Monday, February 28, 2005
"P" is for more than Pig
When I got home from the grocery store today, I had a message from one of Max's teachers. As a general rule, this is an ominous thing. It seems that Max had been particularly aggressive at school and had rebuffed all of the teachers' efforts at redirecting him. That landed him in the principal's office for a cooling off period.
So I was not in a lenient frame of mind when Max got home. During the afternoon, there were a few episodes during which Max chose not to be a good listener, but everything came to a head when Max emerged from the bathtub. He ignored me when I called him to put on his diaper and pj's. I finally caught him, but he squirmed and wriggled and kicked until I turned loose. He was standing across the room, refusing to cooperate, when a liquid arc emanated from his crotch, generously spraying the rug. (Couldn't have been the hardwoods, could it?)
I was livid. Retrieving his bathtowel for the clean-up job, I pointed out to Max that he had just peed on the rug and that that was exactly why I had wanted to put his diaper on and that I was very, very angry. He began a 3-year old's version of the soft-shoe:
"Oh. I'm sorry, mommy. Do you want to play a game?"
"I can't right now, Max. I have to clean up your pee." I continued blotting vigorously.
"Do you want to play a game now, mommy?"
"I can't, Max. I'm still cleaning the rug."
"But you've already done that, mommy. And you did it so well. Great job! Now do you want to play a game?"
I went into the bathroom to wash my hands, and that's when I heard Max again: "It's time for the show!"
When I returned to Max's room, he was standing atop the train table, holding forth like the circus ringmaster: "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, we're going to do the Animal ABC's from Ant to Zebra! Here we go!"
And he proceeded to sing, animating his performance with hand gestures:
"Ant bear cat dog elephant frog giraffe
Horse iguana jaguar kangaroo lion mouse
Noblabla (nightingale) octopus pig
Questa (quetzel) rhinocerous snake
Turtle umbrella-bird vulture whale
X-ray fish yak and zebra.
Now I know my animal ABC's
Next time won't you sing with me?"
In the spirit of spotting more butterflies, I pulled up a seat and allowed myself to take pleasure in the show.
Last night Lee remarked, "Pound for pound, Max is the most precocious person I know." I'd like to second that.
So I was not in a lenient frame of mind when Max got home. During the afternoon, there were a few episodes during which Max chose not to be a good listener, but everything came to a head when Max emerged from the bathtub. He ignored me when I called him to put on his diaper and pj's. I finally caught him, but he squirmed and wriggled and kicked until I turned loose. He was standing across the room, refusing to cooperate, when a liquid arc emanated from his crotch, generously spraying the rug. (Couldn't have been the hardwoods, could it?)
I was livid. Retrieving his bathtowel for the clean-up job, I pointed out to Max that he had just peed on the rug and that that was exactly why I had wanted to put his diaper on and that I was very, very angry. He began a 3-year old's version of the soft-shoe:
"Oh. I'm sorry, mommy. Do you want to play a game?"
"I can't right now, Max. I have to clean up your pee." I continued blotting vigorously.
"Do you want to play a game now, mommy?"
"I can't, Max. I'm still cleaning the rug."
"But you've already done that, mommy. And you did it so well. Great job! Now do you want to play a game?"
I went into the bathroom to wash my hands, and that's when I heard Max again: "It's time for the show!"
When I returned to Max's room, he was standing atop the train table, holding forth like the circus ringmaster: "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, we're going to do the Animal ABC's from Ant to Zebra! Here we go!"
And he proceeded to sing, animating his performance with hand gestures:
"Ant bear cat dog elephant frog giraffe
Horse iguana jaguar kangaroo lion mouse
Noblabla (nightingale) octopus pig
Questa (quetzel) rhinocerous snake
Turtle umbrella-bird vulture whale
X-ray fish yak and zebra.
Now I know my animal ABC's
Next time won't you sing with me?"
In the spirit of spotting more butterflies, I pulled up a seat and allowed myself to take pleasure in the show.
