Saturday, July 31, 2004
Milestones
This week I seem to have lost my windows of opportunity for writing, and I'm frustrated. First, Max has given up his nap, which was truly terrible for me until I decided that I would be less irritated if I assumed he would not take a nap and let myself be thrilled if I was wrong on a particular day. Second, I'm putting Reed to bed in the room that doubles as my office. I'd hoped that I'd be able to write after Boo had fallen asleep, but the light from my computer tends to awaken him, and when he can see me from his crib, he doesn't settle himself back to sleep. I miss writing. I miss taking time to reflect on my life with my kids and to gain some perspective on what can otherwise seem too much like chaos. I can solve this problem, and I will, but I haven't yet.
Before each of the boys was born, I bought him a baby book and a "first year" calendar and a keepsake box for things like his first pair of shoes and the front page of the newspaper on the day he was born. I don't know whether all of this chronicling is more for me or for them. I do know that I want desperately to remember their childhoods in vivid detail, and I want them to always know how much I loved and cherished them. Perhaps they'll find the minutia boring or just a bit silly, but I hope not.
One of the things that baby books and calendars are designed to do, of course, is to record the dates on which a child achieves certain milestones like sitting up and crawling and taking a step. What's peculiar about this, and what I didn't realize until Max was a few months old, is that most of these "events" represent a continuum of development. Did Max feed himself for the first time on the day he flailed the spoon in such a way that the sweet potatoes that hadn't been flung onto the floor or the table or me managed, somewhat inadvertently, to find their way into his mouth? The line of demarkation isn't always so clear, nor is the path of progress straight and unbroken.
So I shouldn't have been surprised that Boo's progress at sleeping by himself has been a bit ragged. You'll recall that Boo seemed to take to his crib quite readily last week. I was lulled into thinking that he might learn to sleep on his own quickly and without pain, which is about as ridiculous as imagining that the laws of physics won't apply next Tuesday. Two night ago, we experienced the first low point in our sleep saga. Boo wouldn't stop screaming unless I had one hand on his body. When I could no longer tolerate stooping to comfort him or listening to his terrible cries, I let him sleep beside me on the futon in his room. Fortunately, my sacrifice on Thursday was rewarded yesterday when Boo slept through the night for the first time. Eight consecutive hours of sleep--for him at least. I awoke periodically and listened, wondering whether he'd be up soon with demands for soothing or snacking. Nevertheless, it's a great milestone, over nine months in the making. My fingers are crossed for another good night, but I'm no longer delusional.
I suspect that Boo's sleeping habits are affected by his other spurt this week. He transitioned from scooting to a full-blown crawl, which enables him to access everything from the dog bowl to electrical cords to tiny bits of playdough under Max's art table. Despite the new hazards, I have to admire Boo's technique, which dad likened to a swimmer doing the breaststroke. Picture all four limbs operating symmetrically and in unison--an efficient, elegant and very effective motion. Having flipped on the "crawl" switch, Boo is now thoroughly mobile, following me from room to room like an enthusiastic puppy or striking out on his own to pursue some appealing object, like one of the dogs. I'm left to imagine the meaning of his frequent glances back in my direction, even as he heads down the hall and around the corner: "Are you coming? Are you going to stop me? Are you still there?" Or maybe just, "Yep, I must be moving because she seems to be getting smaller and smaller...."
Before each of the boys was born, I bought him a baby book and a "first year" calendar and a keepsake box for things like his first pair of shoes and the front page of the newspaper on the day he was born. I don't know whether all of this chronicling is more for me or for them. I do know that I want desperately to remember their childhoods in vivid detail, and I want them to always know how much I loved and cherished them. Perhaps they'll find the minutia boring or just a bit silly, but I hope not.
One of the things that baby books and calendars are designed to do, of course, is to record the dates on which a child achieves certain milestones like sitting up and crawling and taking a step. What's peculiar about this, and what I didn't realize until Max was a few months old, is that most of these "events" represent a continuum of development. Did Max feed himself for the first time on the day he flailed the spoon in such a way that the sweet potatoes that hadn't been flung onto the floor or the table or me managed, somewhat inadvertently, to find their way into his mouth? The line of demarkation isn't always so clear, nor is the path of progress straight and unbroken.
So I shouldn't have been surprised that Boo's progress at sleeping by himself has been a bit ragged. You'll recall that Boo seemed to take to his crib quite readily last week. I was lulled into thinking that he might learn to sleep on his own quickly and without pain, which is about as ridiculous as imagining that the laws of physics won't apply next Tuesday. Two night ago, we experienced the first low point in our sleep saga. Boo wouldn't stop screaming unless I had one hand on his body. When I could no longer tolerate stooping to comfort him or listening to his terrible cries, I let him sleep beside me on the futon in his room. Fortunately, my sacrifice on Thursday was rewarded yesterday when Boo slept through the night for the first time. Eight consecutive hours of sleep--for him at least. I awoke periodically and listened, wondering whether he'd be up soon with demands for soothing or snacking. Nevertheless, it's a great milestone, over nine months in the making. My fingers are crossed for another good night, but I'm no longer delusional.
