It seems that every time I think Charlie has pushed me to the brink of sanity, usually within 24 hours of that moment, the kid does something to make me reconsider my 'Free to Good Home' posting on Craig's List. It's no surprise that our family, including his grandmothers, have taken to calling him Jekyll and Hyde, his attitude swings are that drastic.
Monday night, it's 4 pm, t-minus 4 hours till bedtime. Charlie has lost all privileges for the evening and I'm not sure what else I can take away from this kid short of his life, since his treatment of his brother is bordering on criminal. Brian arrives on the scene to see Charlie dragging his brother around the house by the blanket he has stuffed into his mouth. Gregory is not old enough to realize that he can simply open his mouth and let go. I'm making dinner and yelling from the kitchen, "Leave him alone. Why don't you drag your doll around the house instead of Gregory. I'm telling you for the last time, do not hurt your brother. Do you want to lose TV for tomorrow night, too?"
Charlie decides to take Gregory on another lap. On the way, he swings by the kitchen to rub my face in his defiance. He stops, looks at me, then at Brian and says, "Daddy, you know what I haven't seen in a while?" What, Charlie? "You and Mommy giving each other a hug." Do you like it when we hug? "Yes, it makes me feel happy." We proceed to hug each other, then grab him and make a Charlie sandwich with him in the middle.
As quickly as it appeared, the cheesy family moment is gone. Charlie says, 'Thanks, stope it'. Pushing his brother into the wall, he runs from the room, hysterically laughing. Who was that masked man? I think he needs his Prozac prescription refilled.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Owie, Owie, Owie
It's hard not to compare your kids to one another. Charlie and Gregory walked at exactly the same age, 13 1/2 months. They both started sleeping through the night at roughly 5 1/2 months, which felt like 5 1/2 years. They both gave up the bottle at 12 months, though with Gregory, you would have thought I was stripping him of a vital organ. That boy loved his 'baba' and still stares longingly at little babies sucking away on theirs.
Talking has been a whole other story. By 14 months Charlie had full words, he could mimic everything I said perfectly and with such clear enunciation that he would stop adults in their tracks. How could this tiny being have more words than most 2 or even 3 year olds? When I took him in for some developmental testing that they perform for babies born premature and who spent time in the NICU, the neurologist wrote in his chart that Charlie was 'VERY VERBAL'. And he continues to be to this day. This morning he said, 'Mommy, sit down, we need to have a discussion because I'm feeling very upset with you. You hurt my feelings when you told me I couldn't have chocolate ice cream for breakfast. I'm not so very happy with you. You should go to your room and think about what you've done.'
Gregory turned 14 months this past week and has a few words. Mostly 'Dada' when Brian comes home and 'Mama' when he feels he's been wrongly incarcerated in his crib. It doesn't bother me and I don't compare them in the sense that Charlie is better or smarter because he talked at an earlier age. Sure it would be easier if Gregory could say 'milk' instead of screaming at his sippy cup, but I find great satisfaction in trying to figure out exactly what he wants and then watching him kick his feet and smile with excitement when I give it to him. It's like a little victory for us both.
This week we've noticed a couple of new words entering his lexicon. The other night when Charlie jumped off the coffee table and body slammed him onto the ground, Gregory said very distinctly in between tears and snots, 'Owie, owie, owie.' He uses it now every time Charlie is around. Even if they're at opposite ends of the room, he'll point at him and say 'Owie, owie'. It would be funny, as well as hugely appropriate, if Gregory grew up calling him Owie instead of Charlie, considering Charlie treats him like a human punching bag.
The second word just came out this morning, I'm not sure but it sounded a lot like 'Stopit'. I take full credit for this one. In our home there is a din of 'stopitstopitstopistopitstopit.' To most people it's alarmingly loud when they first enter, but to us it's like background noise from the street. No wonder Gregory thinks it's one word and has taken to repeating it constantly. It's my most frequently spoken statement to both of the boys. 'Stop it, stop it, stop it! Get your hand out of his mouth. His tongue does not come out, it is attached.' Or 'Stop it, stop it, stop it. Gregory, get your hand out of there. Dirty! Dirty! Poop is dirty!'