Last night Lee remarked, "Pound for pound, Max is the most precocious person I know." I'd like to second that.
Saturday, February 26, 2005
Pattern Language
A few days ago Boo uttered his first sentence. He was standing at our bedroom window watching Cassie chase birds in the backyard when we heard him say, “Bye-bye, bird!” Until now, Boo's words have been limited to mama, dada, Max, Harley, ball, bird, banana, backpack, cat and perhaps a few others that I'm forgetting right now.
What Boo lacks in vocabulary, though, he makes up for in animal noises. He can do a mean horse and dog and a passable cat, sheep, cow, tiger and owl. His bee sounds more like a hiss than a buzz. My personal favorite is his pantomime of a fish, opening and closing his mouth as if he were a tiny actor in a silent movie.
But don't think that Boo hasn't been communicating. On the contrary. Since he was very small, Boo has responded by imitating patterns. I'd pat him a couple of times, and he'd pat me back. Move his arms up down up down, and he'd do the same. Sometimes while holding him close, I'll create a rhythm with my breathing, slow-slow-fast-fast-fast, and he'll repeat it, grinning all the while. If the essence of conversation is to create an emotional connection between people, Boo and I couldn't be speaking any more clearly than we are at those moments.
Earlier this week, I was having lunch with Max and Boo. Max was playing with some felt stars that I'd cut out for him when he suddenly exclaimed, "Look! It's a pattern!" So we made up a new game. I'd say, "Fork, knife, spoon, fork, knife, spoon, fork, knife..." and Max would yell, "SPOON!" Or I'd say "Red, red, green, green, red, red, green, green, red..." and Max would shout, "RED!"
What I noticed about this game was that it held Max's attention for more than 30 seconds and that he was quite adept at playing. But what was really entertaining was Boo's reaction. Every time I created a pattern, Boo would start to giggle hysterically. It was so evident that he got it and was delighted by it. And that completely delighted me.
How Boo uses this aptitude as he gets older is anyone's guess, but I have no doubt he will find ways to express it. For example, we hear him now humming complete tunes like the alphabet song, so I wouldn't be surprised if he finds a musical outlet for his internal beat. I'm warning you, though: Anyone who buys Boo a drum set will be required to keep it at his or her own house.
What Boo lacks in vocabulary, though, he makes up for in animal noises. He can do a mean horse and dog and a passable cat, sheep, cow, tiger and owl. His bee sounds more like a hiss than a buzz. My personal favorite is his pantomime of a fish, opening and closing his mouth as if he were a tiny actor in a silent movie.
But don't think that Boo hasn't been communicating. On the contrary. Since he was very small, Boo has responded by imitating patterns. I'd pat him a couple of times, and he'd pat me back. Move his arms up down up down, and he'd do the same. Sometimes while holding him close, I'll create a rhythm with my breathing, slow-slow-fast-fast-fast, and he'll repeat it, grinning all the while. If the essence of conversation is to create an emotional connection between people, Boo and I couldn't be speaking any more clearly than we are at those moments.
Earlier this week, I was having lunch with Max and Boo. Max was playing with some felt stars that I'd cut out for him when he suddenly exclaimed, "Look! It's a pattern!" So we made up a new game. I'd say, "Fork, knife, spoon, fork, knife, spoon, fork, knife..." and Max would yell, "SPOON!" Or I'd say "Red, red, green, green, red, red, green, green, red..." and Max would shout, "RED!"
What I noticed about this game was that it held Max's attention for more than 30 seconds and that he was quite adept at playing. But what was really entertaining was Boo's reaction. Every time I created a pattern, Boo would start to giggle hysterically. It was so evident that he got it and was delighted by it. And that completely delighted me.
How Boo uses this aptitude as he gets older is anyone's guess, but I have no doubt he will find ways to express it. For example, we hear him now humming complete tunes like the alphabet song, so I wouldn't be surprised if he finds a musical outlet for his internal beat. I'm warning you, though: Anyone who buys Boo a drum set will be required to keep it at his or her own house.