I suspect that Boo's sleeping habits are affected by his other spurt this week. He transitioned from scooting to a full-blown crawl, which enables him to access everything from the dog bowl to electrical cords to tiny bits of playdough under Max's art table. Despite the new hazards, I have to admire Boo's technique, which dad likened to a swimmer doing the breaststroke. Picture all four limbs operating symmetrically and in unison--an efficient, elegant and very effective motion. Having flipped on the "crawl" switch, Boo is now thoroughly mobile, following me from room to room like an enthusiastic puppy or striking out on his own to pursue some appealing object, like one of the dogs. I'm left to imagine the meaning of his frequent glances back in my direction, even as he heads down the hall and around the corner: "Are you coming? Are you going to stop me? Are you still there?" Or maybe just, "Yep, I must be moving because she seems to be getting smaller and smaller...."
Sunday, July 25, 2004
To sleep, perchance to dream...
Boo had a momentous weekend. We moved him to his own room to begin sleeping in his crib. I'd like to tell you that this decision was part of some well-conceived plan to bolster his independence, but the truth is, I acted out of desperation. We'd had three nights this week when Boo was awake for two hours or more during the middle of the night, and so was I. I had imagined that I'd feel terribly sad when we moved Boo out of our room, but what I actually experienced was relief. I've said it before, and it's even more true today: I need more sleep. The outcome, in a nutshell, is that we all slept better the first night, and even better the second. My fingers are crossed for an even more successful third. All sorts of positive qualities flow from adequate sleep--things I value, like patience and humor and creativity--and I'm looking forward to seeing some of them again very soon.
Saturday, July 24, 2004
A Fish Story
Not a day goes by when Max isn't engaged in some kind of fantasy play, like sweeping imaginary animals out of the house or taking the car for a spin around the block. One of his favorite fantasy games is fishing, and today as he dangled one end of a bent yardstick off the bed, he exclaimed, "I've got a fish!" I started asking him questions about his catch: How big is the fish? What color is the fish? Where did you catch the fish? Max was playing along, amplifying on his fishing experience with each answer.
There's a basic tenet of trial law that when a lawyer is interrogating a witness on the stand, he/she should never ask a question to which he/she doesn't already know the answer. During the year that I played at becoming a trial lawyer, I heard numerous war stories about the unexpected and often disasterous consequences of asking one question too many. (Remember the prosecutor asking O.J. Simpson to try on the glove that didn't fit?)
Today on my fantasy expedition with Max, I asked one question too many: Is the fish a boy or a girl? Max gave me a withering look and said, as if I'd just missed the entire premise of the story, "It's a FISH." And with that, our fishing trip was over.
There's a basic tenet of trial law that when a lawyer is interrogating a witness on the stand, he/she should never ask a question to which he/she doesn't already know the answer. During the year that I played at becoming a trial lawyer, I heard numerous war stories about the unexpected and often disasterous consequences of asking one question too many. (Remember the prosecutor asking O.J. Simpson to try on the glove that didn't fit?)
Today on my fantasy expedition with Max, I asked one question too many: Is the fish a boy or a girl? Max gave me a withering look and said, as if I'd just missed the entire premise of the story, "It's a FISH." And with that, our fishing trip was over.
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
Waiting for you
On Sunday afternoon we had unexpected guests. About 2:00 I received a phone call from David Albert, the husband of my dear college friend, Libby. David and their oldest son, Michael, were in town for baseball camp and had a few empty hours before their flight home to Oklahoma City. Libby had asked David, if time permitted, to come see us, meet the kids and take a few pictures. We had an all-too-short hour together, and after they left, I so yearned for more time with the Alberts that I'm plotting how we might make that happen this year. I asked about their daughter, Katy's rapidly-approaching departure for college. (You may recall that Katy is the sender of the card featuring Superwoman brushing the dinosaur's teeth.) David predicted that as they pull away from campus, I'll be able to hear Libby crying all the way from Boston.
One day a couple of weeks ago Max asked me to carry him into the living room. As I was about to deposit him on the sofa, he said, "I'm in a nest." I was confused and curious, so I asked Max if the sofa was a nest. He said, "No, you are." Then I asked if he felt like he was in a nest when I carried him in my arms, and said, "Yes. I'm a baby bird and I'm in a nest." Quite an endearing metaphor. And in fifteen years, he'll leave the nest like Katy. I get choked up now just imagining that day.
