Tag Archives: children

Faulty nipples, puke, and war paint (just another day at home)

Recently, we boys in the family got one of our periodic chances to spend some quality time together without any womenfolk around. Mommy was out for the evening, so we got to play in an estrogen-free zone for several hours.

The night got off to a good start when the baby decided he didn’t want anything to do with his bottle. I got it into his mouth a few times, but he got angry and spit it right out. As fast as I could try to bring the nipple to his mouth, he would slap it away with his little judo hands. He even made all kinds of martial arts grunts, groans, and other assorted utterances. Okay, I’m pretty sure that some of them where baby swear words, but they went well with his karate chops.

Since the baby wouldn’t eat, I thought I’d try to get some dinner into the big boy. While I was in the kitchen, making his meal, I heard him turn on the water in the downstairs bathroom. “What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m washing my hands,” came the reply from the bathroom.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know.”

This was suspicious, but I had other chickens to fry (literally). I heard him leave the bathroom, so I let it go until the noise of the water running repeated a minute later. “Come here,” I requested. He came into the kitchen looking like a wild island warrior, sporting black, magic marker stripes all over his face, arms, and legs. He even had a little extra for a mustache over his top lip. His hands were clean, though.

He wanted to know if Mommy would yell when she came home. I told him it was a distinct possibility. He wasn’t concerned that I might yell. I didn’t, so I guess he was right. I think he suspected that I might think it was kind of cool, which maybe I did, secretly. I gave him a wet rag and told him to get to work, unless he wanted to take his chances with Mommy.

It could always be worse: I don’t have the first clue as to how to deal with girls. Also, I’d be lost without a machine to toss the vomit-covered clothes into.

Meanwhile, I tried another bottle on the baby, with no better luck. Fortunately, my kids have a dad who figures it out once in a while. With the wailing baby in one arm, I rooted around the pantry with my free hand, looking for a faster nipple.  At last, I found one, but it came with a different bottle system, so I had to wash out the new bottle, one-handed, before I could try my theory.

The baby took the new bottle without even attempting to drop-kick it across the room, though he did shoot me a look and mumble something in baby words about me finally finding a nipple that had an actual hole in it. I let his sarcasm slide, because even in a house flowing with undiluted testosterone, somebody has to be the bigger man.

By now, the big boy had cleaned up all of his parts that he could easily see in the mirror. He was all set, as long as Mommy stayed in front of him. We worked on eating his belated dinner. He gave it the old preschool try, but wanted to give up with still too much left on his plate. I asked him to at least finish his biscuit. This was my mistake, as I had not been clear that he shouldn’t attempt it in one bite. He put about five times too much food into his mouth, which made him gag, followed closely by the puking.

We got him to the toilet mostly in time. There were just a few small spots to clean off the linoleum. His dinner was wasted, but there were no nasty vomit stains to clean up off the carpet. Overall, it would have to be classified as a success, as far as puking goes. He flushed the toilet and announced that he would like some gummy bears for dessert.

The baby took another little bottle. He didn’t seem very satisfied though. He was beginning to miss Mommy, or at least the part of her he knew best. Bottles were not at all the manner of taking nourishment to which he was accustomed, and he would not let the affront pass without complaining to the management.

And then, it looked like things were going to get worse. The big boy had picked up the hand bellows from the fireplace and was aiming it at the baby’s face. He was going to poke the baby in the eye before I could stop him. But he didn’t poke the baby. He held the bellows in front of the baby and squeezed, blowing a puff of air into the baby’s face.

The baby stopped his crying and laughed – not smiled, not gurgled, laughed. It was the best, heartiest, happiest laugh I have ever heard from this baby. The big boy squeezed out another puff of air. The baby practically convulsed with guffaws. The big boy laughed. I laughed.

They did this for several minutes – puff, laugh, puff, laugh. Sometimes, nobody can make a boy laugh like his brother can. Sometimes, a long, difficult night can turn itself around on the simple whim of a child. Sometimes, all the boys of the house just need to hang out and be boys together.

Once in a while we just need our Man Time together, in spite of the consequences.