Friday, February 25, 2005
A Lesson from Max
I had an 8:30 appointment with a new dermatologist yesterday morning. As I was leaving the house at 8:15, I discovered that the electric gate across our driveway wouldn't open, leaving me imprisoned in my driveway. A cold front had arrived during the night, accompanied by lots of pyrotechnics, and the rain was coming down hard. Lee had an appointment downtown and had taken our only functioning umbrella with him.
Sometimes the remote mechanism on our gate is ornery in inclement weather. I drove close to the radio doohicky. No luck. I rolled down the window and stuck my arm out. Nothing. I stormed out of the car and stomped up to the antenna. Nada.
I knew that the gate had an emergency release mechanism. The key that activates it is stashed at the bottom of the remote control box behind our garbage cans. When I bent to open the box, it was tightly sealed with the contents of four deeply recessed holes. I remember watching our gate man access the control box with a screwdriver, so I wiped the wet hair out of my eyes, bent low and peered into one of the holes. Phillips head. I went into the house, located the appropriate screwdriver, returned, and removed the first screw. I tried the second hole but couldn't get a firm grip on the screw. I tried the remaining two holes, with no effect. After a frustrating couple of minutes, I peered into one of the remaining holes. Regular slotted screw. Did I mention that the rain was coming down hard? I went back into the house to retrieve a standard screwdriver. Soon thereafter, I had the key in hand. I was still hoping to make my doctor's appointment. I walked to the end of the driveway, inserted the key in the electric gate mechanism, and turned. Then I tried to push the gate open. It wouldn't budge. The appointment was now out of the question. (Good thing it wasn't a real emergency.)
After it became evident that I couldn't make my doctor's appointment, Araceli went home to nurse her lingering respiratory infection. A couple of hours later, my gate man arrived and released me from the drive-way. In between, Martin the repair man arrived to resucitate the washing machine. I was way beyond grumpy.
Today was one of those days that bears out my tongue-in-cheek remark awhile back that sometimes the trip to Starbucks is the highlight of my day. I look forward to coffee for two main reasons: (1) I can procure it from a drive-through window while the kids are immobilized in the back seat. (2) I can callibrate my drink to remedy the preceding night's events and to fortify myself for the day to come: Everyone slept through the night, Max going to school? Decaf grande non-fat latte. Boo up in the middle of the night, followed by an hour of insomnia? Half-caf grande non-fat latte. Araceli out sick and Max home from school for President's day? Triple venti latte. The boys were still sporting their p.j.'s when I packed them into the car and headed for Starbucks. Max knows the route well by now, and as we turned south on Post Oak, he piped up:
- I want gessert.
- Max, it isn't time for dessert.
- I want lemon cake.
- You haven't had lunch yet. What kind of sandwich would you like?
- Turkey and cheese. But I want lemon cake first.
We pulled into the drive-through lane, and Max took notice of the cars ahead of us:
- We line up like this at my school.
- You do? Where do you go when you line up like this?
- Anywhere around the school.
- Where do you like to stand in line?
- At the back.
I drove to the counter, secured my coffee in the cupholder, hid the slice of lemon cake, and deposited the change on the console. Max eyed the coins.
- Mommy, do we have money to buy lemon cake?
- Yes.
As I pulled away from the counter, Max's face contorted and he began to wail.
- Argh! I want lemon cake!
- Max, I have lemon cake in the car.
- Can I hold it?
- Max, you can have it after lunch.
- No way!
- Max, I told you that if you want lemon cake, you have to have lunch first. It's your choice.
- I don't want lunch!
- No problem. But no lunch, no lemon cake. It's up to you.
- No, sir! I want lemon cake.
Then I recalled how I'd managed to break one of these stalemates with Max a few months ago.