------
Our usual nightime routine is to put Max to bed, then Baby Reed. There's considerably more fanfare to Max's bedtime ritual: Lee and I vie for the privilege of carrying Max to bed, after which Max, not yet adept at parity, always declares, "It's mommy's turn!" I walk/trot/run down the hallway with Max "in the nest." Lee follows closely behind so that when Max says, "Get my toes, daddy," Lee can tickle his feet.
Then one of us grasps Max's hands, the other his feet, and we swing him like a sack of potatoes into his bed. How long we swing depends on Max. The rule is that we keep swinging as long as he keeps counting correctly. He will usually make it to thirteen, after which he begins making erratic turns: "Eleven...twelve...thirteen...fifteen...sixteen...eighteen...twenty." Sometimes, though, he runs amok from the start: "One...two...twelve...fifteen...sixteen."
I'm reminded of an article I read recently about a political commentator for CNN. This man is no dummy--undergrad from Harvard, law degree from Stanford. Asked about his most embarrassing moment, he said that he'd been kicked out of kindergarten. When the teacher asked him what 2 + 2 equaled, he said, "Yellow." He thought it was funny. She didn't, and she had the power.
I can imagine Max doing exactly the same thing, and I wonder if that isn't what he's up to when we swing him into bed, because he's clearly amused. I hope that Max through the tribulations of growing up, Max manages to retain the ability to crack himself up. It's a great asset in life.
After Max makes it into bed, I usually join him for a few minutes. How long I stay is a function of how tired I am, how physical Max is (if he kicks or bites me, even out of exuberance, I'm out of there...), how demanding Baby Reed is, and what else remains to be done around the house. We read books (usually "How Do Dinosaurs Say Goodnight?"), or I sing a song (Max requests "Stay Awake, Don't Close Your Eyes," which I crafted improvisationally one night when I hoped reverse psychology would get him to sleep), or I tell a story (Max usually requests one about when he was little like Baby Reed), or I give him a backrub.
After Max is in the neighborhood of quiet, it's Baby Reed's turn. I'm embarrassed to admit that his is the Cliff's Notes version of a bedtime ritual...I nurse him and kiss him goodnight. If he's particularly fussy, he gets a lullaby. He's a much less skilled negotiator than Max, being sorely disadvantaged by a lack of words. And because he's Child #2, my tolerance for crying is way up. Life isn't fair.
Last night I put Max to bed and was devoting a few quality minutes to Baby Reed. Through the darkness, I heard Max's voice:
"Mommy, I need to ask your attention about me."
Hearing these words was wonderful on many levels. Max's usual attention-seeking tactic is to get out of bed, come into our room and climb under our covers. We've been working to curb this habit, and for Max to ask for attention rather than to compel it was a welcome sign of nascent self-control. This was also the first time Max has requested something abstract rather than concrete, like "more milk". Developmentally, that's a huge leap forward. And his syntax was utterly charming--childlike, yet completely intelligible.
"Do you need my attention, Max?" I asked.
"Yes, mommy."
"Okay, I'm putting Baby Reed to bed, and then I'll come give you my attention."
"Okay, mommy, I'm sitting right here and waiting for you." How could anyone resist that?
One day a couple of weeks ago Max asked me to carry him into the living room. As I was about to deposit him on the sofa, he said, "I'm in a nest." I was confused and curious, so I asked Max if the sofa was a nest. He said, "No, you are." Then I asked if he felt like he was in a nest when I carried him in my arms, and said, "Yes. I'm a baby bird and I'm in a nest." Quite an endearing metaphor. And in fifteen years, he'll leave the nest like Katy. I get choked up now just imagining that day.
------
Our usual nightime routine is to put Max to bed, then Baby Reed. There's considerably more fanfare to Max's bedtime ritual: Lee and I vie for the privilege of carrying Max to bed, after which Max, not yet adept at parity, always declares, "It's mommy's turn!" I walk/trot/run down the hallway with Max "in the nest." Lee follows closely behind so that when Max says, "Get my toes, daddy," Lee can tickle his feet.
Then one of us grasps Max's hands, the other his feet, and we swing him like a sack of potatoes into his bed. How long we swing depends on Max. The rule is that we keep swinging as long as he keeps counting correctly. He will usually make it to thirteen, after which he begins making erratic turns: "Eleven...twelve...thirteen...fifteen...sixteen...eighteen...twenty." Sometimes, though, he runs amok from the start: "One...two...twelve...fifteen...sixteen."
