The wee one

Alright, so let's talk for a moment about this baby of mine.

First of all, he's fifteen months old now. Dear lord, fifteen months. How'd that happen? But I digress. Now, I know what you're thinking: Oh, he's so cute with those big blue (grey? green?) eyes, and that sweet little face.

Let me give you the scoop on this boy. He's a tough nut. He's a little, shall we say, screamy vocal, stubborn strong-willed, and scary intense.

He's clingy. Oh-so-clingy. As in, heat-seeking-missile-for-my-legs clingy. As in thinking-about-spraying-my-pants-with-Pam clingy. On the upside, dodging him has certainly improved my defense for playing hockey with his big bro.



I think all photos of me should be taken from this angle. Flattering, no?


He's also a biter. Gasp! Every mother's worst nightmare. Oh please don't let my kid be that kid. It's true. He bites. The good news is, he usually just bites the Hubs and I. Here's a deceptive photo: 



Oh how cute - kisses! Wrong.
Where I come from, kisses don't hurt.


He looks so sweet and innocent. But don't let him fool you, that kiss is full of wee tiny teeth.

 

Piranha.

All that being said, there are some really great things about our littlest guy. First of all, he gets stuck under his highchair a lot, and this is really amusing for the rest of the family.

 

Even the big boy can't help but stop and watch
him struggle his way out from under there.


Also, he's very shareful when it comes to food. As long as you don't mind eating something that has already been in his mouth. Or squeezed beyond recognition by a wee baby fist.



Here, have some.

One of the very best things he does is to pick up anything even remotely resembling a telephone and say "Ha-woah?" 

Unfortunately, when no one answers his disappointment
brings out the biter in him.

And finally, every once in a great while. He'll do something really superb, like this:



Photo by Derek

There it is, the wee one in a nutshell. The good, the bad, and the bite-y. 

Randomness

A little bit o this and a little bit o that.

This one's for you, Liz. Can you spot the baby in this photo?

Did you find him? It's like Where's Waldo!

***

I am doing this little advent-calendar-type-thing this year. I strung up 24 mittens on the mantle, and every day we take one down and the big boy gets a little treat.

Cute, no?

The unexpected bonus is that he wears the mitten around the house for the remainder of the afternoon.
"Would you like another mitten for your other hand?" I ask.
"No."

He's like Michael Jackson! 
Before he was creepy.

***

I spend a lot of time outside. I mean two to four hours a day - standing around in the freezing cold. In an effort to be less grumpy about this I have purchased a sweet pair of snowpants and I put "wool socks" on my Christmas list.

I even went to the LL Bean outlet armed with a gift card and a coupon and bought myself some sherpa-lined boots. When I got home I immediately went to put them on and take the kids outside.

Unfortunately, I don't have two left feet.




Seriously? Yeah, seriously - two left boots.



Awesome.

Weekend travels

On Sunday we took the boys to the Boston Children's Museum.

This was not my idea.

I am a little chicken about taking the kids ... well ... anywhere. The sheer magnitude of packing for every conceivable emergency and contingency that could crop up when travelling with these two un-potty trained wee humans is enough to give me sweaty palms.

Nonetheless, I was foisted out of my comfort zone by my beloved Hubs, who is one of those hang-your-head-out-the-window-of-a-moving-car-in-sheer-delight-ain't-life-grand kind of people. And he practically skipped out of the house this morning telling the kids, "We're going to Boston, guys!" So off we went.

It wasn't that bad. I didn't even need my CPR mask. But you know I had it with me.

We were also joined by our awesome cousin, who has eyes like a hawk when it comes to strangers, germs, and cute photo moments. And you know mama likes when the adults outnumber the wee ones. There's safety in numbers, guys.

B was fascinated by the nearly tame "city wildlife". Dude, don't touch the seagull. I don't know for sure, but I believe they are disease-laden and vicious.



Where we live, birds fly away when you poke 'em.

Although the exhibits were great, they weren't always the main attraction.



Guys, we have windows at home.


