Child Feeding Ducks: a progression of reactions

Stage One: Utter Delight.  Wow!  There are ducks!  And I have bread!  And ducks eat bread!  What a fortunate combination!  I can't believe that you took me to the duck park, Mom!

Stage Two: Legitimate Happiness.  This duck-feeding business is seriously fun, like when I'm coloring and I get to open a fresh box of crayons with pointed tips, or you hand me a cookie and say, "Sure, watch some TV, my child!"  If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times: Today is a good day to be a six-year-old with access to a bag of bread.

Stage Three: Moderate Pleasure.  Yes, yes, yes.  Feed the ducks, feed the ducks, feed the ducks.  They keep coming, and I keep breaking off pieces of bread.  I'm getting to be an old pro.  I think I'll name one of the ducks.  Ole Yellow Bill sounds nice.  Get it?  Because he kind of looks old.  And he has a yellow bill.

Stage Four: Heightened Awareness.  I can't help but notice that when I walk in a different direction, these ducks follow me.  That's odd.

Stage Five: Elevated Concern.  Wait a minute here.  I've only got one dozen hotdog buns, yet there are multiple dozens of ducks.  Something seems off with that ratio.  They're all circling around me, and that one duck is honking, and I'm starting to think that he's angry.  Why is this happening to me?  Do ducks have teeth?

Stage Six: Bonafide Distress.  It's over.  I take it everything back: this park is not fun at all.  It's a forsaken, desperate place.  I'm surrounded, and my mobility is seriously limited, and it clearly doesn't help that you keep warning me that I'm about to step in duck poop.  On top of it all, my dress is about to be eaten.  Why did you bring me here?

And because six-year-olds are like this...

Two hours later:  Hey Mom?  Do we have any more bread?  I want to go back to the park.

2

Pinch the Sleeve First

Earlier this week, on the third day of spring, my youngest daughter (a child who balked at wearing anything but short sleeves all frigid winter long) said, "I don't think long sleeves are that bad anymore."

The child finally yields.  It's never too late.

Just yesterday I watched as she tried to pull a winter jacket over her long sleeved dress.  The sleeves of the dress kept riding up.  No matter how she struggled underneath the jacket, she simply couldn't tug the ends of the dress' sleeves down to her wrists.  Frustration mounted in that desperate I-knew-long-sleeves-wouldn't-be-worth-it way, leaving her in tears.

I sat on the linoleum beside her as she sniffed.  "Let me show you something."

She wiped her nose and looked at me.  I showed her how to pinch her sleeve with her thumb and index finger, hold the pinch tightly while slipping her arm into the jacket, and then release the pinched fabric when her hand emerged. 

She practiced with her other arm, talking herself through the steps, until her jacket was on and -- most importantly -- her dress sleeves were perfectly un-bunched underneath.

A small victory, really, but last night I went to bed with the satisfaction that I had taught her something valuable.

If only it would always be this easy to help them with their problems.

4

Recovering from the Birthday Season

Our family of five celebrates four birthdays in the span of twenty-eight days.  Three of those birthdays occur within just eleven days, like some rapid-fire observance of aging where I keep announcing, "Let them eat cake!" and the children rejoice.

I never thought that I'd need a recovery period after a birthday season.  It's not like it's physically draining, like a lengthy hockey season where bodies get worn down from being slammed into the boards and teeth are knocked out by ricocheting pucks, mind you, but I'll admit that it feels good to close the celebratory window and resume normal life.

This past wave of birthdays moved my children one rung higher on the ladder, as birthdays do.  The girls are now nine, six, and four.

What surprised me is not that I have a daughter who is nine (a factor that lands me squarely in the "mother of an emerging tween" category, which is a topic for another post), but rather that my youngest is four.

FOUR years old.

All shreds of babyhood are gone.  In its place, is more freedom (for me) and comprehension (for her) and ease of daily life tasks (for all of us).  These are wonderful strides, but sometimes a mom needs to grieve a little over the stage that has passed and never will return.

