The Boomerang Effect

"You really have to be careful what you say around toddlers," I just wrote, stating the obvious.  But it's really true.  And really crazy-making.  And now I'm going to vent about it.

Like most new parents, we started phasing out unsavory 4-letter words when Owen closed in on Talking Age.  We also had to reacquaint ourselves with the "Do Not Say" list of our childhoods:  those words that really aren't that bad, but that -- when strung together by a defiant toddler --will get you some truly nasty looks in the supermarket checkout line (e.g., "Crap, that stupid booger head just farted").

But I haven't been too bothered by the no-bad-words filter.  That I anticipated.  What I failed to foresee was how careful I'd have to be about the content of my directions, the unintended consequences of my sentences, the ways in which my own words would be turned against me.

It's the Boomerang Effect:  whatever you say will eventually come right back at you.

It started last summer when we began giving Owen two-minute warnings before an activity change.  We thought it would be a good way to give him a little heads-up that train time was ending and bath time was beginning.  It backfired early on, when -- having been denied the proper warning before dinner -- Owen turned to me, appalled, wagged his index finger and asserted: "I need two minutes!"

<<Boomeranged>>

And that was just the start.  Daddy has been put in timeout for not being a good listener.  Boomeranged.  Eliza routinely gets scolded for not being gentle.  Boomeranged.  Jules (nanny/second-mother extraordinaire) was told she "needa be patient" as she was trying to hurry Owen out the door one day.  Yup, bomeranged.  I was recently instructed that I had "two choices: watch Chuggington or play trains."  Boomeranged.

The obvious frustration is that being bossed around by a 2.5-year-old makes for a special kind of insanity.  But worse than that, you're forced to come face-to-face with your own parental hypocrisy.  And to realize how completely annoying you must sound all. the. time.  Listening to your own words come out of a toddler's mouth is like listening to your voice on a recording:  oh dear lord, is that really what I sound like?  *&$#

But for all of the boomeranging that Owen has done to us, I finally had the chance to boomerang him last week.

Owen:  "Can I throw this paper in the toilet, Mommy?"
Me:  "Hmm, no, let's not. It will get all yucky."
Owen:  "Please, Mommy, pleeeeease can I?"
Me:  "Nope."
Owen:  "Mommy, can you pleeeeease say yes?"

[2 minutes later]

Me:  "Owen, come wash your hands."
Owen:  "Nope."
Me:  "O, can you pleeeeease say yes?"
Owen:  [Big smile]  "Okay, Mommy."

Gotcha.

Lung Appreciation Month

Most days we go through life blissfully unaware of all the invisible, thankless work going on inside our bodies.  We breathe, we eat, we sleep -- no thanks to any of our conscious efforts, of course, but many thanks to the abiding efforts of our accommodating anatomy.  But sometimes our bodies protest.  They want some recognition, a little respect, some awareness that if they decided to go on strike, we'd be screwed.

And so there was February 2014:  the month the Lungs hijacked our household.

Case #1:  To celebrate our 6th anniversary, Owen chokes and aspirates on a piece of carrot.  Yada yada yada, chaos ensues.  Go to hospital and become known around ER as "The Carrot People."  Mentally applaud myself for at least having son choke on vegetable and not Tootsie Roll.  Little guy put under so they can scope his lungs.  I have meltdown in waiting room.  We both spend night in hospital sleeping together in a crib.  

Me:  "Okay, Lungs.  We get it.  You needed some attention.  Thanks for helping us breathe, blah blah blah.  Now can you stop being so needy?"

Lungs:  "Hmph.  You really should work on your sincerity and tone down that sarcasm."

Case #2:  Not three weeks later, Eliza gets viral lung infection.  Wheezing, retractions, labored breathing.  Three trips to pediatrician, then sent to Boston Children's.  Again.  Worried that Child Protective Services will soon be checking in on us.  Spend 7 hours in the ER getting steroids and nebulizer treatment.  Bonus: Eliza projectile vomits in my hair midway through our visit; nurses then keep minimum 4-ft distance between their noses and my head.

Me:  "Oh Lungs, how I love you.  Like seriously, you're awesome and def my favorite of the internal organs.  Let's just take it easy for a while, whaddya say?

Lungs:  "Should've said that in the first place, you ingrate."

Case #3:  Owen gets viral lung infection, obviously.  Spikes 103.5 fever for four days.  At one point, both kids puking and only option was to laugh hysterically.  Like that batty kind of laughter when something is totally not funny and makes people deeply concerned about your mental health.  

