Lately getting my 13-month-old daughter to lie still for a diaper change has become a challenge. The second we even approach the changing table, she begins plotting an escape that makes the jailbreak from Shawshank Redemption seem like an amateur operation. Rather than get frustrated with the situation, I prefer to view it as our simply having conflicting goals. As such, we should be able to resolve the problem using the fine art of negotiation:
Step 1. Understand each party's motivation. This can be accomplished by clear, open communication:
Mom: Baby, I know you want to wander around naked, but until you learn to use the toilet, you need to wear a diaper.
Baby: Mother, you fail to understand my inherent need to assert my individuality and achieve the most basic of human rights, freedom. It's incumbent on me to...Wait! (spotting a previously unseen piece of plastic) What's that over there? Why is it not in my mouth? Who's responsible for this oversight?!
Step 2. Make an offer.
Mom: Look, it's Mr. Mouse doll! (Wiggling doll in Baby's face while making a ridiculous squeaking sound.) Isn't he INTERESTING? Isn't he FUN? Isn't he the best mouse in the entire world?
Baby: Well, as far as rodents go, I'm sure this one is acceptable. And since you're making such a valiant effort, I'll give you 30 seconds to do your business...but then all bets are off.
Mom frantically removes baby's diaper and begins cleaning the mess. Midway through the operation time runs out...
Step 3. Up the ante.
Mom: Look, it's a paper towel roll! What could be more interesting than a paper towel roll? It's all yours...but remember, no eating paper.
Baby (grabbing the paper towel roll with glee): A paper towel roll! Sweet, beautiful paper! First, I'm going to make confetti and throw it all over the floor. Then I'm going to see how much paper I can unroll. And then, the very best part of all...
Baby begins stuffing pieces of paper in her mouth and chewing with noisy contentment.
Step 4. Bring in the heavy.
The last resort, but always a winner. In comes Dad, the ultimate distraction. Perhaps he'll rationally explain to Baby why diaper changing is so important. Perhaps he'll distract her with a discussion of the ramifications of credit default swaps. Perhaps he'll stand on his head. It really doesn't matter what he does; he's Dad. Face it ladies: nine months of pregnancy, many more months of nursing...and nothing is more exciting than an impromptu appearance by Dad. But that's OK, because two minutes later, and Baby is diapered, dressed, and ready to tackle her next mission, rearranging the Tupperware cabinet. The negotiation has concluded, and everyone is a winner. Now go clean up that paper towel confetti!
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
My Wheels: Now and Then
After living in cities for many years, I'm back behind the wheel of a Honda, driving to the mall, the gas station, the supermarket, the gas station, McDonald's, the gas station, my parents' house, the gas station. Looking around my car, I can't help but notice that the clutter filling the interior has changed somewhat since the last time I had a car in the suburbs, 1994. Here is a comparison of the junk inside my home-away-from-home, now and then:
1994: Crushed tape cover for Ini Kamoze's epic single, "Here Comes the Hotstepper," covered with ink stains and splatterings of Diet Dr. Pepper.
2010: Wrinkled Babies R Us coupons, splattered with Diet Dr. Pepper and baby drool.
1994: A dozen empty water bottles.
2010: A dozen empty water bottles.
1994: A copy of Sassy magazine, opened to an editorial on the joys of creating a mix tape about the joys of vegetarianism.
2010: A copy of What to Expect: The Toddler Years, opened to a section on how to discourage your child from using the dish full of gourmet food you painstakingly prepared as a Frisbee.
1994: A flannel shirt left in the back seat by someone who apparently didn't shower very often.
2010: One size 2 sandal for which I just spent a half hour searching the apartment, finally building up the courage to look under the couch, where I uncovered a teething ring, a long-lost sock, a finger puppet, and a Tic Tac.
1994: A copy of an essay comparing the themes of Camus' existential classic The Stranger with the alienation and angst of Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit."
2010: A stuffed animal that, after connecting it to my laptop, can recite my daughter's name, favorite animal, social security number, some stock recommendations, and five more Leapfrog products she should convince Mommy to buy her.
Of course, nothing compares to the biggest change of all...the passengers inhabiting the back seat:
1994: Whichever BFF failed to call "shotgun" quickly enough to grab the passenger seat...or some friend of a friend in need of a ride to the mall.
2010: The most adorable BFF I've ever had, who accompanies me everywhere, never complains about my playing the same Journey song three times in a row, and never fails to pipe in with a unique insight or the best word in the English language: "mama."
Here's to my favorite back-seat driver!
1994: Crushed tape cover for Ini Kamoze's epic single, "Here Comes the Hotstepper," covered with ink stains and splatterings of Diet Dr. Pepper.