- You really, really like lemon cake, don't you?
- Yes. And I don't want lunch.
- You just want lemon cake?
- Yes.
We drove in silence for a few seconds. Then Max switched gears:
- Hey, there's a butterfly on our windshield!
- There it is! It's green and yellow!
- I want it to fly away.
- You do? Why?
- Because it's so beautiful.
In less than a minute, my three-year old's frustration and disappointment yielded to the magic of a butterfly. Even on days like this one, surely I can learn to spot more butterflies.
Sometimes the remote mechanism on our gate is ornery in inclement weather. I drove close to the radio doohicky. No luck. I rolled down the window and stuck my arm out. Nothing. I stormed out of the car and stomped up to the antenna. Nada.
I knew that the gate had an emergency release mechanism. The key that activates it is stashed at the bottom of the remote control box behind our garbage cans. When I bent to open the box, it was tightly sealed with the contents of four deeply recessed holes. I remember watching our gate man access the control box with a screwdriver, so I wiped the wet hair out of my eyes, bent low and peered into one of the holes. Phillips head. I went into the house, located the appropriate screwdriver, returned, and removed the first screw. I tried the second hole but couldn't get a firm grip on the screw. I tried the remaining two holes, with no effect. After a frustrating couple of minutes, I peered into one of the remaining holes. Regular slotted screw. Did I mention that the rain was coming down hard? I went back into the house to retrieve a standard screwdriver. Soon thereafter, I had the key in hand. I was still hoping to make my doctor's appointment. I walked to the end of the driveway, inserted the key in the electric gate mechanism, and turned. Then I tried to push the gate open. It wouldn't budge. The appointment was now out of the question. (Good thing it wasn't a real emergency.)
After it became evident that I couldn't make my doctor's appointment, Araceli went home to nurse her lingering respiratory infection. A couple of hours later, my gate man arrived and released me from the drive-way. In between, Martin the repair man arrived to resucitate the washing machine. I was way beyond grumpy.
Today was one of those days that bears out my tongue-in-cheek remark awhile back that sometimes the trip to Starbucks is the highlight of my day. I look forward to coffee for two main reasons: (1) I can procure it from a drive-through window while the kids are immobilized in the back seat. (2) I can callibrate my drink to remedy the preceding night's events and to fortify myself for the day to come: Everyone slept through the night, Max going to school? Decaf grande non-fat latte. Boo up in the middle of the night, followed by an hour of insomnia? Half-caf grande non-fat latte. Araceli out sick and Max home from school for President's day? Triple venti latte. The boys were still sporting their p.j.'s when I packed them into the car and headed for Starbucks. Max knows the route well by now, and as we turned south on Post Oak, he piped up:
- I want gessert.
- Max, it isn't time for dessert.
- I want lemon cake.
- You haven't had lunch yet. What kind of sandwich would you like?
- Turkey and cheese. But I want lemon cake first.
We pulled into the drive-through lane, and Max took notice of the cars ahead of us:
- We line up like this at my school.
- You do? Where do you go when you line up like this?
- Anywhere around the school.
- Where do you like to stand in line?
- At the back.
I drove to the counter, secured my coffee in the cupholder, hid the slice of lemon cake, and deposited the change on the console. Max eyed the coins.
- Mommy, do we have money to buy lemon cake?
- Yes.
As I pulled away from the counter, Max's face contorted and he began to wail.
- Argh! I want lemon cake!
- Max, I have lemon cake in the car.
- Can I hold it?
- Max, you can have it after lunch.
- No way!
- Max, I told you that if you want lemon cake, you have to have lunch first. It's your choice.
- I don't want lunch!
- No problem. But no lunch, no lemon cake. It's up to you.
- No, sir! I want lemon cake.
Then I recalled how I'd managed to break one of these stalemates with Max a few months ago.
- You really, really like lemon cake, don't you?
- Yes. And I don't want lunch.
- You just want lemon cake?
- Yes.
