Tag Archives: adventures in normality

Hanging on the telephone

After months of trying to get Declan to talk to relatives over the telephone, he’s finally just recently begun to comprehend what it is that a phone really does. For months, he would listen without speaking. Then he started speaking without listening. Now he seems to understand that what looks like any ordinary inanimate object is, in fact, a tool to have a conversation with all the wise, weird and interesting people in his life.

I spent quite a bit of time out of the house for work and family errands this week, so we had some of our first mother-son phone conversations when I called to check in.

He told me about going to the library with his daddy and looking at books about meerkats, then eating lunch outside and searching for the monkey bush. He recited some of his favorite mantras, including “we live on Earth” and “Jupiter’s red spot doesn’t make any sense.” And every time I called, whether I had been gone for an hour or seven, he asked me where I was and when I was coming home.

On Friday, we spent the morning alone together while Dan took care of some things in the outside world. Around noon, the phone rang and Declan lunged for it.

“Daddy?” he said. Pause. “It’s daddy!”

Long pause.

“Yes. I’m happy ’cause I’m home with mommy.”

Pause.

“Yes, mommy’s a good boy.”

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What I am grateful for

With Thanksgiving almost here, I’ve been enjoying a lot of posts about gratitude, like this one, this one, these and these.

I feel like this blog is already full to brimming with reasons that I am thankful to be a mom. But another one occurred to me this afternoon as I looked at Declan napping in his car seat. There were dark little circles under his eyes and the flaky evidence of an oncoming cold under his nose. He has been extra fussy the past 24 hours or so, feeling slightly feverish, waking in the wee hours of the morning to wail, for unknown reasons, “I need a bath!” over and over, inconsolable for twenty exhausting minutes.

He yelled at me in Neander-toddler more than once today: “Unh! Unh!” his arms outstretched, his feet stomping, his needs or desires completely unclear. And more than once my voice strained in frustration as I told him “I can’t understand you! Please take a breath and try and tell me what you want!”

But then there was a time today when I just held him, felt him collapse into me and recognized the obvious — that “unh!” was simply grunt-speak for “comfort me.” There was also a moment when I almost snapped and yelled, but didn’t because I looked in his watery eyes and remembered that my yelling today would likely mean his yelling tomorrow.

I am grateful for all of the moments when he has reminded me to be a kinder person. I am grateful for the moments when I remember that telling him about the kind of person I’d like him to be doesn’t compare at all to showing him.

Life soundtrack: Velvet Underground with Nico, “I’ll Be Your Mirror” Launch

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Your hair is like a book

I was leaving the house, so I got down on my knees to hug Declan goodbye.

I put my arms around him and kissed him, told him that I wouldn’t be gone long.

He put his hands on my cheeks, then moved them just over my ears.

He grabbed a handful of hair on either side and ever so gently pulled them outward and all the way up, until his hands touched each other.

He let the strands fall slowly back to my face, studying them as they dropped.

He repeated it two more times.

“Your hair is like a book,” he said.

This, in a week when I’ve been telling myself to cut it all off.

Life soundtrack: Pavement, “Cut Your Hair” Launch

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Our long national anti-bathing nightmare is over!

We’ve endured a bathtub strike for close to a month now. Any bathing of Declan has been done with washcloths, terrycloth puppets and a lot of tears. For some reason, the bathtub, once one of his most cherished places, started to terrify him a few weeks back. I took advice from the Internet, where most of my trusted sources of advice said: “This too shall pass. Honor his fears and sponge bathe him – don’t force it.”

And so I launched a public relations campaign for the bathtub. I bought a Little Einsteins’ Rocket that I made a tub-exclusive toy. For days, he would play with it from the side of the tub. I went back to our old colored water tricks: “Don’t you want a blue Earth/Neptune bath? A red Mars bath? A green Uranus bath?” All to no avail.

Meanwhile, for two weeks running, the video 95 Worlds and Counting has been his obsession. He wants to watch “Holes” — the name he gave it because he loves the animation of the descent into the holes on Neptune’s moon of Triton — as many times and as often as we will let him. “It would be very interesting to go down in the holes, if you dare,” he says, in tandem with the scientist being interviewed. Then there’s something or other about supersonic sounds and landing in a pool of liquid nitrogen.

So naturally, I recently decided that the bath water should become liquid nitrogen, which I make with blue bath tablets and bubbles. On Wednesday night, after the great recliner debacle, I pulled out virtually every toy that could be a bath toy. I drew volcanoes and a supermassive black hole (by request) on the wall with bath crayons. I yelled “let’s be scientists!” and called everything from filling cups of water to watching washcloths submerge “experiments.” I asked him if he dared to go down into the holes of Triton into the pool of liquid nitrogen. I managed to get his socks and overshirt off without any shrieks of horror. (We still must wear the rotating Nemo underneath at all times.) In all of my imaginings of motherhood, I definitely never could have pictured this.