I'm waiting with baited breath to hear his next word. If he's anything like his brother, it will be, "Hello, DCS? We have a problem."
Talking has been a whole other story. By 14 months Charlie had full words, he could mimic everything I said perfectly and with such clear enunciation that he would stop adults in their tracks. How could this tiny being have more words than most 2 or even 3 year olds? When I took him in for some developmental testing that they perform for babies born premature and who spent time in the NICU, the neurologist wrote in his chart that Charlie was 'VERY VERBAL'. And he continues to be to this day. This morning he said, 'Mommy, sit down, we need to have a discussion because I'm feeling very upset with you. You hurt my feelings when you told me I couldn't have chocolate ice cream for breakfast. I'm not so very happy with you. You should go to your room and think about what you've done.'
Gregory turned 14 months this past week and has a few words. Mostly 'Dada' when Brian comes home and 'Mama' when he feels he's been wrongly incarcerated in his crib. It doesn't bother me and I don't compare them in the sense that Charlie is better or smarter because he talked at an earlier age. Sure it would be easier if Gregory could say 'milk' instead of screaming at his sippy cup, but I find great satisfaction in trying to figure out exactly what he wants and then watching him kick his feet and smile with excitement when I give it to him. It's like a little victory for us both.
This week we've noticed a couple of new words entering his lexicon. The other night when Charlie jumped off the coffee table and body slammed him onto the ground, Gregory said very distinctly in between tears and snots, 'Owie, owie, owie.' He uses it now every time Charlie is around. Even if they're at opposite ends of the room, he'll point at him and say 'Owie, owie'. It would be funny, as well as hugely appropriate, if Gregory grew up calling him Owie instead of Charlie, considering Charlie treats him like a human punching bag.
The second word just came out this morning, I'm not sure but it sounded a lot like 'Stopit'. I take full credit for this one. In our home there is a din of 'stopitstopitstopistopitstopit.' To most people it's alarmingly loud when they first enter, but to us it's like background noise from the street. No wonder Gregory thinks it's one word and has taken to repeating it constantly. It's my most frequently spoken statement to both of the boys. 'Stop it, stop it, stop it! Get your hand out of his mouth. His tongue does not come out, it is attached.' Or 'Stop it, stop it, stop it. Gregory, get your hand out of there. Dirty! Dirty! Poop is dirty!'
I'm waiting with baited breath to hear his next word. If he's anything like his brother, it will be, "Hello, DCS? We have a problem."
Monday, February 2, 2009
Forget You, Mariah
For once I am not going to write/complain about my kids. The subject today is me; me and my ongoing journey of self discovery.
At a cocktail party last week, my friend Cynthia introduced me to her acupuncturist and friend, Laurence. Naturally since our introduction included what she did for a living, she asked the same of me. Some nonsensical talk of software sales and a 1/2 of a glass of Sauvignon Blanc later, I spit out like a swear word that I was currently a stay at home mom. Definitely an awkward moment, so much so that it distracted me from the rest of our conversation. Laurence could tell I wasn't paying attention. Mid sentence I attempted to make a confession of sorts. The reason I was not as forthcoming with my profession was that I was embarrassed. She looked at me like I was nuts and asked why on earth I was ashamed of being a full time mother?
Embarrassed or ashamed is not accurate, I told her. Since quitting my job last March, I simply do not like to tell people right off the bat that I'm a stay at home mom. My reasoning is that when you first meet a stranger, the get to know you dance inevitably starts with 'What do you do?' - meaning your job. Your answers begin to form the impression of 'you' in their mind. And the person you're talking to could be the Pope, but even he judges (good or bad) based on this information. So my fear was that I would immediately be judged as being 'less than' something because of my job; less smart, less ambitious, less motivated, less worldly, less business savvy, less everything, except crazy, maybe. Okay, yes, I have some issues of self perception/worth that are intrinsically tied to my job, but there is an element of truth here that I wanted to explore.