We drove in silence for a few seconds. Then Max switched gears:
- Hey, there's a butterfly on our windshield!
- There it is! It's green and yellow!
- I want it to fly away.
- You do? Why?
- Because it's so beautiful.
In less than a minute, my three-year old's frustration and disappointment yielded to the magic of a butterfly. Even on days like this one, surely I can learn to spot more butterflies.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
George Bush is not our role model
Max had a very late nap today, putting us two hours behind on dinner and the evening's other activities. Supernanny Jo would chastize me for such a wishy-washy schedule.
Max began his negotiations for dinner with a request for pizza. Nope, no pizza. I put a sweet potato in front of him and offered him a choice of chicken or mac and cheese. Max chose pasta. As he was cleaning his plate, he astonished me with a request:
"Mommy, I want healthy food. Can I have some broccoli?"
I have an informal policy not to act as a short-order cook for the kids, but tonight I made an exception. Before bed, I may have to wipe the smile off with my face along with my mascara.
Max began his negotiations for dinner with a request for pizza. Nope, no pizza. I put a sweet potato in front of him and offered him a choice of chicken or mac and cheese. Max chose pasta. As he was cleaning his plate, he astonished me with a request:
"Mommy, I want healthy food. Can I have some broccoli?"
I have an informal policy not to act as a short-order cook for the kids, but tonight I made an exception. Before bed, I may have to wipe the smile off with my face along with my mascara.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Art for Dummies
For Max, one of the highlights of Andrew's birthday party last week was playing in the mock grocery store at the Children's Museum. Since then, Max has been fixated on grocery stores, even incorporating grocery imagery into some of his artwork. I saved the colorful floor plan he drew of a produce section. Another drawing was floating around the kitchen with dozens of other pages of construction paper. It was a more adventurous composition, with stairs, walls and check-out lines, juxtposed in varying perspectives, augmenting the all-important produce section.
Yesterday, I was earnestly trying to find an activity that would engage Max for a few minutes. I wondered whether he might get excited about creating various sized circles with different hole punches. To demonstrate, I grabbed a piece of orange construction paper and stamped out several holes. Max took the paper from my hand. Working to manipulate the paper into the hole punch groove, he turned the paper over and spied his picture of a grocery store, now pocked with five round scars.
"Mommy, you ruined my picture!" Max wailed. If it had been a Picasso, I don't think I could have felt any worse.
I did my best to salvage Max's masterpiece, carefully taping the holes from the back so that the adhesive wouldn't show. I held the picture up for his appraisal. "Look! I've fixed your picture." Max scalded me with his eyes.
"You're holding it upside down, mommy."
Yesterday, I was earnestly trying to find an activity that would engage Max for a few minutes. I wondered whether he might get excited about creating various sized circles with different hole punches. To demonstrate, I grabbed a piece of orange construction paper and stamped out several holes. Max took the paper from my hand. Working to manipulate the paper into the hole punch groove, he turned the paper over and spied his picture of a grocery store, now pocked with five round scars.
"Mommy, you ruined my picture!" Max wailed. If it had been a Picasso, I don't think I could have felt any worse.
I did my best to salvage Max's masterpiece, carefully taping the holes from the back so that the adhesive wouldn't show. I held the picture up for his appraisal. "Look! I've fixed your picture." Max scalded me with his eyes.
"You're holding it upside down, mommy."
Why It's All Worth It
Today was a glorious spring day in Houston, and Max and I were outside playing when he initiated this memorable exchange:
"Mommy, are you and daddy getting married?"
"We're already married, Max. We've been married for five years."
"Oh."
"Do you know what being married means?"
"No."
"It means that your daddy and I love each other and that we'll be together forever."
"And me, too? Am I married?"
"Well, you're not married yet, but I hope you get married one day."
"I will."
"Oh, really?"
"Yes, I'm going to marry you."
"Mommy, are you and daddy getting married?"