I'm reminded of an article I read recently about a political commentator for CNN. This man is no dummy--undergrad from Harvard, law degree from Stanford. Asked about his most embarrassing moment, he said that he'd been kicked out of kindergarten. When the teacher asked him what 2 + 2 equaled, he said, "Yellow." He thought it was funny. She didn't, and she had the power.
I can imagine Max doing exactly the same thing, and I wonder if that isn't what he's up to when we swing him into bed, because he's clearly amused. I hope that Max through the tribulations of growing up, Max manages to retain the ability to crack himself up. It's a great asset in life.
After Max makes it into bed, I usually join him for a few minutes. How long I stay is a function of how tired I am, how physical Max is (if he kicks or bites me, even out of exuberance, I'm out of there...), how demanding Baby Reed is, and what else remains to be done around the house. We read books (usually "How Do Dinosaurs Say Goodnight?"), or I sing a song (Max requests "Stay Awake, Don't Close Your Eyes," which I crafted improvisationally one night when I hoped reverse psychology would get him to sleep), or I tell a story (Max usually requests one about when he was little like Baby Reed), or I give him a backrub.
After Max is in the neighborhood of quiet, it's Baby Reed's turn. I'm embarrassed to admit that his is the Cliff's Notes version of a bedtime ritual...I nurse him and kiss him goodnight. If he's particularly fussy, he gets a lullaby. He's a much less skilled negotiator than Max, being sorely disadvantaged by a lack of words. And because he's Child #2, my tolerance for crying is way up. Life isn't fair.
Last night I put Max to bed and was devoting a few quality minutes to Baby Reed. Through the darkness, I heard Max's voice:
"Mommy, I need to ask your attention about me."
Hearing these words was wonderful on many levels. Max's usual attention-seeking tactic is to get out of bed, come into our room and climb under our covers. We've been working to curb this habit, and for Max to ask for attention rather than to compel it was a welcome sign of nascent self-control. This was also the first time Max has requested something abstract rather than concrete, like "more milk". Developmentally, that's a huge leap forward. And his syntax was utterly charming--childlike, yet completely intelligible.
"Do you need my attention, Max?" I asked.
"Yes, mommy."
"Okay, I'm putting Baby Reed to bed, and then I'll come give you my attention."
"Okay, mommy, I'm sitting right here and waiting for you." How could anyone resist that?
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
The Morning Edition Blues
When NPR announced that Bob Edwards would be leaving Morning Edition, I was worried about what would happen to the quality of the show. But I'm sorry to say that my worst fears have been exceeded by the sloppy journalism that I've been hearing in the morning.
Recently Steve Inskeep interviewed a reporter from an Arab television station. I've been trying to find the segment in archives to listen to it again, but I can't seem to locate it. (Maybe it's been deleted?) Mr. Inskeep's negative feelings about the person he was interviewing were so evident that, in my view, the interview was completely compromised. Whatever Mr. Inskeep's personal feelings are about the Arab media, I thought that he came across as embarassingly unprofessional by making them so apparent in an interview.
A couple of weeks ago, during a story about either Iraq or Afghanistan (I can't now recall which), NPR included a sound bite of a local man saying, "Yes." I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP. THAT WAS THE CLIP. Some journalism professor should use this example in a class on how NOT to use quotations in a story. Who knows whether what the speaker said is actually what NPR's reporter said that he said?
Last week Steve Inskeep introduced a story about Deborah Amos' month in Iraq. He said that when she arrived, Iraq was "formerly an occupied country" but that powers were handed over to the transitional government while she was there. No, when she arrived Iraq WAS an occupied country; only after the handover of powers did it became FORMERLY an occupied country.
On Monday's segment about funding for higher education, NPR's reporter mentioned that President Bush had promised additional funds for college tuition, and then there was a set up for a quote from President Bush. The clip that was included was of a woman introducing the President, and then all the President said was, "Thank you, thank you." THAT IS NOT A QUOTE THAT ADDS ANY CONTENT TO A STORY! What on earth was NPR's purpose in including it?
In a story yesterday morning about anti-AIDS drugs being manufactured by an Indian company called Ciplo, after a 30-second recording of the introductory film that is shown to visitors to the company (also which added NOTHING to the story), the next sound bite was of the person being interviewed giving his title. Come on, now, HIS TITLE? Can't someone there write a sentence that covers basic information like this so that the quotes can cover substantive issues?
For heaven's sake, where are Morning Edition's editors? Who's training and coaching the folks who put this stuff together day after day? If NPR keeps producing this kind of schlock, I'm going to have to turn off the radio because I'm getting so agitated while I listen that I'm afraid I'm going to wreck my car.
