the boy

Last night I asked Rodney if he thought we ought to plunk Amos in the tub. He shrugged it off, pointing out that Amos had gone swimming Tuesday night and would be back at the pool on Thursday. Surely the chlorine burned off any bacteria and funk. Eh, fine. My dad still reminisces about a summer from his youth when he never set foot in a bathtub because a daily dip in the pool took care of all his hygiene needs, so I guess it’s a family thing.

Rodney and I are all about daily showers for ourselves, so you don’t have to duck us if you see us coming your way. But we’re pretty sporadic when it comes to Amos. He’s got that redhead peachy creamy skin that breaks out in rashes if it gets dry, and we have doctor’s orders to not use soap on him in the wintertime. At first I was skeptical when the pediatrician suggested oatmeal baths a couple times a week and nothing else, but now I’m spoiled and lazy and happy to wipe the rings off his neck and let it go at that. This probably goes without saying, but Amos is completely fine with this system. I wonder, though, if I’m the only mama in town who lets her kid go unbathed for long stretches during the Arkansas summer.

No crying, no screaming at swim lessons last night after I promised Amos he wouldn’t have to blow any bubbles. He put his chin and ears and nose in the water and did some half-hearted kicking and paddling of the arms, and Rodney and I did all kinds of herkies and cheers to encourage him. Amos did tell us repeatedly that he would rather go home, but then he was proud of himself afterwards because he did so well. We discovered at the end of the lesson that he’d pooped his pants again. Luckily we’d upgraded to the high-octane airtight swimming diapers, so members of the LRAC can rest easy. Maybe no poop next time? One can dream.

The typical first baby water safety lesson, our instructor told us, involves loads of shrieking. In fact, that’s pretty normal for the first few weeks or even months, she said. Ms. Mary at the LR Athletic Club is a wise young woman who’s done this millions of times before, and we trust her.I liked what she had to say about the trauma of it all: they won’t remember that, but they’ll remember the skills. And they have to have the skills, no question.

Amos seemed to be doing fine for the first 3 minutes, but when it came time for me to dunk him under, that was it. Nobody really paid much attention to his screaming, I suppose because they get at least one show like that a day. All the other parents were super nice, telling us they’d been there, that on their kid’s first lesson he’d kicked the instructor in the face, etc., so we were feeling good, until we weren’t. Amos eventually got so freaked out and irate that he pooped, which of course calls for immediately exiting the water. Those swimming diapers don’t hold up for long.

Afterwards, though, he was desperate to go over to the kiddie pool section with all the splashy fountains and such. We’re saving that for tonight, a bribe. If he makes it through the entire 30-minute lesson, we’ll go play. Our resolve remains strong. Lessons twice a week until he’s got it down.

Our daredevil 2-year-old decided to test our reflexes and cardiac health this weekend by jumping into a swimming pool. Luckily there were four adults within 10 paces, but still. Jeez. It was scarier than anything ever, even though it was a “baby pool.” Four feet of water is really, really deep when you’re only 3 feet tall. So guess who’s starting swim lessons next week? We’re going twice a week, every week, all winter long until that kid can out-swim Flipper.

The accidental dunking came after I’d been contemplating swimming lessons for about a month or so. I knew Amos would probably enjoy them, but I didn’t really know what the rule of thumb is for water safety. Some parents start lessons at 6 months, others at age 3, some never (bad choice). Of course, it was on my mind after reading that horrible story of the teenagers who drowned in Louisiana while wading in a river. None of the adults on the shore could swim either, so they could only watch as the kids went under, one by one. Clearly that news story should have spurred me into action. But we’re on top of it now, and hopefully Amos has figured out that in the meantime, jumping into large bodies of water is a terrible idea.

Honestly, I was so upset by the entire incident that I almost didn’t blog about it, but today I was asking around at work to find out if other people had their children in lessons, and if so, where. One coworker told me, “Oh, we had to get her in lessons after she just jumped right into the deep end one day.” Then this mother and I shared our moment-by-moment rescue stories, which took only 3 seconds in real life but in our heads seemed to take hours. So I guess it happens more often than you might think. Be careful!

Saturday was Amos’ first night in his “big boy bed,” and it went great. He snuggled right up underneath his new Spiderman blanket and was asleep in seconds. And he slept in his own bed until 5:45 am. This is a vast departure from every other night in months and months, when he insisted that we lie next to him on the floor for 45 minutes until he fell asleep (this has proven to be a tedious and uncomfortable habit, and I’m ready to move on). There were always unending requests for snacks and water, and pleading for a story or to go watch Barney. So Saturday was magic. I was delighted and immediately thought, “Fantastic! I cannot wait to go trumpet this success on my blog, for all the other mommies to see!” But then I decided it could be a fluke and I should wait a day or two to see how it all shook out.