"We're already married, Max. We've been married for five years."
"Oh."
"Do you know what being married means?"
"No."
"It means that your daddy and I love each other and that we'll be together forever."
"And me, too? Am I married?"
"Well, you're not married yet, but I hope you get married one day."
"I will."
"Oh, really?"
"Yes, I'm going to marry you."
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Jo Jo to the Rescue...
I have a new favorite television show--"Supernanny." I imagine that had I watched this show before I had children, I would have thought, "How could those people raise such hellions?!" But now, in schizophrenic fashion, I careen from "How could those people raise such hellions?!" to "Yikes! That behavior happens in my house every day of the week!" Max's "backchat", as Supernanny Jo would call it, is copious, and getting worse. I confess that until Supernanny arrived in my living room, I wasn't even aware of how often it happened or how disrespectful it was.
I've wasted no time in setting new standards of behavior and implementing new techniques, including a daily schedule (more or less), a "naughty corner" and a new bedtime regimen, with less tolerance for negotiation. (Today's opportunity for self-doubt: If I call it "more or less" a daily schedule, then is it really a "schedule"?) As part of our schedule, the kids hit the bathtub at 4:30 or so, play and splash and emerge somewhat cleaner around 5:00, followed by dinner about 5:30. That leaves an hour or so for them to play with Lee before Boo goes to bed at 7:00, and Max follows at 7:45, give or take 15 minutes.
The pay-off for this routine has been huge, both in terms of my sanity and the boys' sleep patterns. (In the interest of full disclosure, I sometimes have a glass of wine while I supervise the boys in the tub, so perhaps that accounts for my improved mental health.) Reed has slept through the night 4 of the last 5 evenings, which seems nearly miraculous since it had been at least 6 months since we last enjoyed a full-night's sleep. For over a week, Max also has given up his 2-hour romps in the middle of the night. Lee and I are beginning to feel revived.
Then came today's birthday party for one of Max's classmates. The party was held at the Children's Museum from 4:00 - 5:30. Picture a crowd of 3-year old's engulfed in a sugar orgy at 5:00 in the evening. Like the Hungry Caterpillar before him, Max ate through one piece of cake, two sugar cookies, one cup of ice cream, and one box of "juice drink" before I ended his fun. He would cheerfully have scavenged crumbs of cake from the other kids' plates had I let him. At 5:30 we survived an hour-long commute in a Texas deluge to retrieve Boo from Babee and Poppi's house, putting us home for dinner shortly after 7:00.
The household schedule had become scrap paper.
Max had no appetite for dinner. Instead, in a burst of frenetic energy, he began to dismantle the contents of the wet-bar-turned-art-supply-cabinet, reaching a crescendo when he spewed a container of would-have-become-a-mosaic macaroni, beans and rice kernels throughout the kitchen and den. (After a good night's sleep, I may conclude that "on the floor" was a better place for that stuff.) That's when Lee and I determined that it was, without any doubt, time for Max to go to bed. But it took a couple of stints in the naughty corner before we got him there. When at last we were winding down our nighttime routine, I intoned a line from the Supernanny playbook in the most soothing voice I could muster: "And now it's time for you to go to sleep, darling." Max continued to fidget, powerless against the glucose overdose:
"Mommy, I think I'm going to sleep on Friday...or maybe on Saturday."
Dear God, please don't let it take that long.
I've wasted no time in setting new standards of behavior and implementing new techniques, including a daily schedule (more or less), a "naughty corner" and a new bedtime regimen, with less tolerance for negotiation. (Today's opportunity for self-doubt: If I call it "more or less" a daily schedule, then is it really a "schedule"?) As part of our schedule, the kids hit the bathtub at 4:30 or so, play and splash and emerge somewhat cleaner around 5:00, followed by dinner about 5:30. That leaves an hour or so for them to play with Lee before Boo goes to bed at 7:00, and Max follows at 7:45, give or take 15 minutes.