His dad came in.

“We are scientists dad!” Declan shouted. Then Dan was able to get him into the tub (under the condition that the diaper and Nemo shirt stayed on). Then there was the experiment where they filled the diaper with bath water and took it off so we could all marvel at its bizarre absorbency. And then Nemo came off – and we had our boy back in the bath.

Last night, Declan requested a bath again. A yellow-red-brown-green Io bath (he settled for yellow, then orange-red). I started the routine again, and Dan managed to get him in the water again.

Of course, the problem we now have is that once he’s in, he doesn’t want to get out.

Life soundtrack: We Are Scientists, “The Method”: Launch

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Mrs. Ombach would be proud

When we were kids living in New Jersey, my brother and I had a babysitter named Mrs. Ombach, who came over to watch us frequently on summer afternoons. She would look over her half-spectacles at us as she knit long afghans with zig-zags or stripes. At the exact same time each visit, she would instruct us to read or lie down on blankets on the floor nearby while she took a half-hour nap on our rust-colored couch. Because of her insistence that we be raised with an appreciation for classical music, our dad went out and bought a bunch of Tchaikovsky music on eight-track tapes. I knew The Nutcracker and Swan Lake by ear long before I ever saw a ballet.

Her efforts to keep us “civilized” didn’t end with music. Whenever she was over, there would be tea, cookies and conversation at 3 o’clock. On the few occasions we went to her house , it was full of tea sets and needlepoint pillows and dark curtains and cuckoo clocks. No matter where we were with her, she would always police our language for “yeahs” and “uh-huhs.”

“You mean yes,” she would correct us.

Ombach’s notions didn’t entirely disappear or stick. I like classical music, but am by no means an expert. I’ll have some nice herbal tea in the evening now and then, but I’m mainly a coffee drinker, and I don’t drink it ritually much these days – just in large quantities in the morning. I’m particular about language in writing, but often too lazy about my speech, especially around the house. Lazy enough that my mom will still sometimes correct with me with an “Ombach would be very upset with you.”

But Declan almost always says “yes,” with a clear and precise sss sound. He’s even taken to saying “thank you” and “please” quite often, unless you’re telling him to do it, in which case, he stares straight through you as if to say “do I look like I need your pedestrian coaching?”

The other afternoon, he woke up from a nap in the car. I had the classical station playing. He rubbed his eyes and looked around sweetly for few minutes. Then he cupped his ear and said, “do you hear that Mozart? It’s on the radio.”

This blew my mind because it was, in fact, a Mozart piano sonata playing.

He will be two and a half in 11 days. What’s next? Daily requests for a cup of Earl Grey? It’s not out of the question, since he thinks Jean-Luc Picard is a family member. But if he starts asking for tea-time, I’ll be scanning the room for signs of Mrs. Ombach’s spirit.

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Customer service stinks. Everywhere.

Here is an email I just sent to a local furniture company:

To whom it may concern,

I came to your east side store last night specifically because you offer next-day delivery. My mother is recovering from rotator cuff surgery, and I needed to buy a recliner for her in a hurry because she was having so much pain and difficulty sleeping in her bed. Her doctor’s office told us that she would have an easier time in a comfortable recliner.
I told a very kind associate about the circumstances, and she helped me to pick the right piece. I was then assured by the front desk that it would be delivered by this evening, and given a receipt with delivery dated for today that assured me of the same thing. Everyone involved was aware that I was buying this piece of furniture for a medical situation.
When I called to find out the approximate time that it would arrive, I was told that it was in fact scheduled to come out tomorrow night – a full day later than I had been promised. I was then told that there was no way to rectify this, or even to get it to her earlier in the day tomorrow.
While I was given an apology, the only recourse I was offered was to cancel the order, which seems a woefully inadequate remedy, given the circumstances. We obviously need the recliner and don’t have the help to move it ourselves or we would have done that this morning.
You still have our business for today, but I felt it was necessary to tell you formally just how deeply disappointed I am.

It felt more productive than crying, which I was before I wrote the email. We’re talking about my mom here, people. I walked out of that place feeling all warm and fuzzy about the experience yesterday. The sales rep even gave Declan apple slices to cheer him up because I made him mad by taking him inside through the cold air. If all had gone according to plan, I would have been singing this place’s praises to scads of other potential customers.