It was a good thing I waited. Sunday, Monday and Tuesday nights were our typical disaster, with at least half an hour of whining, begging and sneaking out of the bed. And each night he was awake and clamoring to snuggle with us by 2 a.m. In fact, it’s getting worse, and last night he was in the bed with me by midnight.

But that worked to our advantage last night, because my husband went out on the town and came home smelling like smoke and bar. He also brought a woman home with him, which sounds super racy and exciting except it was an old buddy who sacked out in the guest room. Rodney’s sleeping options included a) getting maced in the face if he tried to get in my bed, or b) sleeping outside, on the floor, on the couch, in the car, anywhere I couldn’t smell him. When Amos and I woke up this morning we found dad rolled up in the Spiderman blanket on the big boy bed, sound asleep. So the new bed definitely has its perks.

We’re melting, miserable, shaking with cabin fever at my house because of this stupid weather. And sometimes, the tiny plastic pool we fill up in the backyard gets lonely. So thank you so much for the fantastic splash pad! We all love it, especially early on Sunday mornings when there aren’t many people around and we get the jets to ourselves. P.S.– Did you know that a toddler wetted down from the sprinklers can achieve the speed of sound going down that tube slide? Amos shot out almost seven feet before coming to a safe landing on the squishy rubber surface. Nixing asphalt was a good choice there. A+!

It’s miraculous and rare when help arrives just in time. That happened at my house on Tuesday afternoon, when my mom flew in for an incredibly short but action-packed visit, during which she cleaned my house, cooked, stocked my fridge with delicious food, took care of my son then vanished by sunrise Thursday morning, long before we’d even managed to have a single mother-daughter fight. Honestly, I really wished she stuck around longer, although she’s probably so tired that she’s passed out on the plane as I write.

We really needed the help. Amos was sick all last week with one of those mysterious stomach bugs that won’t go away. It was scary and exhausting, you know how it sometimes goes. And Amos really wore me out, demanding round-the-clock attention. So needy was he that he’d wake up if I tried to sneak out of the room during his nap times. Nope, not allowed. I was desperate for a break but at the same time didn’t want to be anywhere else, which I think is the secret dilemma of all moms of sick children.

By the time mom arrived, the house was disgusting and the cupboards were bare. (Oh my god y’all, it just took me about 5 minutes to remember how to spell cupboard. I looked it up in the dictionary under “cubbard” and “kubberd” and couldn’t figure out what the deal was. I need more sleep.) The trip was planned a while ago, and normally we would have been prepared. I like to at least run the vacuum for house guests, but she got nothing. Worse than nothing, she got a request to please clean anything she felt like cleaning. And she did it!

She also squeezed in lots of QT with Amos, who delighted in squirting her with the hose and being scared out of his mind when she popped out of closets and behind doors to shriek at him. Sounds terrifying, I know, but Amos is kind of an adrenaline junkie like that. Here’s a shot of them during one of the quieter moments, playing with some magical stickers she brought that don’t stick to the furniture.

Stickers are addictive.

Her plane left at 7:20 this morning, headed to sunny San Diego. Good for her, she deserves it. We’re in good shape now. Thanks for the help. Come back soon!

Amos and I share a love of firemen. Amos likes anyone who rides around on a shiny red truck. I’m partial to the New York variety, who rescue puppies from burning buildings, then resuscitate them using CPR. Hot stuff.

I’m sure a lot of you have seen this already. It’s an article in New York magazine about how having children doesn’t make us happier, and in fact, parents report being less happy than people who choose to skip out on that whole breeding scene. This story seems to be getting a lot of press, as have other stories like it. Sociologists found this lack of glee among parents to be true pretty much across the board, except, of course, in Scandinavian countries where new moms get a year of paid maternity leave, plus subsidized childcare and free health care. Call me a commie, I think that sounds great. But for the rest of us, parenting is a miserable lot, they said. I can’t say I agree about the misery, but I have definitely been surprised by how hard parenting is because there’s just so much to do all the time, especially with this pesky day job they expect me to show up to Monday through Friday when I should be home washing clothes, reading Richard Scarry books and picking bubble wands up out of the grass. I get tired and grumpy and mad that my house is so dirty. So yeah, I’m not always in a great mood.

There are all kinds of theories getting batted around to why this is the case. Some say we’re trying to be superheroes, holding down jobs and trying to be the best parents ever and generally wearing ourselves out.  Another theory is that we all have unrealistic expectations of happiness, and that maybe we shouldn’t expect to walk around all aglow 24/7, tickling our babies’ tummies and giggling. I think that’s more like it.

I also think that this lack of bliss for parents of young and teenage kids (apparently there’s a bubble of happiness during the elementary years) is just a temporary state that can be chalked up to exhaustion and stress. The key point that’s sort of buried in the story is that if sociologists check back in later, once the teething has stopped or the teenage hormones have calmed, they’ll most likely find those parents are plenty happy, very fulfilled and pleased as punch about their life choices. A no regrets sort of scenario. So hang in there.