Laurence was very kind to indulge me. She said, 'You have the most important job in the world.' It didn't rub me the wrong way like when Oprah says it, must have been the French accent, acupuncturist zen thing she had going on. Our discussion (or my therapy session) deepened as we chatted about how American society views the profession of motherhood, not really as a profession at all, but as a mini break from the real world. You shuttle children around in an SUV (or G_d forbid a minivan) all day, drink lattes, listen to Raffi or the Jonas Brothers, take your kids to the park, and talk to other Mom's about teachers, organic produce and the gym.
In France, while motherhood is revered, it does not serve to pigeon hole a person into a particular role or identity. Full time mother's are viewed as entire human beings, with other interests, wants and desires apart from her child's.
Laurence's perspective did make me feel better, but my mind started racing. Was I always this evasive, bizarre and long winded upon first meeting someone, my thinly veiled attempt to hide my stay at home mom-ness? My mind was blank, void of one single memory or example that I could point to. Of course, I'm the person who can't remember if she showered that day unless she smells under her own arm pits, so this was not shocking.
It didn't take but a few days before I had my answer. I get my hair cut at pretty popular, hip salon. When I say hip, I mean the people who work there are hip. Most of the clients are suburban Mom's like myself. The stylists and assistants dress crazy cool, in outfits that are wacky but fabulous; silver stilettos, red and green plaid pants, royal blue tank top, leopard vest, silver tie. That same outfit on me would scream blind, Scottish, Thompson Twins wannabe.
Like any high end salon, there are assistants for everything - they bring you water, take your coat, shampoo your hair and often blow dry it. Meet Jesse, my assistant du jour and the epitomy of cool; tattoos, pierced nose, super tight black pants, funky shoes, perfectly coiffed hair. This was our first introduction. We chatted and naturally he asked what I did. Enter sarcastic, evasive Christine. "Oh, I'm the keeper at the zoo." As only a 20-something year old could ask, Are you serious? Um, no, I stay at home with my kids. He laughed.
At this point I was having an out of body experience. The next 20 minutes I witnessed myself purposefully not talking about my children, swearing like a truck driver, and trying to hide my sensible Dansko clogs under the hair cutting cape. All in an attempt to make myself seem more interesting and cooler than I really am. It was like high school 20 years later.
It was awful. I was awful. Yet I couldn't stop. I heard myself calling Mariah Carey a gap toothed, Botoxed bitch. For those of you not obsessed with celebrity gossip, there's a reason Mariah will only have her photo taken from her right side. Yup, funky teeth on the left side. Good G_d. THIS was my ticket to cool and interesting?
Fortunately at that exact moment, my real self entered back into my body and took control of my mouth. I promptly removed all curse words from my vocabulary and told Jesse a funny story about my kids. Incidentally it was about cocktail parties. The evening prior to meeting Laurence, Charlie asked what a cocktail party was. I told him it was when adults get together to drink, sometimes eat, and laugh a lot. Now he says, 'Mommy, at school today, we laughed like we were at a cocktail party.' Way funnier than Mariah and her unfortunate teeth.
As I come to terms with my stay at home mom-ness (clearly I have some issues to work out), I won't let my kids be the only thing I talk about, if you promise that's not the only thing you'll ask me about. Deal?
At a cocktail party last week, my friend Cynthia introduced me to her acupuncturist and friend, Laurence. Naturally since our introduction included what she did for a living, she asked the same of me. Some nonsensical talk of software sales and a 1/2 of a glass of Sauvignon Blanc later, I spit out like a swear word that I was currently a stay at home mom. Definitely an awkward moment, so much so that it distracted me from the rest of our conversation. Laurence could tell I wasn't paying attention. Mid sentence I attempted to make a confession of sorts. The reason I was not as forthcoming with my profession was that I was embarrassed. She looked at me like I was nuts and asked why on earth I was ashamed of being a full time mother?