The pay-off for this routine has been huge, both in terms of my sanity and the boys' sleep patterns. (In the interest of full disclosure, I sometimes have a glass of wine while I supervise the boys in the tub, so perhaps that accounts for my improved mental health.) Reed has slept through the night 4 of the last 5 evenings, which seems nearly miraculous since it had been at least 6 months since we last enjoyed a full-night's sleep. For over a week, Max also has given up his 2-hour romps in the middle of the night. Lee and I are beginning to feel revived.
Then came today's birthday party for one of Max's classmates. The party was held at the Children's Museum from 4:00 - 5:30. Picture a crowd of 3-year old's engulfed in a sugar orgy at 5:00 in the evening. Like the Hungry Caterpillar before him, Max ate through one piece of cake, two sugar cookies, one cup of ice cream, and one box of "juice drink" before I ended his fun. He would cheerfully have scavenged crumbs of cake from the other kids' plates had I let him. At 5:30 we survived an hour-long commute in a Texas deluge to retrieve Boo from Babee and Poppi's house, putting us home for dinner shortly after 7:00.
The household schedule had become scrap paper.
Max had no appetite for dinner. Instead, in a burst of frenetic energy, he began to dismantle the contents of the wet-bar-turned-art-supply-cabinet, reaching a crescendo when he spewed a container of would-have-become-a-mosaic macaroni, beans and rice kernels throughout the kitchen and den. (After a good night's sleep, I may conclude that "on the floor" was a better place for that stuff.) That's when Lee and I determined that it was, without any doubt, time for Max to go to bed. But it took a couple of stints in the naughty corner before we got him there. When at last we were winding down our nighttime routine, I intoned a line from the Supernanny playbook in the most soothing voice I could muster: "And now it's time for you to go to sleep, darling." Max continued to fidget, powerless against the glucose overdose:
"Mommy, I think I'm going to sleep on Friday...or maybe on Saturday."
Dear God, please don't let it take that long.
Sunday, February 06, 2005
Got Milk?
Boo is one of the few toddlers in the world who won't drink milk. For awhile we relied mostly on yogurt and calcium-enriched orange juice to satisfy his daily calcium requirement. Then Boo decided that yogurt was better for finger-painting than eating. I don't want all that o.j. to damage Boo's teeth, so when we were at the doctor's office on Monday, I asked if he had any suggestions for getting calcium into Reed. He suggested that we try chocolate milk. I seem to recall having a box of Nesquick in our house when I was a child, but I don't recall being a chocolate milk fan. Perhaps my memory is just fuzzy on that. But for the sake of building strong bones and teeth for Boo, I'm willing temporarily to give it a go.
I did have one anxiety, though, which was that Max would take one drink of chocolate milk and turn his back on the old-fashioned, straight-from-the-cow stuff forever. So when I poured drinks for Max and Boo Monday evening, I was careful to shield the chocolate version from Max's observant eyes.
Why did I bother to make such an effort? As soon as Boo dropped his cup on the floor, Max pounced on it and tried a swig. I held my breath. Then I heard coughing noises.
"Mommy, Boo's milky is yucky!"
"Oh, really?"
"Yes, it tastes very bad."
"Hmm....what does it taste like, Max?"
"MUD!"
Guess that's one problem I don't have to worry about any more.
I did have one anxiety, though, which was that Max would take one drink of chocolate milk and turn his back on the old-fashioned, straight-from-the-cow stuff forever. So when I poured drinks for Max and Boo Monday evening, I was careful to shield the chocolate version from Max's observant eyes.
Why did I bother to make such an effort? As soon as Boo dropped his cup on the floor, Max pounced on it and tried a swig. I held my breath. Then I heard coughing noises.
"Mommy, Boo's milky is yucky!"
"Oh, really?"
"Yes, it tastes very bad."
"Hmm....what does it taste like, Max?"
"MUD!"
Guess that's one problem I don't have to worry about any more.
