03-17-2010 A Nail. Where? IN HIS HEAD!

A look back to last year on this day with a post I made to some friends at the time.

To begin, Bar is fine.  Completely fine.  He is, as I type, sitting next to me in his high chair nibbling on cheese and crooning sweet love songs to the cat.
To backtrack, Bar was playing happily this afternoon on the carpet with his books.  All was right with the world as he sat and read.  Having heard the soft (and familiar) thud of infant head striking carpet, I glance up to find my son face planted into the carpet, a not altogether unusual sight given that he is 11 months old and the niceties of forward momentum still elude him at times.  More unusual though, was the cry that followed shortly thereafter, less a "boo hoo I did not achieve my objective so now I am cross" cry and more of a "moooooooooomy something is gravely wrong, I'm not ok and you must come quickly to determine why" cry.  So, I scoop him into my arms offering all of the typical "There, there's" and "Shhhh, shhhhhs."  I stroke his head.  And my hand strikes something hard.  Thinking it a piece of straw or a stray bit of shredded wheat from breakfast, I swipe at it again.  It is then that I see metal.  Immediately after that I see blood.  Fortunately, time stopped at that moment, so I don't feel guilty for sitting there waiting for my brain to assemble all of the information of the last few moments and come to the conclusion that my son has a nail sticking out of the side of his head.
Time restarts.  I run next door to Randall's and ask him to hold the baby, informing him matter of factly that there is something sticking out of his head.  Somewhat perplexed, he replies, "What?"  but does it anyway.  I grab a wad of tissues from the bathroom, intent on being proactive and removing the offending nail.  I grab the end, meet with some resistance, and contemplate vomiting.  Instead, I announce that we need to go to the ER immediately.  I race back to my apartment for the car seat.  Ever try to put an infant in a bucket seat with a nail protruding from the side of his head?  They're not really made to accommodate such things.  Bar rode in my lap.  Babykiller, I know.
It gets fairly boring from here.  Bar had long since stopped crying and seemed most annoyed that I kept trying to move his hand from the side of his head.  They fast tracked us at the ER and, in no time at all, he's having an x-ray.  They determine that the nail didn't puncture the skull and the doc comes in and just plucks it out.  Bar only whimpered.  He didn't really cry until she started to wash it and even then, the hurt was instantly repaired by a few hippie O's and a quick nursing.
This brings us back to the beginning of the post.  Bar is fine.  I, however, expect not to be fully recovered for some time.

Mommy Math

Dear Tooth Fairy,
  As you are doubtless aware, Bar has begun working on the last of his four baby teeth.  These four teeth will bring on hours of agony, ill-humor, and general malcontent.  And for what, dear Tooth Fairy?  Why must you pick on my sweet little boy?  A little guy who, on Christmas morning, upon seeing the shiny red trike under the tree waiting for him did not run headlong into the living room with wrapping-tearing, "gimme gimme gimmes" but retired to the hallway to weep quietly, overwhelmed by the magnitude of change that took place overnight.  It was a full 30 minutes before he could be coaxed onto his tricycle and convinced to scoot to the oven door to take a look at his reflection. There, after a few seconds, he managed a breathless and nearly inaudible, "Mine?"  This humble, gentle soul needed to be blessed with giant man-sized teeth?  Yes, yes, they are lovely and white and straight.  And, yes again, he has a most winning smile.  But these pearly whites are going to fall out, Tooth Fairy; they're going to fall out.  What good will they have done any of us?
  I confess that I won't be sad to not have you darken my door again for years.  But oh, oh, how I will be waiting for you when you return.  Don't even think about slinking in here with only a silver dollar and a pamphlet on oral hygiene when these hard-won teeth start to turn up under Bar's pillow.  Oh no.  Think elaborate, Tooth Fairy, elaborate and expensive.  And don't forget the gifts for me.  Shiny gifts.  Dream vacation gifts.   Return of the lost nights of my late twenties gifts.  I'm a thoughtful sort, so I'll help you with the math. 
  Let's assume my base hourly rate is $50/hr.  Sleep time starts at 7 PM and ends at 7 AM; I'll be super generous and not bill you for the weeks of 5 AM wake-ups or the not quantifiable level of exhaustion between 7 AM and bed time.  There will be a total of 20 teeth, once these four are in, and each has taken about two weeks of sleepless nights to break through.  That's 3,360 teething hours.  At straight time, you'd owe me $168,000.  But, factoring in penalties - time and half after midnight and before 6 AM and double time on Sundays (you'll again note my magnanimity in not charging you meal penalties, over 40, or compounding penalties) - it turns out you owe me significantly more.  By my estimation, I have $228,000 in cash and prizes coming my way.  Bring it, lady.  Bring it.