Recently Steve Inskeep interviewed a reporter from an Arab television station. I've been trying to find the segment in archives to listen to it again, but I can't seem to locate it. (Maybe it's been deleted?) Mr. Inskeep's negative feelings about the person he was interviewing were so evident that, in my view, the interview was completely compromised. Whatever Mr. Inskeep's personal feelings are about the Arab media, I thought that he came across as embarassingly unprofessional by making them so apparent in an interview.
A couple of weeks ago, during a story about either Iraq or Afghanistan (I can't now recall which), NPR included a sound bite of a local man saying, "Yes." I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP. THAT WAS THE CLIP. Some journalism professor should use this example in a class on how NOT to use quotations in a story. Who knows whether what the speaker said is actually what NPR's reporter said that he said?
Last week Steve Inskeep introduced a story about Deborah Amos' month in Iraq. He said that when she arrived, Iraq was "formerly an occupied country" but that powers were handed over to the transitional government while she was there. No, when she arrived Iraq WAS an occupied country; only after the handover of powers did it became FORMERLY an occupied country.
On Monday's segment about funding for higher education, NPR's reporter mentioned that President Bush had promised additional funds for college tuition, and then there was a set up for a quote from President Bush. The clip that was included was of a woman introducing the President, and then all the President said was, "Thank you, thank you." THAT IS NOT A QUOTE THAT ADDS ANY CONTENT TO A STORY! What on earth was NPR's purpose in including it?
In a story yesterday morning about anti-AIDS drugs being manufactured by an Indian company called Ciplo, after a 30-second recording of the introductory film that is shown to visitors to the company (also which added NOTHING to the story), the next sound bite was of the person being interviewed giving his title. Come on, now, HIS TITLE? Can't someone there write a sentence that covers basic information like this so that the quotes can cover substantive issues?
For heaven's sake, where are Morning Edition's editors? Who's training and coaching the folks who put this stuff together day after day? If NPR keeps producing this kind of schlock, I'm going to have to turn off the radio because I'm getting so agitated while I listen that I'm afraid I'm going to wreck my car.
Monday, July 12, 2004
The Golf Lesson
I am a terrible golfer. I've got a nice set of clubs. I've taken a handful of lessons. I enjoy hitting buckets on the driving range, and I even play a few holes with Lee from time to time. But even in a best ball scramble, I would not be an asset.
Yet as bad as I am, I occasionally hit an incredible shot. They are stunningly satisfying. The feel of solid contact, the ball singing off the clubface, the elegant trajectory--these keep me coming back for more. The psychological term for this phenomenon is "intermittent reinforcement," and proportionally for me, there's a lot of "intermittent" to a little "reinforcement."
Boo doesn't know anything about golf, but he does know something about intermittent reinforcement. Boo managed to feed himself for the first time today. His macaroni and cheese experiment was pretty hit or miss, with lots more misses than hits. But when he hit, oh, what a reaction! First there was surprise. Then confusion. Then delight. I'd guess 8 or 10 elbows found their way to his mouth. He'll be back for more.
The gallery was very enthusiastic about Boo's latest accomplishment, too. Harley sat obediently at his feet, benefiting from each miss. Max, who does a mean impersonation of Boo, parroted his every sound. And if you'd been watching Boo's mother? Well, you'd have thought she just hit her first hole in one.
Yet as bad as I am, I occasionally hit an incredible shot. They are stunningly satisfying. The feel of solid contact, the ball singing off the clubface, the elegant trajectory--these keep me coming back for more. The psychological term for this phenomenon is "intermittent reinforcement," and proportionally for me, there's a lot of "intermittent" to a little "reinforcement."
Boo doesn't know anything about golf, but he does know something about intermittent reinforcement. Boo managed to feed himself for the first time today. His macaroni and cheese experiment was pretty hit or miss, with lots more misses than hits. But when he hit, oh, what a reaction! First there was surprise. Then confusion. Then delight. I'd guess 8 or 10 elbows found their way to his mouth. He'll be back for more.
The gallery was very enthusiastic about Boo's latest accomplishment, too. Harley sat obediently at his feet, benefiting from each miss. Max, who does a mean impersonation of Boo, parroted his every sound. And if you'd been watching Boo's mother? Well, you'd have thought she just hit her first hole in one.
Sunday, July 11, 2004
The Big Question
Towards the end of June, Don and Shelly came to our house to have dinner and to play with the kids. When we'd finished eating, we looked outside and, much to our amazement, there was blue sky overhead! This seemed remarkable at the time since we were in the midst of the second rainiest June on record. Our 18+ inches last month were eclipsed only by 2001, when Tropical Storm Allison dumped a shocking 35 inches over some parts of the Houston area in 5 days. What was different this year is that it remained overcast and wet day after day after day--think Seattle without the....well, without a lot of things. In any event, along with a lot of other Houstonians, my family has been irritable with cabin fever.