But really… no offer to even, like, waive the delivery charge? Why was I the one to catch their screw-up? Why has this kind of thing happened so much more frequently to me in recent years (although it’s usually been on the order of mere inconvenience)? What has become of customer service?

Update, Thursday, noon: Well, I guess that got their attention, after all. The chair was delivered today by 11:30 a.m. I also had a message from the original salesperson saying that she would try to get the delivery fee waived, although my mom said the form she signed when it arrived didn’t indicate that as the case. All of this, for a thing that looks like a gigantic baseball mitt, or, as my mother put it, “a bunch of big hot dog buns stuck together.” But, it fills the bill in all the important ways for now – puffy and comfortable, a decent place to rest, and easy to adjust with her good arm.

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I like words

I finally gor around to reading Joan Didion’s Year of Magical Thinking over a weekend near the end of October. When I was done, I put the book down on an end table, not sure whether I should give it a home back on my bookshelf, or pass it on to a friend.

The next day, I found Declan sitting on the bed with it in his hands, leafing through the pages as though he was reading.

“Are you reading mommy’s book?” I asked him.

“I am,” he said. “It’s about words. I like words.”

“You do?”

“I do.”

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I used to like hospitals

I realize that sounds strange. But I come from a family of great physicians, so in scary health times, a hospital used to have a kind of comforting quality. My grandfather and great uncle would go to great lengths to explain medical matters to us. Even as children, we were empowered with information, not left in the dark as though we wouldn’t be able to comprehend what was happening to us or our loved ones.

Ever since those two men passed, hospitals have become scary, discombobulated places that function on a more exaggerated time clock than the phone or cable company. You get light-headed because you don’t want to leave and eat the lousy fast food they serve in the cafeteria. You know that the minute you do, that’s when the person who can answer your questions will show up. If you miss them, you’re screwed.

There have been several (non life-threatening) health problems among those closest to me in the last year, and each time, it felt like there was little or no warning given about the volume of help my loved ones were going to need to recover.

Everyone (at least in my immediate family) is alive and healing. I am thankful. But today was a hard day.

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Toddler mysteries

Fruitless searching
Two days ago, while playing on the deck out back Declan was suddenly insistent that we
had to go into the garage:

Declan: We has to go to the car now, mom. We has to!
Me: Why? We aren’t going anywhere this afternoon.
Declan: We need the pineapples in the car! Go! Go! He braces palms against my rear end and starts pushing me toward the garage.
Me: Pineapples? What pineapples? Note: Part of what makes this an odd request is that this is one of the only fruits he won’t eat.
Declan: We has to find them!

I’m curious to find out what “pineapple” might be a code word for. I grab the keys and take him to the car to look.

Me: Can you tell me where these pineapples are? Are they in a book?
Declan: No.
Me: Can you show me where they are?
Declan: No.
Me: Then I don’t know where they are.

Pause, then…

Declan
: Mom. I wanna drive.
Me: That would be unusual. Babies aren’t allowed to drive cars in Ohio.
I have to stop this habit of calling him baby. He’s almost two and a half. He stopped introducing himself as “baby” recently.

Declan: Of course babies can’t drive, mom!

This ended the excursion. And for some reason, he will now eat a bite or two of pineapple.

Mews of the weird
Last night, as I did some NoBloPoMo surfing, and he was downstairs with his dad…

Declan: “Mom!?”
Me: “Yes, sweetie?”
Declan: Do you know where Elroy is? We’re looking for him. (Elroy is our cat)
Me: “I’m not sure. Did you look in the bathroom cabinet?”
Declan: “No. We looked in the dishing-washer.”

Life soundtrack: The Beatles, Magical Mystery Tour, “Magical Mystery Tour”: Launch

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Jupiter is everywhere

This is Jupiter. A gas giant.
The fifth planet from the sun.
1,300+ earths could fit inside of it.
My son sees it everywhere.

Someone decided against these placemats at the grocery store and discarded them in the cereal aisle this past spring.
“I need Jupiter!” Declan squealed, pointing at them from the cart. He held them in awe and smushed them into his face for the rest of the shopping trip. He would not leave the store without them. Thankfully, they were on clearance for 25 cents a piece:

Marketers call this a swirly-something-or-other, but Declan calls it a Jupiter popsicle. (There are Mars and Venus popsicles in the same box, but that’s a story for another day.)
I have become very good at drawing Jupiter.
(For the record, I did not know the names of the Galilean moons until I had Declan.)

Sometimes we call this ball Neptune, because of its color.
But since it’s the biggest one we have, it’s the Jupiter of our ball solar system.

We heart Jupiter.Related post: Tiptoeing through the solar system

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