Embarrassed or ashamed is not accurate, I told her. Since quitting my job last March, I simply do not like to tell people right off the bat that I'm a stay at home mom. My reasoning is that when you first meet a stranger, the get to know you dance inevitably starts with 'What do you do?' - meaning your job. Your answers begin to form the impression of 'you' in their mind. And the person you're talking to could be the Pope, but even he judges (good or bad) based on this information. So my fear was that I would immediately be judged as being 'less than' something because of my job; less smart, less ambitious, less motivated, less worldly, less business savvy, less everything, except crazy, maybe. Okay, yes, I have some issues of self perception/worth that are intrinsically tied to my job, but there is an element of truth here that I wanted to explore.
Laurence was very kind to indulge me. She said, 'You have the most important job in the world.' It didn't rub me the wrong way like when Oprah says it, must have been the French accent, acupuncturist zen thing she had going on. Our discussion (or my therapy session) deepened as we chatted about how American society views the profession of motherhood, not really as a profession at all, but as a mini break from the real world. You shuttle children around in an SUV (or G_d forbid a minivan) all day, drink lattes, listen to Raffi or the Jonas Brothers, take your kids to the park, and talk to other Mom's about teachers, organic produce and the gym.
In France, while motherhood is revered, it does not serve to pigeon hole a person into a particular role or identity. Full time mother's are viewed as entire human beings, with other interests, wants and desires apart from her child's.
Laurence's perspective did make me feel better, but my mind started racing. Was I always this evasive, bizarre and long winded upon first meeting someone, my thinly veiled attempt to hide my stay at home mom-ness? My mind was blank, void of one single memory or example that I could point to. Of course, I'm the person who can't remember if she showered that day unless she smells under her own arm pits, so this was not shocking.
It didn't take but a few days before I had my answer. I get my hair cut at pretty popular, hip salon. When I say hip, I mean the people who work there are hip. Most of the clients are suburban Mom's like myself. The stylists and assistants dress crazy cool, in outfits that are wacky but fabulous; silver stilettos, red and green plaid pants, royal blue tank top, leopard vest, silver tie. That same outfit on me would scream blind, Scottish, Thompson Twins wannabe.
Like any high end salon, there are assistants for everything - they bring you water, take your coat, shampoo your hair and often blow dry it. Meet Jesse, my assistant du jour and the epitomy of cool; tattoos, pierced nose, super tight black pants, funky shoes, perfectly coiffed hair. This was our first introduction. We chatted and naturally he asked what I did. Enter sarcastic, evasive Christine. "Oh, I'm the keeper at the zoo." As only a 20-something year old could ask, Are you serious? Um, no, I stay at home with my kids. He laughed.
At this point I was having an out of body experience. The next 20 minutes I witnessed myself purposefully not talking about my children, swearing like a truck driver, and trying to hide my sensible Dansko clogs under the hair cutting cape. All in an attempt to make myself seem more interesting and cooler than I really am. It was like high school 20 years later.
It was awful. I was awful. Yet I couldn't stop. I heard myself calling Mariah Carey a gap toothed, Botoxed bitch. For those of you not obsessed with celebrity gossip, there's a reason Mariah will only have her photo taken from her right side. Yup, funky teeth on the left side. Good G_d. THIS was my ticket to cool and interesting?
Fortunately at that exact moment, my real self entered back into my body and took control of my mouth. I promptly removed all curse words from my vocabulary and told Jesse a funny story about my kids. Incidentally it was about cocktail parties. The evening prior to meeting Laurence, Charlie asked what a cocktail party was. I told him it was when adults get together to drink, sometimes eat, and laugh a lot. Now he says, 'Mommy, at school today, we laughed like we were at a cocktail party.' Way funnier than Mariah and her unfortunate teeth.
As I come to terms with my stay at home mom-ness (clearly I have some issues to work out), I won't let my kids be the only thing I talk about, if you promise that's not the only thing you'll ask me about. Deal?
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