Oh. Chirstmas tree.

I became today the owner of a Christmas tree for only the second time in my adult life.  At the risk of losing friends and readers, hello you intrepid 11, I dislike Christmas trees.  $50 for a dying bit of vegetation that sits in my living room dropping bits of outdoors inside.  I have to feed it.  Water it.  Give it attention and lavish it with beautiful things.  And then, after becoming a part of the "family" for three weeks, I have to throw it away.  Well, I have to drag it outside where it stares at me from the back yard, stripped of it's finery and looking progressively sadder, sicker, and deader, waiting to be hauled off to the dump by my spouse on his next day off, sometimes weeks away.  Humbug.  I'd have preferred to let the thing keep growing happily in nature doing natural things.
That having been said, it's a nice tree.  It makes my husband happy; I've caught him lost in thought and smiling at it more than once already tonight. It causes my son, inexplicably, to grasp his crotch and blow at it from across the room as if it was on fire and come to steal his pants.  But, I confess that I teared up a little as I took from our small box of ornaments the plaster cast  I made last December of his little hand.  Was it really so tiny?  And the photograph a mommy friend, due soon with her second, took of me holding Bar in the air and gazing at him with such rapt joy that I almost don't recognize myself.  And yet, there I am and seeing that happiness from the outside reminds me how much becoming a mother has changed me for the better.  So, Tree (and mommy friend), thank you for that.  And there are three one dollar bills, held together by a diaper pin waiting for their turn to adorn the tree again this year.  My now sister, married to my brother-in-law a few weeks ago, pinned them to my tree last year in a dramatic flourish after listening to me ramble on about how much I hated Christmas trees.  "There," she proclaimed, "now it's a Mitzvah tree."  And, so it is.  Those slightly less than crisp bills reminding me that kindness is never misplaced and that family, far-flung, alternative, blended, or otherwise, is a blessing.
Though I still think that a tabletop tree, fake, pre-lit and pre-decorated would leave plenty of room for these cherished mementos and not lessen their specialness, I am content, I suppose, to lose this battle in my household and welcome my coniferous guest again this year. It's a nice tree.

Words to Live By

Until quite recently Bar has confined his use of language to six words.   What I admire, though, is his ability to communicate fully with just those words.  He's great with inflection.   Each word can be both a statement and a question and, with that versatility, he pretty much covers all his bases.
Bar:  Mum?
Me: Yes, Bar?
Bar:  Cheese?
Me: You'd like some cheese?
Bar:  That.
Me:  Ok, I'll get you some cheese.  Here you go.
Bar: Mum!  Cheese.  This.
Me:  Yes, Bar.  Cheese.  It's good.
Bar:  Cheese.  Mum?
Me:  Yes, Bar?
Bar:  Cat! Cat, cat, cat.  Cat cheese?
Me:  No, Bar.  The cat does not want cheese. (This has been recently proven untrue.  The cat does, indeed, want cheese.  A lot.)
Bar:  That.
If you ask me, that's a pretty durned elegant use of the English language.


However, Bar has finally decided that he does need more than his six essential words for living (mum, dada, cat, this, that, cheese) and has been working on words that express his deep and undying love of things that go and food.  So, he has chosen 'backhoe' and 'potato.' Pronunciation is still an issue though.  A fly on the wall in my house would hear the following conversation at least 741 times a day.
Bar: Cock!
Me: Truck, Bar.  Backhoe.
Bar: Cockho!
Bar: Mum?
Me: Yes, Bar?
Bar: (growling as if possessed by Lucifer) Ta-to.  TATO!
Me: Potato.
Bar: Cock!  TatotatotaoTA-TO!

A somewhat less elegant use of English, but a no less effective one.