We headed outside to enjoy the sunshine. Then Max looked up and, as if noticing it for the first time, exclaimed: "Look, there's the moon!" And then he asked one of life's really big questions: "HOW DID IT GET UP THERE?"
I had read in a child development book that age 4 is the Year of the Questions, so I wasn't expecting this query from my two-and-a-half year old. I thought I had time to brush up on a few things like why the grass is green and where rainbows come from and how magnets work.
But I'm behind. I paused, considering whether to tackle God or the Big Bang with my response. Finally, I decided to postpone answering, and instead I asked Max how HE thought the moon might have gotten up there. He said, "With a big ladder." Pretty good thinking...but I'm on notice. It's time to start preparing better answers to the big questions.
We headed outside to enjoy the sunshine. Then Max looked up and, as if noticing it for the first time, exclaimed: "Look, there's the moon!" And then he asked one of life's really big questions: "HOW DID IT GET UP THERE?"
I had read in a child development book that age 4 is the Year of the Questions, so I wasn't expecting this query from my two-and-a-half year old. I thought I had time to brush up on a few things like why the grass is green and where rainbows come from and how magnets work.
But I'm behind. I paused, considering whether to tackle God or the Big Bang with my response. Finally, I decided to postpone answering, and instead I asked Max how HE thought the moon might have gotten up there. He said, "With a big ladder." Pretty good thinking...but I'm on notice. It's time to start preparing better answers to the big questions.
Saturday, July 10, 2004
Come on, baby, do the locomotion....
When people ask how old Boo is and I tell them that he's almost 9 months, they invariably ask if he's crawling. My standard response has been to say with a laugh, "No, and I'm not giving him the chance to learn because my life gets a lot harder once he's mobile." I say this in jest, of course, but I know that what makes something funny is the kernel of truth that lies within it.
What a difference it makes to be the second child! With Max, Lee and I did everything we could to help him get moving. Like professional coaches, we encouraged, practiced, instructed and cheered. Inspired by Montessori methods, I installed a mirror at ground level in his room so that Max could watch himself experiment with crawling. I'm unable now to remember when Max first crawled, and there's so much variation among children that it's not even a developmental milestone that pediatricians track. As I write this, I'm aware of the hubris of thinking that our efforts could have accelerated Max's normal progression. But back then, you probably couldn't have convinced me otherwise.
In contrast, more for my own convenience than for his containment, Reed has spent much of the last three months in the play saucer, bouncy seat, stroller or clothes basket. (Thanks go to my friend, Dorothy, for this last suggestion, which enables me to easily carry the baby from room to room, together with a few toys that stay within his reach.) But I'm aware that subconsciously, I may have wanted to keep him stationary for as long as possible.
Nevertheless, Boo is now mobile, and he appears to be tackling locomotion with his own unique style. He can propel himself in three distinct ways: spinning in circles like a well-trained reining horse, pushing himself backwards (sometimes winding up underneath the furniture) and "scooting."
I didn't actually notice that Boo could scoot; I deduced it. Boo can sit and entertain himself now for long periods of time, with ramrod straight posture that a dancer would envy. One day I noticed that he was still sitting up, but several feet away from where I'd deposited him. What was notable about this was that Boo can't yet get himself into a sitting position from a prone one, so I knew that he didn't "drop and roll" and then reposition himself vertically.
I hypothesized that he must have scooted on his seat until he'd reached his destination, and then to test my theory, I watched. His movement is so gradual that it's almost imperceptible, but sure enough, he inches forward on his bottom, maintaining his elegant posture all the while. Today a tiny scoot, soon a small step, and perhaps one day, a giant leap....
What a difference it makes to be the second child! With Max, Lee and I did everything we could to help him get moving. Like professional coaches, we encouraged, practiced, instructed and cheered. Inspired by Montessori methods, I installed a mirror at ground level in his room so that Max could watch himself experiment with crawling. I'm unable now to remember when Max first crawled, and there's so much variation among children that it's not even a developmental milestone that pediatricians track. As I write this, I'm aware of the hubris of thinking that our efforts could have accelerated Max's normal progression. But back then, you probably couldn't have convinced me otherwise.
In contrast, more for my own convenience than for his containment, Reed has spent much of the last three months in the play saucer, bouncy seat, stroller or clothes basket. (Thanks go to my friend, Dorothy, for this last suggestion, which enables me to easily carry the baby from room to room, together with a few toys that stay within his reach.) But I'm aware that subconsciously, I may have wanted to keep him stationary for as long as possible.
