to him in his crib. He climbs into the dryer when I'm doing laundry and likes to eat cheerios out of a bowl, next to the dogs when they eat their breakfast and dinner.

He only drinks water. Only eats fruit outside. Only eats the very tippy-tips of asparagus and only in the middle of the night, when he wakes up and decides he'd rather sleep in one of the dog beds.

Instead of saying "hi" he says "how!" He's obsessed with all things the color red, which he hoards in large piles in his bedroom. My red coat, Elmo, his blankie, fire truck, Legos, red-letter magnets. If and when he catches you watching him he gets down on all fours and tilts his head like this:

Every day Archer finds a new object to become obsessed with for the day. Yesterday it was an empty box of soap. Today it's a tube of Neosporin that he insists on carrying with him everywhere. In the stroller. To the park. In his highchair during lunch. Last week's objects of affection included three tampons. It had to be THREE. He also went through a mascara phase where every morning he would find my mascara and run around, hitting the dogs with it like a cane.

He just likes to hold stuff. For dear life.

Yesterday, a little old lady stopped us on our walk. She saw Archer and wanted to say hi.

"Well hello, young man! What do you have there?"

Archer proudly extended his hands. "How!" he said. Three Tampax were in one hand. A flip-flop was in the other.

She smiled and looked up at me. "This is a great age, isn't it?"

"The very best," I said.

***

We Used to Call It Fashionably Late

GirlsGoneChild — Wed, 17 Jan 2007 04:55:00 GMT

Remember when making plans was easy? When showing up late was planned? Ah, yes. The days of yester-year. Of singledom and the two-hour makeup/hair-straightening, bottle-of-wine drinking get-ready-a-thon. When saying "I'll meet you there at 10:00" actually meant "I'll meet you there at 11:30" but only because you wanted to be there at 11:30.

Because it was "fashionable" to be a little bit late. Because it alluded to the fact that you were so very busy. Because weren't you? So very busy? And important? I was.

When Archer was an infant and didn't do anything but poop, fart, spit-up and, on occasion, smile, I was always late to meet friends for coffee/walks/walks with coffee. I had no excuse. It somehow took five hours to pack one back full of bottles, pacifiers and diapers. And then, on top of that I always forgot everything. (I once drove down to San Diego to visit my parents and forgot to pack Archer's, um, clothes.)

But I digress. This post is about being "fashionably late" not "un-fashionably stupid" which for the record, I also am.

As soon as I mastered the art of packing up Archer's diaper bag in 3.2 minutes, he became a toddler. So no longer did it matter how long I could prep our daily outings because, suddenly, they could no longer happen. Because between the hours of 12-4, Archer was/is asleep. Dreaming of puppies and string-cheese.

And so our entire social life is shot. I realize I complain about having no friends, but I am pretty sure I know the reason. We flake out on pretty much everyone. Because by the time Arch wakes up from his afternoon nap and I force-feed him avocado and spinach quesadillas, it's dark outside. The museums are all closed and the parks are full of child-molesters throwing candy from white, windowless vans. No thanks.

...Although... this didn't stop us the other day when we showed up at the L.A. Zoo 30 minutes before closing.

"Um. Miss? The zoo is about to close," said the lady behind the counter of the ticket booth.

"I know but I'm meeting people here!"

"Well. All of the big animals have been put away and there is nothing to see, so if you want to come in you can look at nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Well, you can look at the empty habitats if you really want to."

"As a matter of fact, yes. I want to. We drove all the way out here and we're GOING TO THE ZOO."

"Suit yourself. That'll be $20.00."

"FINE!"

I paid up and we pushed past all of the people leaving for the day with children asleep in their arms, and met our friends. (Because they also had a toddler with them they were also late. Just not as late as we were.)

And so we wandered around the zoo for an hour, pointing out squirrels and pigeons with excitement once reserved for elephants and rhinos.

It seems the woman at the ticket counter was not lying. The animals had been taken in. Even the goats and llamas in the petting Zoo were tied up in a row, being combed and caressed by the elderly volunteer staff.

"We're closed."

"Yeah. Come back tomorrow."

And then the sun went down and suddenly we were alone in the freezing cold dark.

Late? Extremely. Fashionable? Not so much.

***