Mendolonium

It’s ten-thirty and Jeff has just emerged from the boys’ room after putting Thomas to bed, “What did you read him tonight?” he asks shaking his head.  “He’s scared of panthers.”.  “Oh”, I reply knowingly, “Not tonight…last night.  The story of grandpa and the panther in chapter two.  Tonight was chapter three:  The Long Rifle.”

Two nights ago I decided that Thomas and I had had enough of children’s books about bunnies, bears, and the occasional hapless monster.  I decided it was time to introduce Thomas to my favorite books of all time:  The Little House series by Laura Ingalls Wilder.  I explained to him that we would read a chapter every night.  The past three nights he has listened with rapt attention, hanging on every word.  While the stories of wolves, butchering pigs, and loading guns must in many ways seem like utter fantasy to a boy who has spent his entire life in vegetarian household located a densely populated inner suburb, he seems to grasp my explanation that the books are real, that they tell a story of the way things were.  After each chapter he asks me questions rapid-fire, like a tiny sleeper clad lawyer cross-examining a witness that he knows holds the truth.   “Why does Laura not want Susan [her corncob doll] to see her holding Mary’s doll?”, “Where are Laura and Mary’s toys?”, “Is a panther a bad animal?”.

A few minutes after Jeff came out of the den of supposedly sleeping boys Henry woke up for the 3rd time tonight.  It was my turn so I went in to soothe him back to sleep, pausing to listen at the boys’ door – just to make sure he did not settle him back to sleep.  For a brief few moments there was silence and then a wail punctuated the darkness seemed to demand, “Pick me up right now!”  I sprung into the room and swept Henry from his crib.  And then I heard a small, quiet sobbing from Thomas’ bed.  I looked over to see him huddled in the corner, tears shining on his face.  I sat down with Henry on Thomas’ bed – trying to comfort my two sad little boys.  I quickly called Jeff in and handed him the baby – instantly eliciting sobs of unjust protest from Henry.  Jeff left the room to walk with Henry and I asked Thomas what was wrong.  “I’m scared.”  “What is scaring you?” I asked with concern.  “Henry crying”, he replied pitifully, “He was crying and Mama needed to come pick him up.”  “Oh”, I said touched by his empathy for his brother and his obvious dependence on us as his parents to fix that which ails them.  I stroked his head, a gesture he usually shrugs away from, but tonight allowed me and told him that we would always take care of him and his brother; that we loved them so much; that we will keep them safe.  Thomas quieted and I breathed a sigh of relief when his eyes popped open and he stated with a bit of a question in his voice, “Panthers only live in Florida…”  “Yes, that’s right.  There are no panthers in California.  And our house has big strong walls, and doors, and windows so even if there were panthers here they could not get in.  And Kermit would bark at them so we would know they were coming.”  I said giving everything I had in reassurance.   The thought of our fourteen pound dog yapping away at a panther either comforted him of amused him and he smiled.  Jeff came back in the room with a now sleeping Henry.  For a few minutes the four of us were together in quiet darkness, warm in the only heated room in the house, secure in the knowledge that we and those that we love the most were all safe.

To my boys:  we may put you down, we may leave the room, but we will never let the panthers get you.

He is, a morning person; something I do not understand but can’t help but love when he wakes up next to me smiling and talking.

He is too busy to nurse when he is awake.  He is cuddly and focused, nursing for a long time – twenty minutes to an hour, but only when he is sleepy.  I can sometimes catch him with a little nurse in the morning – both of us half asleep, but then he is off and crawling, only settling down to nurse before his morning and afternoon naps and then again at bedtime (and all night long).  Occasionally he gets fussy and I realize that he is thirsty or hungry and he will allow me to nurse him wide awake.  At those times, he nurses like a man at an oasis in the desert; then sits up and attempts to fling himself off the rocking chair – his way of letting me know he is quite done.

He might not like to nurse when he is awake, but boy, that baby can eat.  He demolishes bowls of tortellini, plates of spanikopita, and handfuls of crackers.  He loves strong flavors and relishes balsamic vinaigrette and Indian food.  I never bought and hardly made any “baby” food for him at all; he much prefers finger foods that he can feed himself.   He isn’t overly fond of sweets; actually seeming to prefer the savory.  His favorite food is, without a doubt, cheese and when I opened the refrigerator to retrieve some cheese for myself recently I am quite sure he exclaimed “Cheese!” while he squirmed excitedly.

He was rather quiet from months four through nine, but has now exploded in conversation.  Babbling animatedly and using real words now:  “Da da” (for Jeff), “Ta ta” (for Thomas), “Ba” (for bath), “Yea!” (when we clap and are happy), “Dog-gah” (for dog), and his first word “Kit-tay” (for kitty and sometimes the dog).  He surprised me earlier this week by crawling over to a drawing of a tiger in one of his brother’s books and exclaiming, “Kit-tay!”.  He signs “nurse”, “more”, “eat”, “cracker”, and “dog”.