Late Letters

I began writing regular letters to Bar when I was pregnant.  I thought it important for him to one day read some of my words, written in my own hand and, perhaps, have a little insight into who I am now.  It occurred to me that I might need the reminder as well in the coming years (decades!).  I was diligent about these letters, a happy semi-nightly activity that I looked forward to at the end of the day.  And then, it seemed, life got busy, Bar stopped sleeping and started going, going, going.  Before tonight, my last letter to him dated 12/06/09 reads;
"Dear Bar,
 My son, my darling - it is 4:45 AM.  Sleep.  Please.  Sleep.  That is all.
I love you.
Mom"

And so it is that my days and nights have passed until tonight. 

Here is the text of the first letter I have written to Bar in nearly 9 months.
"Oh Bar,
  You can't know, I think, how much I love you.  These few months have been exhausting.  It's been almost, nay, it's been more than a year since you've slept more than six hours at a stretch.  I've missed so many letters I wanted to write to you for sheer exhaustion.  But these notes are not obligations to you - they're a record of my voice, such as it is, for you to read one day and, perhaps, know your mother better.
  I think you may like to know about the many nights, after you go to sleep, how much time I spend looking at photos/videos of you.  You're not in bed an hour before I miss you (even if I wish you wouldn't wake up for hours).  Tonight, I am listening to a song called "Nothing" by Steve Foxbury.  This is the chorus; 'There's nothing I'd rather do, Than anything, I do with you'
  It's completely true, dear child.  Though it may come far too early, I am so excited for tomorrow.  Can't wait.
I love you.
Mom.

The Morning Routine

A friend asked today about our morning routine.  Below, my answer in 20 easy-to-follow steps.

Step 1: Hear Bar greet the day at 5:45 AM with enthusiastic shouts of "Mum!" DaDA!" "Cat?  Cat. Cat. CAT!"
Step 2: Pray for death to take me quickly.
Step 3: Sleep for 45 more seconds while spouse changes the first diaper of the day.
Step 4: Get assaulted by kisses and hugs.
Step 5: Reflect ever so briefly on how much I like kisses and hugs.  Pray for death.
Step 6: Get kicked in the face, stabbed in the eye, and punched in the throat in my child's exuberant and acrobatic display of nursing prowess.
Step 7: Pray that maybe he'll fall asleep at the breast like he used to (one year ago) and I can go back to sleep.  At this point I even start to have hope.
Step 8: Hopes dashed, Bar races into the house and starts pulling tupperware out of the kitchen cabinets, stacking it upon the cat, and locating small items to throw in the toilet, available to him since DH forgot to close the bathroom door again when he got up to pee.
Step 9:  Wonder why death is taking so long to claim me.
Step 10: Hear a loud clatter/bang/boom/shatter.  Leap out of bed and find the child with diaper removed sitting in a puddle of pee, and nibbling on the box of sugar cubes that I clearly didn't hide well enough.
Step 11: Screw you death, I'm up, I'm up.
Step 12: Clean pee, feebly suggest use of the potty next time, hide sugar, boil water for tea, apologize to tupperware smooshed cat.
Step 13: Feed offspring.  The typical meal is a fistful of organic shredded wheat (made with real shade-grown fair trade hippies!), organic blueberries, organic plain whole milk yogurt, and toast with butter.  Bar uses this time to lecture me sternly on how rude it is that I try to check my email during his meal.
Step 14: Finally get a sip of my now tepid tea.
Step 15: Child comes to show me where he has pooped on the floor.  "This!" he says proudly pointing, his perfectly clean and comfy cloth diaper discarded in the hallway. "Where does poop go Bar?" I ask.  He races into the living room to retrieve his potty, hands it to me and says, "That." 
Step 16: Sigh.  Clean poop.
Step 17: Read my child books. Endless books.  All the books.  He lets me know he wants to read by getting them out of the bookshelf and battering me about the face and head with them.  "This!  Mum?  THIS!"
Step 18: Wonder if toddlers can see you if you stop moving.  Sit completely still with eyes closed.
Step 19: Theory busted. More bookish assault, further reading, diaper locating, and cat mangling.
Step 20: 9:45 AM.  Spot a yawn.  Nurse.  Tuck child back into bed.  Drink cold tea.  Collapse onto couch and stare blankly into space wondering what I'm supposed to do now.

I'd do anything for love, but I won't do that.

 To my beloved child: Though I cherish your generous nature and am so proud of how much you like to share, I will not, under any circumstances, eat the soggy, chewed up piece of toast you keep offering me from your mouth no matter how many times you try to put it into mine.  Even a mother's love has limits.