2010: Wrinkled Babies R Us coupons, splattered with Diet Dr. Pepper and baby drool.
1994: A dozen empty water bottles.
2010: A dozen empty water bottles.
1994: A copy of Sassy magazine, opened to an editorial on the joys of creating a mix tape about the joys of vegetarianism.
2010: A copy of What to Expect: The Toddler Years, opened to a section on how to discourage your child from using the dish full of gourmet food you painstakingly prepared as a Frisbee.
1994: A flannel shirt left in the back seat by someone who apparently didn't shower very often.
2010: One size 2 sandal for which I just spent a half hour searching the apartment, finally building up the courage to look under the couch, where I uncovered a teething ring, a long-lost sock, a finger puppet, and a Tic Tac.
1994: A copy of an essay comparing the themes of Camus' existential classic The Stranger with the alienation and angst of Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit."
2010: A stuffed animal that, after connecting it to my laptop, can recite my daughter's name, favorite animal, social security number, some stock recommendations, and five more Leapfrog products she should convince Mommy to buy her.
Of course, nothing compares to the biggest change of all...the passengers inhabiting the back seat:
1994: Whichever BFF failed to call "shotgun" quickly enough to grab the passenger seat...or some friend of a friend in need of a ride to the mall.
2010: The most adorable BFF I've ever had, who accompanies me everywhere, never complains about my playing the same Journey song three times in a row, and never fails to pipe in with a unique insight or the best word in the English language: "mama."
Here's to my favorite back-seat driver!
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
The Woes of Weaning
This week I ended a very special ritual with my daughter. I've finally weaned her from the breast and onto the cup. According to my baby book, it's an optimal time to do it. (And if the book says so, I believe it...I haven't followed anything so precisely since the instructions for assembling my IKEA dresser.) And so, we've been weaning for weeks, dropping one feeding at a time. Mother's Day was to be the final nursing session. I chose that day partly for its symbolism, and partly because it always seemed so far away.
And then it wasn't.
And now this relationship has ended. The first of many endings to come in our mother-daughter relationship, and realistically, probably not the most dramatic. I imagine other endings will hit me harder: the first time she doesn't want to hold my hand in public, the first time she spends a night away from home, the day when she stops finding my Poison CDs cool and "retro." But this is the first time I've had to let go, to grant her some independence. And for me it's a glimpse into part of what motherhood is: putting what's right for your child ahead of what's necessarily comfortable for yourself. I have to be honest: she likes her cup. She likes her new source of milk. She doesn't seem to notice that anything's changed.
But I've noticed. I miss that moment, after I've nursed her and she looks up at me with those drowsy, contented little eyes, and radiates with a smile that no one else sees. In that moment of silent, clandestine communication, I bend my head toward hers and rub her tiny nose against mine, eliciting a giggle and a smile of delight. And now, I've been replaced by a cup and a cow...and probably one of those irritating California cows from those annoying milk commercials. It's not that I begrudge my daughter her sippy cup. But it's hard to nuzzle with a baby who's chugging like a pledge at a frat party. She seems happy enough, but it's not the tender mother-daughter moment I've grown accustomed to.
Before I started nursing, I didn't know if I'd make it three months. Now it's been thirteen months, and I'm sad to let it go. But I'm trying to focus on the special moments ahead of us. The first time she lets me read her a book. Our first time baking cookies. The first Mother's Day she hands me a card she's written all by herself. One day I'll follow her lead and blissfully move on from those cozy cribside moments where we bonded for so many months. Until then, watch out sippy cup. Hell hath no fury like a Mommy scorned...
And then it wasn't.
And now this relationship has ended. The first of many endings to come in our mother-daughter relationship, and realistically, probably not the most dramatic. I imagine other endings will hit me harder: the first time she doesn't want to hold my hand in public, the first time she spends a night away from home, the day when she stops finding my Poison CDs cool and "retro." But this is the first time I've had to let go, to grant her some independence. And for me it's a glimpse into part of what motherhood is: putting what's right for your child ahead of what's necessarily comfortable for yourself. I have to be honest: she likes her cup. She likes her new source of milk. She doesn't seem to notice that anything's changed.
But I've noticed. I miss that moment, after I've nursed her and she looks up at me with those drowsy, contented little eyes, and radiates with a smile that no one else sees. In that moment of silent, clandestine communication, I bend my head toward hers and rub her tiny nose against mine, eliciting a giggle and a smile of delight. And now, I've been replaced by a cup and a cow...and probably one of those irritating California cows from those annoying milk commercials. It's not that I begrudge my daughter her sippy cup. But it's hard to nuzzle with a baby who's chugging like a pledge at a frat party. She seems happy enough, but it's not the tender mother-daughter moment I've grown accustomed to.