From the mouths of babes: new medical terms

One expects a certain amount of nighttime tumult from an infant, but a three-year-old can supply you with a considerable amount of sleep deprivation as well. The difference is that the older child should be able to explain his trouble to you. He should be able to, but he can’t.

Your three-year-old is half asleep when he presents you with his nighttime calamity. He knows he’s out of bed and crying, but he can’t really explain why. He can’t choose words very well in his semi-slumber. Also, he doesn’t have the first clue as to why he is crying.

Yes, he may know that he wants a drink of water. But when it comes down to why he is crying about it, he is just as much in the dark as you are. Maybe it’s that things always seem more dramatic with the lights out. Why do you groan so much more about having to get him a drink at 3 a.m. than at 3 p.m.?

It’s not worth asking him why he’s crying. The only thing he can tell you is that he doesn’t know. But since he is crying, and half asleep, it comes out in that spine-jabbing whine, “I-I-I-I do-o-o-on’t kno-o-o-ow.” Save yourself the cringe and just give the kid his water. You can investigate why it was a life-or-death situation at first light.

There are nights, sad to say, when you must try to communicate with the child. The other night, my son came to ask for water because his mouth hurt. I assumed he meant that his mouth was dry so I helped him get a drink. I was already mentally back in bed, when he started crying and said his mouth still hurt.

I asked him why his mouth hurt. He said he’d hurt it with his spoon when he had eaten some yogurt.

Aside: Imagine the Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan scene where Captain Kirk clenches his fists, looks up, and yells, “Khaaaaaan!” Only, it’s me clenching my fists, looking at the bathroom ceiling, and yelling, “Yooooo-guuuuurt!” Yogurt seems to be on course to become the bane of my existence. That night, the problem yogurt was not the one the boy begged me to buy and then wouldn’t eat, it was the one that both vexes and addicts his mother.

“Yooooo-guuuuurt!” (Paramount Pictures)

“I want you to get it out of my mouth,” he said between sobs.

“Get what out of your mouth?”

“It.”

“Is there something in your mouth that doesn’t belong there?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“The hurt.”

“What do you expect me to do about that?”

“Get it out.”

I got my flashlight. I really just wanted to dump him back into bed, but the delinquent parent headlines were already nagging me:

Yogurt Shard Lodges In Toddler’s Throat After Parent Ignores Child’s Plea

Doctors Forced to Amputate Yogurt Boy’s Uvula

Officials Say Yogurt Tragedy Completely Avoidable

I mean, what if there really were something lodged in his mouth – something that didn’t seem worth mentioning to me when I’d brushed his teeth and put him to bed many hours ago?

I shined my light. His mouth was pink and perfect. Nothing was in there that shouldn’t have been, except a bright light at 3 a.m.

“Can you get it out?” he sobbed.

“There’s nothing in there. What do you want me to get out?”

“Now that I’ve extracted the offending yogurt shard, we can begin to patch up this child’s tonsils. Nurse, bring me my hurt-stain remover.” (Image: James Wallace Pondelicek)

“The hurt-stain.”

I can only assume that hurt-stain is a concept manufactured by a sleepy and distressed preschool consciousness. If you know what it is, please tell me. And then let me know if it should be hyphenated; I like to represent these ideas accurately.

I may not know exactly what a hurt-stain is, but I do know what it means to me. It means it’s time for everybody to get back into bed and sleep off whatever ails them.

The next day, when people at work commented that I looked very tired, I told them I just had a little hurt-stain on my eyelids. They said no more about it.

Lightning Boy, a.k.a. Kid Molasses

Every time I want to sit down for a minute, my son transforms into a loud and demanding body of energy. “Daddy, build a train track for me. Daddy, let’s go ride my bike. Daddy, I need some juice. Daddy, get down on the floor so I can ride you like a horse. Daddy, tell me everything I just asked you. I forgot some of them.”

As soon as I try to sit down for a minute he turns into this blur of unlimited energy. The only way to slow him down now is to ask him to perform a specific task. But that could shut him off altogether.

So why should it be so surprising that every time I need him to do something, he automatically switches into super-slow gear? It’s not surprising. I’ve been at this game long enough to know just what to expect.