B was beyond psyched that he could touch the computers. He kept saying (with wide-eyed disbelief) "You can touch da com-pew-tah?"



Kept checkin' over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't in trouble.


Then there was the cool flashlight/shadow exhibit. "Hey Bud, who's that?"


I dunno.


In case you are feeling too clean, there is this big room with water tables and sparkly-sand tables.



Great, we drove for an hour and paid money so he could
play with the same darn spatula he plays with at home.


The wee one couldn't reach the sand or the water. Yet somehow, he still managed to get soaked.



I am not impressed.

He did rock the blocks though.



"Towah!"


This may be the first time ever that the boys have shared a toy.



Don't blink, you might miss it.

Then we walked a thousand miles (while I carried the twenty pounder) to see the folks ice skating at the common. 



He's heavier than he looks.

After that herculean feat, we needed a little java to motivate the walk back to the car. 



Hey, gimme that.

And finally, the best moment of any road trip...

 

Down goes one.





Down goes the other.

Hope your weekend was great and did not involve hefting a heavy baby for miles in downtown Boston. Where'd I put the ibuprofen?

Double Chocolate Cookies

Oh mama, the Christmas cookie-making continues this weekend with one of my all-time favorite cookies.  It's a double chocolate cookie that ends up with this phenomenal cake-like texture. It's everything you'd love about your own, personal, wee tiny chocolate cake - plus chocolate chunks.  Whoa ho ho!

This is a recipe I adapted from The Cookie Book.

Double Chocolate Cookies

3/4 cup unsalted, room temperature butter
1 1/4 cup brown sugar
3 eggs
1 tsp vanilla extract
2 1/2 cups all purpose flour
2 1/4 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1 1/3 cup white chocolate chips (or chocolate chunks, or peanut butter chips, or peppermint sticks, or crack - whatever. you can't go wrong)

Preheat oven to 365 degrees. Line your cookie sheet with parchment paper or spray with non-stick cooking spray.
Cream the butter and sugar together, then beat in the eggs, one at a time until everything is thoroughly mixed. Next, beat in the vanilla. In a separate bowl mix together the dry ingredients (sift if your cocoa is lumpy). Add the dry ingredients to the butter/sugar mixture and blend. Then mix in the chocolate chips.
Drop by level tablespoons onto the cookie sheet, spacing them far apart (they spread). Bake 10-12 minutes. Let the cookies cool on the sheet for a few minutes before transferring to a cooling rack to cool. 
Unfortunately this only makes about 35 cookies - no where NEAR enough once you've had a sample. So don't clean the mixer bowl, just go ahead and make another batch.



Did someone say cookie?



Good for a laugh

I couldn't make this stuff up.

I look up from my cereal bowl to see this: 



Apparently we're playing strip poker at the breakfast table now.


For future reference, it is unwise to wear a one piece ensemble to a strip-poker-breakfast.

***

In other news, the wee one has developed an irrational fear of airplanes and cars. If we are outside when an airplane flies overhead, or a car drives down the street, he goes into full alarm mode, shouting, "Pyane! Pyane!" or "Cah! Cah!" and then toddles as fast as his wee self can go to the nearest adult, where he clutches tenaciously to their pant legs and cries, "Uppa!".  The best part is, we live a stone's throw from the airport so this whole scene repeats itself at least 10 times a day.  If I were a good mama it would be tragic to see him so wracked with terror, but since I am a card-carrying bad mama - it's good for a laugh.

***

As if laughing at his things-that-move phobia wasn't bad enough, I also put him in clothes that don't fit, and then I laugh at that, too.  Check out these inordinately long pajamas.


This footie pj set was apparently designed for
a 4 foot tall 18 month old.



***



And finally, here's the wee one eating a pear: In a moment I will assist him, but first, the camera



Hey Dude, I'm pretty sure that's the wrong end.
Unless you're a goat.



Happy Friday!

