More From Nuremberg
Just re-visiting that day a month ago or so that the sun was out in Nuremberg.
Archive for December, 2004
The New Trend: Food Sucks
The next time some smug parent looks at me and says, “Oh, it’s just a phase . . . soon he’ll be eating everything in sight!” I’m going to take the largest tree branch I can find and smack them in the face.
Just three short months ago, he did eat everything in sight. Parents take note: he even ate things that were green! Because I like to nit-pick, I’m also counting peas inserted through his nose and accidentally swallowed as “eaten”, because they were digested, they just took an alternate route.
At this point, however, I’m seriously wondering how a child can survive on peanut butter and jelly, ham and cheese, and mandarin oranges. Throw in an occasional banana or yogurt and that is Daschel’s diet. Oh, and Ovaltine.
The pediatrician says there’s nothing to be worried about, every other parent I talk to says there is nothing to be worried about, and my mother says there is nothing to worry about, but they all have to be wrong because I am FLIPPING out and clearly I am the most level-headed of all of them.
End of an Era
Everywhere I go people are saying, “Happy New Year”. I realize that it’s fast approaching, but can you just let me linger in 2004 a bit longer? Stop shoving 2005 down my throat, world!
Besides, I haven’t recovered from Christmas, yet. I need to catch my breath before I start looking for more shit to celebrate.
I Got This One
Since Daschel learned how to rewind his own Baby Einstein videos, he has come to learn the beauty of DVD instant replay.
Who Invented Sick Days, and Why Wasn’t I Invited?
Well it turns out Dash’s cold is more of a sinus infection coupled with a middle ear infection. Those of you who have found the time to fit his medical record into your busy schedules know how sensitive he is to otitis media, and are probably pulling out your rosaries for me as you read this.
When Dash is sick, he turns into kid impossible - nothing is good enough. Nothing I cook, nothing we watch, nothing we read, absolutely nothing is good enough. I admit it freely: my son becomes a cranky snob when he is under the weather.
Just a moment ago, M. made him an egg and cheese croissant. Do you know what I would do for a homemade egg and cheese croissant? I’d rather not say in this public forum, but you get the idea, I’m sure. So Dash is presented with a perfectly buttery and crispy croissant sandwich and what does he do? He arches his back and yells, “NO MORE FOOD DADDY!” wailing and flailing about in his father’s arms, crying real tears and reaching for me, his savior from croissants.
Fine, he’s not hungry, but do we need the dramatics?
I tucked him in bed with his bunny, and his new little Dora doll he got for Christmas. “Mama, poof?” he asks. Fine, I go get his bath loofah from the bathroom. “Mama? Juice?” Ok, juice, yes, that is reasonable. “Mama? Teddy?” Alright, the teddy bear my father got as a gift from his bank is pulled off the shelf. “Mama…blocks.” Ok, now it isn’t a question, it’s a demand. “Blocks? In bed? Are you for real?”
“Yes momma. Blocks.”
Thirty minutes later, the child is laying in his bed, surrounded by various toys, books, and loofahs, and I am ready to turn out the light. The room is clean, though, seeing as how almost everything that was on the floor is now piled up on his bed. He’s sick, he deserves it, I rationalize in my head.
“Movie?”
“How about some music instead?”
He sighs. “Okay.”
Three CDs later, he decides on Beethoven (the classic Daschel move, waiting until the last choice is up, then asking for the first option again), and I’m on the verge of pulling all my hair out. I turn out the light and adjust the volume on the CD player.
“Goodnight, Dash.”
“Mama?”
1, 2, 3 . . . I start counting to ten in anticipation of what is coming. He probably wants to know if I can pull a star down for him out of the sky, or would I please go get the unicorn out of the barn so he can fall asleep on her soft mane.
“What is it, Dash?” I make an effort to not sound impatient, so purposefully, any adult would know I was full of shit.
“Kiss?”
I think I said once that mother automatically know how to guilt their children, because they’ve spent years feeling guilty themselves. This is the nail in my guilt coffin — leaning over to kiss my son on his forehead before he goes to sleep, feeling a soft sadness as I close the door and fail to hear another request.
“Are you sure you don’t need anything else?”
“Bye bye, Momma.” He waves, letting me know he is ready for me to leave.
But I stood outside his door for a few more minutes, just in case.