I should tell you that the night before her fourth birthday, Kerrington repeatedly bounced out of bed and harassed her sister who was trying to sleep.  I should share that I patiently climbed the stairs three separate times and calmly said, "Lights out.  Simmer down."  I should admit that on the fourth time, I wasn't so patient.

My voice struck that frightening low yet loud pitch that parents on the brink can readily conjure, and the words spilled out through clenched teeth: "I don't want to see you until tomorrow. In. Bed. NOW!"

And it was a true sentiment.  I wanted that little kid to go to sleep, not repeatedly pop up like an overzealous whack-a-mole, and I didn't want to see her until tomorrow...

... which was her birthday.

Oh, man.  My last act as a mother of a three-year-old was to yell at her.

That wouldn't do.

When I slipped back into her bedroom she already was asleep.  I claimed the spot beside her in bed, stretched out, and examined her face.  She still instinctively draws her thumb to her mouth when she's tired.  I brushed her bangs off her forehead.  I whispered that the moon -- her moon, as she likes to call it -- was glowing brightly.

Her eyes momentarily flickered, and in a manner that showed a remarkable lack of surprise to find me lying beside her just inches from her face, she smiled and murmured, "Hi mama," before closing her eyes and drifting off to sleep again.

I'll savor that final moment of her three-year-oldness.

I had been wrong, and I hadn't even known it.  I had wanted to see her before we reached tomorrow. 

9

And I'm Still Undone

Yesterday I stood in the shallow end of our local public swimming pool, trying to keep tabs on my three daughters.  This is a task easier said than done; children in a crowded pool scatter as rapidly as the seeds on a blown dandelion puff.  You've got to be hawk-eyed to discern your own sopping, bedraggled kid from the others.

A friend noticed me and stopped to talk.  We observed a few pregnant woman trying to beat the heat and several moms with young children -- really young children.  Little bitty infants -- ones with burp cloths and without neck control.

I had been thinking it, but my friend said it first.  "It seems like a long time ago when that was me."

She was right.  The infant stage has passed for us, and in many ways, it already seems like a former life.

My youngest, now three, catapulted herself down the slide and waved at me.  She's always in motion, racing to keep up with two older sisters, an amalgamation of sweetness and third-child toughness.

As we left the pool, each of my children followed behind me.  My youngest dragged her towel behind her on the parking lot blacktop and finally raised her arms to me -- her signal that she wanted to be carried.  Those flip-flops had carried her as far as she could go.  I hoisted her onto my hip and re-situated the pool bag, towels, and floaties I had been lugging.  She she lowered her head onto my shoulder, her chlorine-damp hair against my neck.

And then she did it: she slung her arm around my neck in a tired hug.  For whatever reason, I can remember when my daughters, as babies, first wrapped their arms around me.  It undid me then, and it still undoes me now.

The baby stage might have passed, but in some fashion, they'll always be my babies.

_________________________________________________________

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4

When the Pride Sinks In

After celebrating yet another birthday -- this time for our youngest, who turned three earlier this week -- I realized something.  On my children's birthdays, in some small and quiet way, I'm not only celebrating them, but also myself. 

Pride wells up within me, the same sense of accomplishment that used to come over me when the girls, as babies, were weighed in at the pediatrician's office and had gained a few ounces or pound since the last appointment.  I'd nod to the nurse calmly, but inside I was vigoriously patting myself on the back and planting a kiss on my own forehead. 

Would you look at that?  That kid you've got there is growing!  You're doing it!

And every birthday, I think the very same thing.

Do you see that kid there?  The one with cupcake icing on her face?  She's growing!

Each time the candle smoke disappears into the air and the Happy Birthday chorous finishes, that pride sinks in subtly.  These kids of mine, they're growing.

This envigorating and exhasting, glorious and mundane, personal and universal, joyful and terrifying thing called motherhood -- would you look at that? -- I'm doing it.
_________________________________________________________________

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7

Some Days Were Meant to Remember

I began loving her before she was born.  I've told her that I've loved her thousands of times since she's arrived on this earth.

And yesterday, for the very first time, she told me that she loves me, too. Some days were meant to remember.