Reading: The Mask of Motherhood by Susan Maushart

I picked up The Mask of Motherhood out of curiosity - having spotted it about a mile away from the "parenting" shelf at the library. Fiction? I wondered. Nope - it's a series of thoroughly researched non-fiction essays that examine everything from pregnancy and chilbirth right through to the division of child-rearing labor between mothers and fathers. While a bit dry at times (her research is nothing if not exhaustive) Maushart tries to offer women a realistic look at motherhood - without the "masks" of serenity, satisfaction, and expectation that are commonplace among mothers. I found myself nodding vigorously while reading, and boring my close friends with statistics from this book. Although the information isn't new to anyone who has experienced motherhood firsthand, it is certainly a breath of fresh air to someone like me, who's always wondering, "Is anyone else struggling like I am?".

"The mask of motherhood keeps women from speaking clearly what they know, and from hearing truths too threatening to face. That for every woman who "blooms" in pregnancy there's another who develops root rot. That childbirth - however transcendent or revelatory it may or may not be - still hurts like hell. That the persistent cry of a newborn can make your husband's snoring sound like a sonata. That your child's physical demands will diminish at only a fraction of the rate at which her emotional ones will multiply and intensify.  That getting the knack of combining motherhood with career is like getting the knack of brain surgery: nice work if you can get it, but 99.99 percent of us never will. "

She writes in detail about motherhood as work of great importance in and of itself, while still acknowledging that the work is extraordinarily difficult, and for the most part - unappreciated.

"Yet their inner conviction that the hard and often lonely work of mothering ... was an infinitely worthwhile endeavor never wavered. To me, there is something both profound and gallant about this admission of ambivalence, and something enormously liberating as well. That it's possible to experience motherhood as redemptive at the same time as one grapples (often badly) with the tedium, frustration and chaos of a child-centered life. The fact that we can do this, that we do do this, is for me evidence of the intrinsically honorable nature of womanhood."

Although at times, it's a bit like a text-book, I found this book amazingly comforting and reassuring.  Maushart is somehow able to extol the virtues of motherhood while remaining completely honest regarding all of its' messes and failures. I found myself holding my head up a bit higher, feeling less alone and abnormal - and that alone was worth the 200+ page investment.

Bye-Bye Binky

A major change is happening at our house.  Our big boy is done with pacifiers.

Why now? I'm not entirely sure. Something about his behavior lately just gave me that prickly feeling. It's time. His language is developing in leaps and bounds.  He's increasingly able to use abstract thought and imagination. He's becoming methodical and particular about putting things where they belong... I don't know - it's hard to describe, but for one reason or another, we just felt like now was the time.



Complex mathematical equations.

For awhile now pacifiers have been for bed and naptime only, but one morning last week I explained to those big brown eyes, "Honey, we're going to be done with pacifiers now." We went along with the book Bye-Bye Pacifier!  and I explained that the pacifiers were being mailed "to the babies that need them". 

He looked at me, furrowed his brows and said, "You can have da binky in da bed." (he has trouble with pronouns). "No, honey." I said. "They're all gone now, because you're such a big boy."

He took the news with his usual aplomb, and the subject didn't come up again until naptime.




Rockin'

He has done remarkably well. No middle of the night where's-my-binky wake up calls. No hysterics. But he has put forth some really well thought out counter arguments:

"Da babies can hab da white binky, and I can hab da wed binky!"

No? Dude, he's totally offering to share! How can I say no? How about this one:

"I can hab a turn wid da binky?"

Come on! How am I supposed to counter-argue taking turns? And, how come all of a sudden he seems to understand the concept of taking turns, when he usually looks at me like I have two heads when I offer this as a solution to a toy battle?

"Puh-weeze, mama?"

Ouch.

You know what the worst part is? I want to give those binkies back so bad it's killing me. He looks at me with those big brown eyes and I nearly keel over with heartbreak. This has been way harder on me than it has been on him. Putting him to bed at night I offer him bear-bear, blankets, his favorite books, and a kiss, but as he stares up at me, he seems so defenseless. He's doing beautifully without it and I feel it was definitely the right thing at just the right time, but man-oh-man it's been brutal for the mama.