Nevertheless, Boo is now mobile, and he appears to be tackling locomotion with his own unique style. He can propel himself in three distinct ways: spinning in circles like a well-trained reining horse, pushing himself backwards (sometimes winding up underneath the furniture) and "scooting."
I didn't actually notice that Boo could scoot; I deduced it. Boo can sit and entertain himself now for long periods of time, with ramrod straight posture that a dancer would envy. One day I noticed that he was still sitting up, but several feet away from where I'd deposited him. What was notable about this was that Boo can't yet get himself into a sitting position from a prone one, so I knew that he didn't "drop and roll" and then reposition himself vertically.
I hypothesized that he must have scooted on his seat until he'd reached his destination, and then to test my theory, I watched. His movement is so gradual that it's almost imperceptible, but sure enough, he inches forward on his bottom, maintaining his elegant posture all the while. Today a tiny scoot, soon a small step, and perhaps one day, a giant leap....
Friday, July 09, 2004
Word Association
Let's play word association. If you said "still", I might say "statue" or "air" or "night." What I would not say, under any circumstances, is "Max." Take, for example, Max at mealtime. Watching him on any given day, you will find him sitting on his chair, kneeling on his chair, standing on his chair (not allowed), putting his feet on the table (also not allowed), tipping his chair backwards at a precarious angle (really, really not allowed), getting off the chair, crawling into my lap, eating some of my dinner, getting off my lap, making faces at Baby Reed, tickling Baby Reed, getting back on his chair, banging the table with the tines of his fork (not allowed), trying to feed the dogs (not allowed), and so forth. With only a bit of hyperbole, I'd guess that the calories Max ingests during a typical meal are roughly equivalent to the calories he expends eating it.
Even in his sleep, Max can be so active that I sometimes worry he may hurt himself. When he graduated from his crib to a bed, I installed a mesh guardrail for what I thought would be a brief transition period. When I'd check on him before turning in for the night, I'd often find that he'd swiveled 180 degrees or wrangled into some sideways contortion with part of his body dangling off the mattress. Then one night, Max woke up screaming. Much to my horror, he'd tried to get out of bed by squeezing his body between the guardrail and the bedpost, but he'd gotten his head stuck on the way out. Concluding that the rail might be more hazard than help, I removed it, only to have Max fall out of bed twice that night. So the guardrail went back up, with pillows strategically positioned to prevent him from hurting himself. The rail is an added measure of security, too, when he uses his mattress for trampoline practice.
Max is many things, but "still" is usually not one of them.
On July 5, morning came early to our house. At 4:30, I was jolted from a dream in which I was observing Max at school, busily coloring everything brown. The silence was shattered by Max the Drill Sergeant blaring, "MOMMY, I NEED FOR YOU TO TUCK ME INTO THE BISCUIT! MOMMY, I NEED FOR YOU TO TUCK ME INTO THE BISCUIT!" (Now that it's no longer 4:30 in the morning, I can better appreciate the hilarity of that expression coming from a two and a half year old.)
Max and I both know that he is perfectly capable of manipulating the bedcovers himself. (He's capable of manipulating much, much more than that, too.) But something else was at stake this morning because if the shouting continued much longer, everyone in the house would be awake, with no guarantees that anyone would go back to sleep before daybreak.
So Max succeeded in luring me to his room. After I'd repositioned the top sheet, blanket, comforter, and baby quilt with the military precision he demanded, Max raised the stakes: "Would you lie down in my bed with me, mommy?"
Many nights I am unwilling to accomodate a second request like this, in which case there are typically a few seconds of wailing, and he is asleep again. But I'm particularly mindful these days of the imbalance Lee and I have created by having Baby Reed sleep in our room, while forcing Max, from his vantage point, to serve out a nightly exile in his room. Max's distress is manifested in myriad ways these days, ranging from his recent declaration that "I want to be little like Baby Reed," to his tendency to situate himself in Baby Reed's highchair just as I'm preparing to feed the baby, to the teeth marks that appear periodically on various parts of Baby Reed's body. Oh, and I mustn't forget his recent pencil drawing entitled, "The Mad Boy and Mommy." I will attach a copy of it for your analysis. Consequently, I've been making a concerted effort to pay special attention to Max, which led me to climb into bed beside him this particular morning. I'm glad I did.
Lying in the darkness, our foreheads pressed together, Max smiled and relaxed, and I smiled back. Savoring his warm, damp breath on my cheek, I noted how unusual this moment was....Max calm and silent and STILL. I lingered beside Max longer than I otherwise would have, acutely aware of his stillness. I seldom experience this kind of tranquility with Max, and I cherished it. Just when I'd concluded that he was asleep again, Max lifted his hand to my face, stroked my cheek gently, and let his fingertips rest there. We both lay still. With his small hand cupping my cheek, it occurred to me that I'd wake up at 4:30 every morning for moments like this. A few minutes later, as I started to take my leave, Max whispered, "I need the cold pillow, mommy." I flipped his pillow over to the cold side, just the way I like mine. Then I slipped out of bed, and Max slipped off to sleep.