8

The Very First Haircut

It's a day that has to come, and I knew that it was time.  Even so, a small part of me wanted to pick up those golden locks from that often-swept floor and glue them right back onto her head.

Yet one more piece in the growing body of evidence which points to the fact that our baby is no longer a baby.

6

Master of Destruction

I am Kerrington, master of destruction.   My curls and the crown that I always wear askew are part of my charm, but underneath this docile image lies impressive abilities.

Give me 60 seconds without supervision and I will make a beeline from my upstairs bedroom to the kitchen.  I'll find the box of Rice Crispies and decorate the floor.

I'll spill some more on the chair that I've managed to slide from the kitchen table to the kitchen island without anyone hearing.

Then, from my perch on the chair, I'll pour Rice Crispies into the freshly-cut flowers that my mother had sitting on the island, just like I'm feeding fish.  Very hungry fish.

Don't let the innocent thumb sucking lull you to complacency.  It's a ruse. 

Just remember one thing: I am Kerrington, master of destruction.

9

Fashion Trends that Never Should Have Happened

Because I'm cool like this, I start many of my classes with a Stand-and-Deliver question of the day.  What's the last thing that you Googled?  Describe what you would want for your last supper.  What's the song most likely to lodge itself in your head?  Name one book that everyone should read.

Technically, it's a more engaging form of roll-call.  Plus, it provides students with frequent opportunities to speak in front of an audience in an informal and ungraded fashion.  (Public speaking premise number one: repeated exposure yields improvement.)

A recent prompt asked students to identify one past or present fashion trend that never should have happened.  The answers were fabulous: jean shorts (jorts) for men, gauchos, shoulder pads, puffy eighties bangs that curled both under and backward, the rat tail, extreme bell bottoms, leggings-as-pants, Ugg boots, black choker necklaces, the hairstyle where two small strands were pulled down as bangs to flank either side of your face, and -- of course -- the mullet.

Ah, the mullet.  It's wrong on so many levels, but I have a confession.  At one point in time, both of my older girls flirted with the mullet.  They hit a stage where the hair in the back grew more quickly and fully than the hair in the front, and the result was an adorable child who just happens to have a mullet because their mother (me) could not quite bear the thought of a first haircut.

My youngest just might be nearing this point.  I'm not ready to approach her with scissors because she has these amazing curls, and how can I bring myself to sever those precious wispy strands when she's still so small?

Until I'm ready, all I have to say is this:

Party in the back.

 

11

Translation Not Needed

My youngest daughter, Kerrington, is twenty-one months old.  Even at such a tender age, she already has hundreds of words in her verbal toolbox.  The only catch is that we don't understand the vast majority of them.

She doesn't seem to mind as she happily babbles from the back seat.  I imagine that she's telling everyone in the van about what she'd like for lunch, how much she loves her Brown Bear, why she enjoys afternoon naps, and how she wishes we had a puppy, even though all we hear is oooh-ghee baaaa-ha ma-ma-puppy-da-ughahaaa-da-heeee!

I have no accurate translation for the language of Kerrington.

Maybe it's not necessary.  Because in the middle of her long-winded stories, I can simply look at her, smile, and interject, "And I love you too, baby."

Because I'm pretty sure that oooh-ghee baaaa-ha ma-ma-puppy-da-ughahaaa-da-heeee also means "Mommy, there's really no one quite like you, and I love seeing your face every time I wake up."

No, the language of Kerrington needs no translation.

 

4

Giving Thanks for the Youngest Child

Little Kerrington, you're not so little anymore.  You're already 18 months old.  In a moment of bad math, which happens more often than I'd like to admit, I calculated this milestone to be halfway to two, but no, oh no, my little one, you're halfway to three.  How you've grown up in front of me remains a mystery, but I suspect it has something to do with that simultaneously rapid and painstakingly slow "one day at a time" deal.

Kerrington, you have wisps of curly hair, and I can't get enough of this.  I often nestle my face into your hair, breathing in your smell -- sometimes lavender shampoo, and sometimes a scent entirely unique to you: a hint of Cheerios, a whiff of peanut butter, a trace of oranges, a nuance of last night's dinner.  This is due to the fact that you rub your your hands across your head when you've finished eating, as if your hair was a napkin.