Before I started nursing, I didn't know if I'd make it three months. Now it's been thirteen months, and I'm sad to let it go. But I'm trying to focus on the special moments ahead of us. The first time she lets me read her a book. Our first time baking cookies. The first Mother's Day she hands me a card she's written all by herself. One day I'll follow her lead and blissfully move on from those cozy cribside moments where we bonded for so many months. Until then, watch out sippy cup. Hell hath no fury like a Mommy scorned...
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Mother's Day Countdown
Mother's Day is fast approaching. It's my second one with my daughter, who was about one month old when we celebrated our first Mother's Day together. Here are the top ten things I've learned in the past year:
10. Ah, shoes. Laces to chew, Velcro to chew, rubber to chew. The only thing better than a pair of shoes is a closet full of shoes...who can ever get enough of that yummy, shoey goodness?
9. The trifecta: transferring a sleeping baby from the car to the changing table to the crib without waking her. Practically an Olympic event.
8. After many hours and several classes in engineering, I can now remove a new toy from its packaging without bloodshed, tears, or obscenities. Ten more hours and I get my certification.
7. I was prepared to choose between working and staying home. Instead I make that choice every day, watching my daughter's bewildered expression as I leave the room, her tiny arms raised toward the slowly closing office door. After a year, I'm now able to get at least some work done before sinking into a spiral of guilt and despair.
6. All that karaoke has come in handy. Show me the crying fit that can withstand Def Leppard or Ini Kamoze.
5. I thought the cabinets were properly organized. However, my daughter has demonstrated at least a dozen alternative ways to arrange each unlocked space.
4. I can fit a stroller, a pack & play, six bags of groceries, and a booster seat in the trunk...and still have room for a body, if necessary. Or a spare tire.
3. I've gone from being able to lift a slice of pizza with a couple of toppings to being able to lift a 23-pound baby with one hand (because the pizza is in the other one).
2. After intensive military training and repeated readings of Sun Tzu, I've discovered the secret to outmaneuvering other mothers with strollers (and the occasional person in a wheelchair) onto the elevator at the mall. Hey, that sale at Gymboree is one day only!
1. It's possible to grow a little every day, be amazed a little every day, and fall in love a little every day. It's possible to learn from someone who can't speak, be moved by someone who can't walk, and be awestruck by a tiny pair of brown eyes looking at you with innocence and love. There is no job more wondrous, overwhelming or perfect than motherhood.
10. Ah, shoes. Laces to chew, Velcro to chew, rubber to chew. The only thing better than a pair of shoes is a closet full of shoes...who can ever get enough of that yummy, shoey goodness?
9. The trifecta: transferring a sleeping baby from the car to the changing table to the crib without waking her. Practically an Olympic event.
8. After many hours and several classes in engineering, I can now remove a new toy from its packaging without bloodshed, tears, or obscenities. Ten more hours and I get my certification.
7. I was prepared to choose between working and staying home. Instead I make that choice every day, watching my daughter's bewildered expression as I leave the room, her tiny arms raised toward the slowly closing office door. After a year, I'm now able to get at least some work done before sinking into a spiral of guilt and despair.
6. All that karaoke has come in handy. Show me the crying fit that can withstand Def Leppard or Ini Kamoze.
5. I thought the cabinets were properly organized. However, my daughter has demonstrated at least a dozen alternative ways to arrange each unlocked space.
4. I can fit a stroller, a pack & play, six bags of groceries, and a booster seat in the trunk...and still have room for a body, if necessary. Or a spare tire.
3. I've gone from being able to lift a slice of pizza with a couple of toppings to being able to lift a 23-pound baby with one hand (because the pizza is in the other one).
2. After intensive military training and repeated readings of Sun Tzu, I've discovered the secret to outmaneuvering other mothers with strollers (and the occasional person in a wheelchair) onto the elevator at the mall. Hey, that sale at Gymboree is one day only!
1. It's possible to grow a little every day, be amazed a little every day, and fall in love a little every day. It's possible to learn from someone who can't speak, be moved by someone who can't walk, and be awestruck by a tiny pair of brown eyes looking at you with innocence and love. There is no job more wondrous, overwhelming or perfect than motherhood.
Happy Mother's Day to all the Mommies
who make a difference in their children's lives...
one dirty diaper,
one skinned knee,
one squeal of delight at a time.
who make a difference in their children's lives...
one dirty diaper,
one skinned knee,
one squeal of delight at a time.
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