Of course, he’s going to drag his feet when asked to do something he doesn’t want to do. Getting ready for bed is the prime example. He crawls up the stairs like a commando – one who has been shot in both legs. He carefully inspects the potty to make sure it is a worthy receptacle for his pee. He unscrews the toothpaste cap as if it were rusted tight from years of disuse. His nightlight, pajamas, pillow, and 18 blankets must be perfectly arranged. This takes a certain amount of dedication, and a larger amount of time.

I don’t begrudge his efforts to put off bedtime. That plan makes perfect sense. What tries my patience is his pokiness in doing things he enjoys. Going to the park is great fun. There are two things he must do before leaving the house. He must go pee and put on his shoes. It has been this way for the balance of his lifetime, and yet . . .

No matter where he is in the house, there are two dozen distractions between him and the potty. His shoes are in the exact same place they were yesterday, and the day before that, but he’ll be damned if he can find them. Getting them onto his feet is the easy part, if you are willing to pretend with him that he doesn’t know which shoe goes on which foot. This, I remind you, is an outing for which he is most eager.

Does he know his shoes are on the wrong feet? Absolutely. Does he care? That depends on whether or not anybody thinks it was clever to have put them on the wrong feet.

Likewise, you might expect him to dance around his plate when served a food he doesn’t like. But why must he restrict himself to three bites per hour of his favorite meals? He only likes to use one prong of his fork at a time. We have to start him early on dinner if we don’t want to leave him sitting alone into the night. The only food he will chew at a normal rate is shrimp tempura, which Daddy cannot afford to supply every time there is something to do after lunch.

It can get tiring, shepherding him through his slow-motion routines. After a while, Daddy needs to sit down. There must be a switch in the cushions of the sofa that turns the boy’s juice back up to full blast. It works every time: “Daddy, you have to chase me. Daddy, let’s play in the sprinkler. Daddy . . .”

If you want to keep your feet, Daddy, stay on your toes

There are enough families in the world with too little love in them that I don’t want to sound as if I am complaining about having too much love following me around the house. Don’t think of it as complaining. Think of it as documenting.

Really? A stationary piece of furniture is enough to take you down, Dick? I guess life was simpler in your black and white world. (CBS Television)

My three-year-old son likes to be close to me. It often seems to me that the only time he is not climbing on me is when he is following me around, trying to make me trip over him. In this regard, I’m a bit like Dick Van Dyke, except that the ottoman I trip over every night has active legs and relocates himself to wherever my path is likely to turn.

When we walk together, he likes to lead the way. This puts him in excellent position to stop without warning, which, in turn, is a wonderful way to prod Daddy into spinning, juking, hop-stepping, and showing off all the other moves that would have made him an All-Pro halfback if only pro scouts looked for talent in the kitchens of middle-aged dads.

I am in most danger when I am walking alone, because I am never truly walking alone. There is always a little stealth obstacle sneaking up behind me, waiting for the inevitable moment when I must turn. Since there are no long straightaways in our house, he doesn’t have long to wait. I will turn and throw myself wildly into the avoidance ballet that his presence demands. And while I am gyrating so gracefully, I might as well jeté over to the fridge and get him the juice he so silently came to request.

The accomplice. Layabout cat by day; Daddy-tripping fiend by night.

As if the boy couldn’t cause me to break my ankles by himself, he has an ally in the endeavor. The cat gets a little snack before bedtime. At about two hours before bedtime, the cat starts to follow me around the house, just in case I feel like giving him his treat early. Whenever I go in the general direction of his bowl, the cat attempts to run between my feet to lead me there. I’ve done many a tap dance around that cat, and his tail has dampened my tread on numerous occasions.

When the boy and the cat get to thinking alike, I become a veritable whirling dervish of sidestepping stardom. They are a dangerous pair, especially if I happen to be carrying the baby. Don’t worry on the baby’s account though. Through my long hours of practice for the Pro Bowl, I have learned to carry him like a football and to avoid fumbling. When my tackler grows tall enough for me to straight-arm, I will have an added defense. The baby will be fine. I figure I’ll be hop frogging over him too pretty soon, right about the time I get the replacement hip installed.