You'll outgrow this.  In the meantime, I sometimes immobilize you and rinse your head directly under the kitchen spigot right after meals.  Yes, I have used dish soap.  Someday if you have three children of your own, you'll understand this completely.

Kerrington, you spend a lot of your time singing.  Although you don't have many words yet, you are brimming with thoughts and ideas.  Songs bubble forth from you, and you sing.  Oh, my dear, you sing, and when you do, I almost cry with how beautiful it sounds.

You're learning to explore books, and I hope that you come to love them as much as I do.  You sometimes sit in front of our bookshelves and pull every single book onto the floor until you're surrounded by piles of them.  (I'll be okay when you pass this stage.)

You wake up happy, you go to sleep happy, and you spend the bulk of your day happy.  Recently, you've learned how to climb on top of our kitchen table, and you love this.  You stomp and clomp and laugh as if you've found the best stage in the world, and we lower you to the floor again and again because, despite your enjoyment, dancing on a table is not a good habit to form.

You've also discovered markers and how useful they are for coloring on your face.

You're the caboose, Kerrington.  I'm letting you grow, but in my heart I'm clinging to each of your first lasts, writing these memories in my thoughts and my heart.  We are so thankful for you this Thanksgiving, precious little one.


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3

The Library Bathroom

Besides from lugging home a brimming canvas sack of books and issuing eighteen reminders to share toys at the train table, there's one thing that unifies the trips that my girls and I take to the library:

We never have good bathroom experiences there.

One visit, it's a diaper blow-out with an empty container of baby wipes.  Another day, it's an accident on the floor mere steps from the toilet.

Today, however, everything seemed to be going well.  Before we left our house, Brooke used the bathroom and I changed Kerrington's diaper.  After playing at the library for some time, I proactively ushered them into the restroom again. 

Flawless, I thought.

As I helped Brooke wash her hands, I glanced in Kerrington's direction.  Our eyes momentarily locked.  Without warning, she beelined toward the toilet and plunked a plastic zebra (contraband from the play area, undoubtedly) into the bowl. 

Before I could flinch, she plunged her hand into the toilet, fished out the zebra, and then -- here's where it gets too painful for words -- she licked that zebra.  A full-on, open-mouthed, slobbery, slow motion, extended lick. 

Then my child, my sweet little baby, lowered her hand and smiled at me as toilet water trickled down her chin.

There are no letters to adequately convey the pained noise that I came from my mouth -- some twisted blend of nooooooo! and violent shuddering intermingled with involuntary gagging.

I have nothing more to say about this right now.

 
Go on, toss me a vote to make up for this traumatic experience.

12

Feverish

The other day Kerrington was markedly cranky, which is unlike her.  I hoisted her onto my hip and she melded into me, lowering her head onto my shoulder.  Immediately I could tell that her forehead was warm.

While I never would wish illness on my children, there is something exceptionally sweet about the vulnerability of a sick child.  My girls don't normally slow down long enough to cuddle for any length of time.  They're on missions; they're careening, darting from one thing to the next, and scattering through the house like errant pin balls.

But not when they're feverish.

I sank into a corner in the couch, settled Kerrington onto my lap, and held her long and close, reveling in how she nuzzled into my embrace.

Her fever's gone now, and I'm glad.  Oh, if only the snuggling always could continue.

1

When Is Your Baby No Longer a Baby?

When is your baby no longer a baby?  I recently asked this question to my husband.  His answer mirrored my own suspicions: "I'm not exactly sure, but I think Kerrington is approaching it."

Will she stop qualifying as a baby when I no longer can hoist her easily onto my hip?  When another tooth emerges from her swollen gums?  When her hands, still plump and dimpled near the knuckles, thin out?  When her wispy hair thickens?

It's difficult to know.

Right now, when a new adult appears, Kerrington toddles to me, clutches my legs, and buries her face in my knees.  Like a young buck rubbing antlers against a tree to mark his territory, Kerrington rubs her face side to side into my legs, designating me as her own.

