Chores make the memories

As we drove through the neighborhood this evening, my son looked at all the trash cans ready to go out tomorrow and asked if it was going to be Friday, which is trash day around here. Then he asked, "Why did they take away the branches?"

He is so into the trash pick-up, it threw him off that he wasn't here last week for the truck drivers to wave to him or honk their horn, or to see the "leaf truck" come haul away all the brush he helped to clear. One weekend we had our first time working in the yard in our new house, and less than a week later we took our first family trip to the beach. And what he remembers is the branches that disappeared while he wasn't looking.

By some miracle, the world didn't melt into a puddle of "why?!"-laden tears when I explained the impossibility of being in two places at once:

"I guess we must have been at the beach."

"Oh."

That's what I call a good day.

Through little eyes

I just thought I was involving -- and amusing -- my son while we made dinner. Joel Salatin wrote in a recent issue of Flavor magazine that we need to keep our kids in the kitchen if we want to have any hope for the future of agriculture, for future farmers who will seriously care about food and the land it comes from instead of retreating to video game alternate realities where it doesn't matter what you blow up or who gets killed.

So if I made a sweet potato and squash bus with carrot headlights (a la the Saxton Freymann and Joost Elffers Fast Food books), I thought, my son might get stick around to try to "help" me and feel more invested in dinner.

Without skipping a beat, he said, "Lobster!"

Going to Maine helps appreciate food, too, I guess.

I was going for a standard vehicle, but I love that my son sees things I miss. He notices representations where I don't, and, on the flip side, he notices new details it never occurred to me he'd see, like the new 2010 county sticker on my dashboard within seconds of the first time we got in the car after I'd removed the old one.

My poor little dude

My son is having such a rough time. Even before this weekend, he was already chewing on his hands and having a tough time with all the transitions going on, what with all the stress of the impending move. I've been sitting him with pillows all around when we read books, and I do think this helps him feel safe and secure.

But it's not enough to weather the tornado swirling around him. After our travel to Michigan this past weekend, resulting in a big sleep deficit, he got thrown further off kilter by the weird schedule in general and in particular by some chocolate and a little gluten at the grandparents' 50th anniversary party. He whined and cried during Sunday night's flight home, he was really tough to be around on Monday, and on Tuesday, he apparently pushed all the kids in Spanish class. The teacher said she didn't recognize him; he's usually so gentle and loving.

I took him today to a previously scheduled craniosacral therapy appointment. In the midst of our crazy move (contractors here this week, we move this weekend ourselves and next week with a company doing the furniture), I wanted to scrap the appt., which was a 30-minute drive away (this time an hour on the Beltway in rush hour to get home). But clearly it was needed. The dr. (Ron) said that E's sagittal suture was pretty stuck and that that connected to closedness in his back. Ron worked on that section last time, but he also said this time that cabin pressure from the flight might have caused a problem.

After 25-30 min. Ron felt fine letting E play (which he did happily) and then working on me. He worked a lot on my gut and then on my head just a bit, but enough to totally erase the headache I walked in with.

Let's hope we all wake up in a decent mood tomorrow. Oops. It's already tomorrow. And I still don't know what color paint to tell the contractor to get. If I have to drag that kid back to the paint store one more time, I don't know what he'll try to get me to buy. I think this calls for Shopping While the Kid is in Childcare. Assuming I don't get a call to come pick up my little brute.

Procrastination runs in the family

So now I know where I get my inclination to stay up until all hours. My parents just had a 50th wedding anniversary, and the night before, we were all up until 2:00 a.m., matting photos, coming up with a table seating chart, sewing part of the party outfit... It was as if it were the middle of a workday. You can bet I scoffed when my husband woke up from his 8 hrs no more spritely than I after my <5.

My poor son. He is so damn tired. He got to bed one of the nights miraculously around 7 p.m., but the other nights -- with the northern and western extra 60-80 minutes of light (Michigan vs. our home in the DC Metro suburbs) and all the excitement -- he got such little sleep. The night we arrived, he went down at almost 10:00 (no nap, no real down time all day). Another night was almost 10:00 after a nap 3:30-5:00. The night of the party he was so overtired but couldn't even fall by 11:00 (he'd had a little chocolate at the party and a hard-won 2.5-hr nap earlier that day, thanks to a low of fossil fuels). The night we flew home (last night), it was almost 10:00 p.m. by the time we got him down; he'd had zero nap and not even 8 hrs of sleep the night before.

Today he was exhausted and could not figure out how to go to bed ... wanted me, but then wanted more food, cried and cried with his dad (the usual to-bed-putter and his sleep-mate for the past several nights at my parents' house).

Maybe part of the problem was that this morning, I had an appointment with a designer to discuss wall color and the organization of my new office... for the house we are moving into this week. (And that we got possession of today, but there was no electricity because I never called the company.) He was so confused trying to play in an empty house, wanting whatever was different than his current reality: "I want to go home and rest in my bed" (which he never does.) Then, "I don't want to go home. I want to stay here." Also: "I don't want to take the wagon. I want to ride my tricycle." Then later, when we have only the trike to take home: "I want the wagon!"