He has discovered books and can’t get enough of these.  He’ll sit in our laps for half an hour reading and re-reading each book over and over again.  He turns the pages himself, quickly and with a flourish or sorts, when he has had enough of a picture.  Yesterday I saw him, for the first time, pick up a book and “read” it to himself contentedly.

He could care less about toys.  The remote, the stuffing to a chair, the rocks in the garden all have far more appeal to him than anything made by Haba or Chicco.  The only “age appropriate” objects he is interested in are blocks and balls, although the more “adult” or dangerous the ball the more he likes it.  To wit, an old half-deflated balloon (aka latex chocking hazard of doom) is his favorite plaything right now.  He puts everything in his mouth; I live in fear of the day he finds a nugget of dog poo in the backyard.  You know how some toddlers hit, some scream, and some bite when frustrated – he’ll be a biter.

He is fearless.  I have the feeling he will be the child of mine that wins the “Most Visits to the ER” award.  Instead of standing on the floor and pushing his block wagon, he climbs on top of it and stands up, holding on with one hand.  While outside putting together a playhouse the kids received for Christmas I had to climb inside of it (cursing all the while at the infernal thing) in order to complete it.  When I emerged thirty seconds later, I found him at the top of the stairs, kneeling at the back door grinning as if he was the king of the world.  This week I removed the couch cushions for cleaning and he scrambled up the cushions onto the bare couch and proceeded to have one of the best times of his life, climbing and rolling ,up and down and up again.

He loves active play; roughhousing with his brother like a tiny little Greco-Roman wrestler.   At his brother’s weekly tumbling class he flings himself into the pit of foam blocks with the three and four year olds, scampers over the mats, and looks longingly at the trampoline and high bars.  He is a huge fan of baths and will make a beeline for the bathroom as soon as we announce it is bath time or he hears the water running.  He pulls up on the outside of the tub and chants “Ba, ba ba!” while he lifts up his leg and attempts to climb in.  Bathing with a three-year-old big brother is risky business and he inevitably gets dunked under the water ending up with a face full of bubbles.  But after an initial moment of distress he shakes off the affront and starts crawling around, standing up, and plopping back down in the bath again, ready for more.

He adores being naked.  He fights getting dressed and diapers like he is a member of some sort of clothing resistance movement.  There have been times when he is cranky in the afternoon, tired from a too-short nap, refusing to nurse, and at a loss as to how to cheer him, I have stripped him down naked and instantly his fussiness evaporates as he streaks around the house unencumbered by his fabric shackles.

He is a “stinker” – a little imp impervious to adult rules.  We tell him no and distract him tirelessly, but he persists in attempting to pull up on the oven, gnaw on the window frames, and eat fur off the floor.  He has made a game out of quickly crawling over to the dog bed and then making a very specific little noise which brings me running to check on him.  I say “stinker” and he giggles and crawls off, waiting to crawl back on the bed again when I am not looking.

He does not suffer in silence.  When he is displeased he makes what we not-so-affectionately refer to as “the noise”; a sort of “eh eh eh” sound over and over again that will make you say, “I don’t care what it is (food, boobies, the credit card?), just give into his demands and make it stop.”  When he falls (which is often given his propensity to climb anything three dimensional) he cries loudly so that all may fuss over his perceived wounds.  At night when Jeff goes to soothe him back to sleep it sounds as if he is yelling at Jeff, giving Jeff a spirited lecture on why he should be handed over to his Mama right this minute.

He is so happy when I come home.  He smiles widely and reaches out for me.  Jeff hands him to me he and quiets and shoots Jeff a triumphant little smirk.  I nuzzle his soft, wispy hair.  He burrows his head into my neck and clings to me like a little baby orangutan holding on to his mama for dear life.

He is so easy to love.

He is my sweet, little “Bubby”.

He is my Henry.

Clearly I have too much time on my hands…

Sing-a-long to the tune of “Sixteen Going on Seventeen” from The Sound of Music:

[Mama:]

You wait, little boy, with an empty mouth
For solid food to snack on
Your palate, little boy, is an empty page
For new flavors to write on

[Henry:]

To write on…

[Mama:]

You have two teeth, going on three teeth
Baby, it’s time to chew
Better beware, be cautious and careful
for Mama who’s nursing you

You have two teeth, going on three teeth
The others will come in time
Eager young moms and siblings and dads
Will offer you tastes sublime

Totally unprepared are you
To face a world of food
Timid and shy and scared are you
Of things that are not smooth

You need someone older and wiser
Cutting tidbits for you to chew
I am your mama, you are my baby
I’ll take care of you

Sing-a-long to the tune of “On Top of Spaghetti”…

In charge of the children, all covered with snot.
I lost my poor marbles, when sleep they would not.

One thrashed in his crib, the other wiggled in bed,
And then my poor marbles rolled out of my head.

I blame a virus, perhaps flu from a hog?
All that I wanted, was children asleep so that I could blog.

Instead I am nursing the baby again.
And look now the three-year-old has started to complain.

I feel my sanity, slowly slipping away.
I won’t be sleeping tonight much to my dismay.

So if you have children, heed my advice please.
Hold on to your marbles, whenever they sneeze.