I've noticed how often I do the same to her.  When she sits in my lap, I often nestle my face into the top of her head or the crook of her neck and breathe in her smell -- sweetly sweaty, reminiscent of Cheerios and strawberries.  Lost in thought, I turn my face side to side, nuzzling her, marking her as mine.  She never resists.

She has no words to ask me to stop.  She hasn't learned to extend "mom" into multiple syllables and reveal annoyance at my unbridled affection.  Rather, she permits me to revel in her, just like I let her cling to me, never wanting to rush this time when she'd have nowhere else she'd rather be than right with me.

After all, she is my baby.

7

I'm Flattered

If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, then Kerrington thinks highly of us.  She carefully scrutinizes our actions through those wide blue eyes of hers, and then mimics.

I blow on her hot food to bring it to an acceptably warm temperature at dinner.  She blows on her high chair tray.

Joel rolls a ball her direction.  She swings her arm, even if uncoordinated, to roll it back.

Here's where it gets tricky.  This little baby has watched every member of the family as we've done something that we currently don't want her to mimic: we've thrown unwanted items in the trash.

She's taken note of this.

Kerrington has no censor to differentiate what belongs in the trash can and what doesn't.  If a crayon accidentally rolls off the kitchen table, it's fair game for the garbage.  A receipt that falls off the counter and drifts to the floor may never be seen again if Kerrington reaches it first.

The take-home lesson is this: always keep tabs on your car keys and wallet.  If left unattended and low to the ground, it's possible that they'll end up wedged next to the remnants of the day's lunch and buried beneath a mound of junk mail.

2

Real People Food

Although I've guided two other children through this stage, I still feel as if I don't know what I'm doing when a child transitions from baby food to "real people" food, as we are currently attempting with Kerrington.

How do you move a little person who's eaten nothing but pureed fruits and vegetables into a little person who gnaws corn on the cob, bites into pizza, and crunches an apple?  I know that it happens, I just don't quite recall how.

Right now, we've upgraded the bib.  Gone are the soft cotton ones appropriate for mere baby food, dripping milk, and drool, and in their place is a waterproof, plastic one large enough to be mistaken for full body armor when I velcro it around her neck.

At meals I quarter blueberries, tear bread into bitty pieces, and break a slice of cheese into minuscule bites.  Unlike when she ate baby food, I have no accurate sense of how much she actually ingests.  This is especially true when I lift her from the high chair and find twelve smashed pieces of watermelon in the pocket of her bib and wads of bread adhered to her pants.

I know we'll figure it out.  For now we'll stick with the tiny bites and avoid the notorious choking hazard foods -- whole grapes, raisins, hot dogs, and the like.  One day she'll be just like the others: eating chicken nuggets, chewing gummy snacks, and biting into a peach that will drip down her chin and onto her shirt that's no longer protected by the body armor bib.

We'll get there.


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1

Why My Children Are Tougher Than I Am

Yesterday we returned from our weekend road trip to discover that summer, hot on the trail of a much anticipated and notably delayed spring, had arrived.  According to my thermometer, it was ninety-one degrees.  According to the frizz in my hair, it was muggy.

Suffice to say, it felt more like August than May.

The key difference between this day and a ninety-one degree muggy day in August, though, is the fact that the yard remained lush.  Grass that just had been cut needed to be cut again.  Although in need of watering, new blooms adorned our perennials.  Everything was green and vibrant and sultry, rather than browned and burnt out and sultry.

After dinner the girls and I headed outside so I could water the plants.  Reese walked barefoot through the yard as I unwound the hose.  Kerrington happily splashed her hands in a dishpan of water that I had set on the patio as I dragged the hose to the side flower bed.

Then Kerrington got up to walk -- arms aloft for balance -- and beelined for the hose reel that's adjacent to the patio.  Her feet were moving much too fast, and I watched her trip, roll, and knock her forehead directly on the side of the patio.