I wish I'd slept more, too, but Reed was hungry, and an hour later Max wanted milk, and in another half hour NPR was set deliver its new, somewhat diluted version of the morning news. (Bob Edwards, I miss you.) The stuff of my day--kids and meals and house and animals and naps and discipline and errands--will be both completely new and utterly familiar. But whatever moments of joy or frustration or amusement or boredom or exhaustion or surprise or anger or delight happen today, the time spent with Max this morning will glisten like a precious jewel.
Even in his sleep, Max can be so active that I sometimes worry he may hurt himself. When he graduated from his crib to a bed, I installed a mesh guardrail for what I thought would be a brief transition period. When I'd check on him before turning in for the night, I'd often find that he'd swiveled 180 degrees or wrangled into some sideways contortion with part of his body dangling off the mattress. Then one night, Max woke up screaming. Much to my horror, he'd tried to get out of bed by squeezing his body between the guardrail and the bedpost, but he'd gotten his head stuck on the way out. Concluding that the rail might be more hazard than help, I removed it, only to have Max fall out of bed twice that night. So the guardrail went back up, with pillows strategically positioned to prevent him from hurting himself. The rail is an added measure of security, too, when he uses his mattress for trampoline practice.
Max is many things, but "still" is usually not one of them.
On July 5, morning came early to our house. At 4:30, I was jolted from a dream in which I was observing Max at school, busily coloring everything brown. The silence was shattered by Max the Drill Sergeant blaring, "MOMMY, I NEED FOR YOU TO TUCK ME INTO THE BISCUIT! MOMMY, I NEED FOR YOU TO TUCK ME INTO THE BISCUIT!" (Now that it's no longer 4:30 in the morning, I can better appreciate the hilarity of that expression coming from a two and a half year old.)
Max and I both know that he is perfectly capable of manipulating the bedcovers himself. (He's capable of manipulating much, much more than that, too.) But something else was at stake this morning because if the shouting continued much longer, everyone in the house would be awake, with no guarantees that anyone would go back to sleep before daybreak.
So Max succeeded in luring me to his room. After I'd repositioned the top sheet, blanket, comforter, and baby quilt with the military precision he demanded, Max raised the stakes: "Would you lie down in my bed with me, mommy?"
Many nights I am unwilling to accomodate a second request like this, in which case there are typically a few seconds of wailing, and he is asleep again. But I'm particularly mindful these days of the imbalance Lee and I have created by having Baby Reed sleep in our room, while forcing Max, from his vantage point, to serve out a nightly exile in his room. Max's distress is manifested in myriad ways these days, ranging from his recent declaration that "I want to be little like Baby Reed," to his tendency to situate himself in Baby Reed's highchair just as I'm preparing to feed the baby, to the teeth marks that appear periodically on various parts of Baby Reed's body. Oh, and I mustn't forget his recent pencil drawing entitled, "The Mad Boy and Mommy." I will attach a copy of it for your analysis. Consequently, I've been making a concerted effort to pay special attention to Max, which led me to climb into bed beside him this particular morning. I'm glad I did.
Lying in the darkness, our foreheads pressed together, Max smiled and relaxed, and I smiled back. Savoring his warm, damp breath on my cheek, I noted how unusual this moment was....Max calm and silent and STILL. I lingered beside Max longer than I otherwise would have, acutely aware of his stillness. I seldom experience this kind of tranquility with Max, and I cherished it. Just when I'd concluded that he was asleep again, Max lifted his hand to my face, stroked my cheek gently, and let his fingertips rest there. We both lay still. With his small hand cupping my cheek, it occurred to me that I'd wake up at 4:30 every morning for moments like this. A few minutes later, as I started to take my leave, Max whispered, "I need the cold pillow, mommy." I flipped his pillow over to the cold side, just the way I like mine. Then I slipped out of bed, and Max slipped off to sleep.
I wish I'd slept more, too, but Reed was hungry, and an hour later Max wanted milk, and in another half hour NPR was set deliver its new, somewhat diluted version of the morning news. (Bob Edwards, I miss you.) The stuff of my day--kids and meals and house and animals and naps and discipline and errands--will be both completely new and utterly familiar. But whatever moments of joy or frustration or amusement or boredom or exhaustion or surprise or anger or delight happen today, the time spent with Max this morning will glisten like a precious jewel.
The Mad Boy and Mommy