After this weekend seeing the way my whole family operates, I have no illusions that I will change my temperament, but I really do hope we can make some strides toward less last-minute and more thoughtful ways to approach life once we're settled in our new space (whenever that will be). But as long as he's three, is everything I try going to be thwarted anyway?

I've got to hope that sleep will help. Speaking off, I'm a little undercooked in that department, myself.

Who are you, kid?

No sooner do I finish writing a post on how electronic media is ruining my child (not exactly) but he totally proves my point. He whines, "Please, Mommy, please can I watch Curious George while you make dinner?" And then to my no he melts. Not creamy and smooth like butter but gross and chunky like one of those soy-based milkshakes from a fast-food restaurant -- gloppy and disgusting. A puddle of tears, red face, limp or mad body.

At least he's not hitting or biting or anything, but he is chewing on his hands a lot and also on his shirt... I don't know if he's processing something from last week's craniosacral session -- he was already doing the mouth thing; that's part of why I took him in. Maybe it's going to get worse before it gets better as he moves through some funky energy. Did the new sitter somehow scar him? They seemed to be doing fine while I was in the basement. Maybe it's a reaction to some kind of food -- delayed from small amounts of trial gluten a while back, or from the additional goat, or the millet toast. Cashews? It's not like he's eating McDonald's or even pizza or anything.

The guilt is kicking in that if I could just nurse him, he'd be okay. And those LLL books about weaning say chewing on hands is a sign that a child weaned too soon. Plus when he came into our bed this morning at 5:40 (which is ouch early for us for him to be ready to be awake), he wanted to "warm" his hands in my shirt but then said he just wanted to see/touch my breastes. And twice today he stroked my nipples, once in front of another person. No more little camis for me.

I was solo tonight and could NOT get the kid to sleep. Too bright outside, neighbor kids making noise... I'd jogged us to the post office and was planning to shower after he went to bed, but we needed something to kill time and kick him over into ready to sleep. So I showered and he probably ate way too much Weleda kids (baby?) tooth gel. I can't trust him with anything. I'll have to write a whole separate post about what he dumped out on his bed today.

Anyway, I told him to leave the blinds down as I was getting out of the shower. After I lowered them, he raised them again and I got really mad and stern. I was worried that I was so upset I'd freak him out. But he reacted like he did earlier today when I started crying: he copped this Mr. Maturity persona complete with reassuring foice. He patted my belly and said, "You're a good mama." Earlier he told me, "Don't worry, Mommy. It's okay. You don't have to worry." All with very controlled, calm wording.

He also got super upset when he bit his tongue. I said I knew that hurt; it had happened me, too. Then he asked me to show him how I did it, and, eyes still moist, he reflected. "I just did it and it hurt so I cried. I got sad."

Out of control at some moments but frighteningly self-aware and practically serving as my therapist at others. Who is this kid?

When I first met my friend Lisa who had a baby about 48 hours after I had E, she said, "Oh, he's Mercury Retrograde." I was clueless but she said this is not a time people choose for big events. "Maybe he'll be calm when there's chaos around him," she offered. I don't know, but I'm freaked out by my three-year-old and don't know what he needs right now.

"I'm growing up!"

Yesterday we went to Frying Pan Farm Park where just a few months ago we saw newborn piggies and lambs, and, while watching the piglets nurse, my son announced to my video camera and his buddy, G: "I'm going to stop nursing when it's my birthday!" We'd had one or two conversations about that possibility, and he really seemed to embrace it that day at the farm.

We returned yesterday for G's bday party, and it felt a little like a mini-graduation to me to see the then-tiny pigs and lambs so much bigger. "Our" black and pink pigs were actually inside, where it was harder to take photos, but you get the idea with this big pink papa piggy and his little ones.

Now that we are almost two months beyond weaning, it really feels like such a long time ago. It was so clear that E was ready to be done, as was I. This last 6 weeks trying to sell the house has been so stressful. I think nursing would have driven me crazy, and I think it would have just felt confusing to him since it wasn't really helping him cope anymore.

Within a week or two of weaning, E started to say, "Look at me! Look what I can do!" Recently, E has been telling us, "I'm growing up. I'm getting so big." No doubt he's heard this from us in our attempts to get him to let go of some behavior we're ready to be done with. It's funny but also comforting to hear him brag about his maturity, like is comfortable moving on and growing into his next self.

No matter how you dress it up, it's still a potty seat

We've had a few days lately when my son just would not go to sleep. One was after he'd had his first chocolate cupcake (gluten-free and dairy-free, but still, chocolate) and had been to a party at JW Tumbles. He had a great time, and it's not like the place has TV or flashing lights or anything, but I do wonder if it was the sensory stimulation that he's not used to as much as the Pamela's mix sugar-bombs that made him wired.

Despite the fact that in recent days the kid has fell asleep during dinner (he won't nap, and we've not done so great lately prioritizing quiet time), last week we had another sleep-resist day for no good reason. He's been clear as day chirping: "I'm not tired. I don't want to go sleep." No whining, no eye-rubbing. Just matter-of-fact.

So when my husband brought him down to the basement where I was cleaning, we let him play quietly. And what did he choose to do? Find wrapping paper and present the potty seat to us as his token of appreciation for all we do for him. For me? Really? What a sweetheart!