And this morning the poor baby looked like this:

If you squint, her cut almost looks like it's in the shape of Texas.  It also seems to be as large as Texas, especially given the amount of sideways looks we received this morning when we ran to the grocery store.

I've been dabbing Neosporin on her forehead, amazed at how unaffected she seems.  If I had a bruise and scrape the size of Texas, I'd be letting everyone know.

When I was a kid -- especially during summer -- my knees perpetually were scraped and scabbed.  I thought nothing of it.  Now that I'm an adult I've lost this toughness.  Right now I have a scab the size of a quarter (okay, a dime) on my left knee, and gosh, it hurt when I was kneeling on the floor to give the girls their baths last night.

My children are much tougher than I am.

1

Losing Sleep in the Name of Research (Part Two)

Some of you might recall that Joel and I have lost sleep in the name of research.  Now that Kerrington is one year old, her longitudinal sleep study is halfway over.

If you're new to Pink Dryer Lint or need a refresher, click on the original post that details this, um, experience.

Considering that this week marks the fifth time we've participated in the experiment, I've grown accustomed to the watches.  I rarely forget to click mine or Kerrington's when we go to sleep.  My pace when filling out the paperwork has improved.  I've trained myself to stop looking at the clock when I'm trying to fall asleep at night.

We're making progress.

Yesterday I visited a lab on campus for a quick test of Kerrington's attachment to me and her reaction to strangers.  She played on the floor with an assortment of toys while I joined her.  Then, in increments of three minutes, different stimuli were added or changed.

First, a researcher -- a sweet, fresh-faced grad student -- entered the room and sat in a chair quietly.  Kerrington eyed her, glanced at me, looked at her again, back to me, and finally refocused on her toys.

Then, the researcher and I engaged in conversation.  Again, Kerrington watched our exchange, pivoting her head back and forth between us as if she were witnessing a tennis match.

Next, the researcher got down on the floor and played with Kerrington, showing her blocks, teaching her to tap the xylopohone, and talking to her gently.

The following stage was the crux.  I left the room for three minutes while Kerrington was left alone with the researcher.

Let the crying begin.

I stood in the annex behind the one-way mirror while two researchers observed and filmed the interaction.  (This, I suspect, is the closest I will ever come to a legitimate interrogation room.  I need to convey the experience to my oldest daughter.  I think she'll be impressed.)

Kerrington's face grew red and scrunched as her mouth opened wide in silence before the cry emerged.  The researcher picked her up and rubbed her back.  Kerrington reached her arms toward the door.

The time was up.  I reentered the room, said her name, and just like that, those tears stopped.  The test was over.

Now I'm sure that the researchers were looking for elements that I didn't notice or heed, but for me, the take-home message is this:

Right now, I have a small window in Kerrington's life where my mere presence makes all things better.  I hope that this lasts a while.

We moms can stop tears just by showing up.  That's research-worthy.

2

We've Got a Walker

She's rolled.  She's crawled.  And now she walks.

Kerrington started taking steps before her birthday, but they were isolated ones.  Her first step was witnessed by Reese and a dear college student who was at our house for dinner.  (If a baby takes a first step and the parents don't see it, does it still count?)

Over the next weeks, she'd take two or three steps at a time and then happily revert to crawling.  Gradually her stamina increased to four or five steps, then seven or eight, all the while extending her arms for balance.

Today, there seems to be no limit.  She's crossing the room.  She's navigating her way down the hallway.

Go, little biped, go.

3

Three Hundred Sixty Five

It's birthday season in our household.  In less than one month, we celebrate the birthdays of four out of five family members.  I'm the one outlier who was born in March.

Ultimately, this clustering of birthdays means that from mid-April to mid-May, I never take this banner down.

It's one perpetual party.

And today's specific celebration zeros in on Kerrington, our littlest peanut, who has been with our family for 365 days.

In one year she's grown from this swaddled bundle:

to this bright-eyed little little one who not only colors on our screen door with chalk, but also attempts to conceal the evidence by eating the chalk when finished drawing with it.

She is such a keeper.  We can't imagine our world without her.  Happy birthday, little one.

And tomorrow, we can take down our banner.

4