Me:  "Okay Lungs, you freaking won.  Fair and square.  I will never again take you for granted and hereby declare every February, from here until eternity, Lung Appreciation Month. xoxo"

Refused to take off his Duke hat.  Respect.

Upside: tiny hospital gowns are fairly adorable.

Classic.

Note:  In a children's ER, you would think they'd make stretchers that children could not fall out of.  But you'd be wrong.  

She lived up to her diagnosis of "Happy Wheezer."
(Post-puke nudity.)

I stole both hospital gowns for posterity.  Because when you pay like $10,000 for something, you deserve a party favor.

Big Boy Stuff

There comes a time in every toddler's life when "being a big boy" becomes the exclusive goal of his entire existence.  Correspondingly, there comes a time in every parent's life when "being a big boy" can be shamelessly used to induce just about any desirable behavior imaginable.

Want to be a big boy?  Better eat all that broccoli.  Want to be a big boy?  Put on your hat and mittens.  Want to be a big boy?  Here, why don't you make Mommy's bed, put away all her laundry, pay the bills, and take out the trash.  Please and thank you.

Never one to miss an opportunity, Owen also uses his new Big Boy status to his own advantage.  After unabashedly stealing and eating all of Eliza's dinner one night, he announced: "I eat Ewiza's food because I'm a big boy and Ewiza is a baby."  When Eliza needed to be put down for a nap, he justified trying to pick her up by saying:  "I will put Ewiza down for sleep because I'm a big boy."

But perhaps the single greatest "big boy" move came a week ago.  Assured that toilets represent the holy grail of Big Boyhood, Owen officially decided to join civilized society and shun his Pampers.  The mythical End of Diapers.  (For at least one butt, anyway.)

We are, of course, so excited and proud of him, but this is an adventure for which I wasn't quite mentally prepared.  Turns out little bladders are very high maintenance.  And pairing public restrooms with little hands that touch indiscriminately makes for a special kind of a nightmare.

So far (knock on wood), Owen's only had one accident.  But it was the kind of accident that reminded me not to get comfortable too fast.  Feeding Eliza before bed, home for the third night in a row by myself, exhausted, I heard Owen yell to me from the bathroom in a most surprised voice:

"Mommy! There's a POOP on the floor!!"

In his efforts to position his little step stool (no pun intended) just so, he told me that the "poopy fell out of my bumbum."  The tired part of me wanted to cry.  But every other part of me couldn't help laughing defeatedly as I scraped poop off the tile floor.

The next morning, Owen wanted to rehash The Incident.  "Mommy, you 'member when I pooped on the floor?  You 'member that?"

Laughing, I said "Yes, baby, I remember that."

Smiling, he replied, "Was that silly?"

Yes, sweet boy.  It was so, so silly.

Dinner and a Show

ACT I:  06:11PM January 13, 2014 - Set in a toy-strewn foyer that smells faintly of burned chicken tenders. If you listen closely, you may hear air raid sirens and bomb explosions coming from another room.  Enter Aaron through front door as Owen is corralled into bathroom by baby-toting mother covered in food.

KATE: (to Aaron) "Back away!!!  Don't let him touch you!  He's covered in honey!"

AARON:  "Where's the honey?"

OWEN:  (Proudly) "All over me."

AARON:  "Why?"

KATE:  "Because the chicken was burned so I gave him honey to dip it in, and he spread it all over his belly."

AARON:  "Why didn't he have a shirt on?"

KATE:  "Because Eliza puked all over him."  

ACT II:  05:45PM January 13, 2014 - Set in kitchen where you cannot see a single inch of unoccupied countertop. Eliza is showing the early signs of discontentment after being stuck in her high chair for too long. Owen is diligently dumping out the contents of every can of PlayDoh on the floor.  Kate is cooking Owen's dinner, cleaning up after Eliza's dinner, packing Owen's lunch for tomorrow, and wondering if someone could please pour her an extra large glass of wine.

OWEN:  "Mommy, I gonna watch Ewiza on my stool."  (Drags a stool over to Eliza's highchair and proceeds to steal every Cheerio off her tray, his sweet revenge after being denied his own bowl of cereal.)

ELIZA:  (Losing her shit)  "WAHHHHHHHHHH."  

(Kate lifts Eliza -- who is covered in pear juice and caked rice cereal, and therefore very justified in her cries of complaint -- and puts her in jumperoo seat while rushing back to the stove to flip the chicken tenders.  Meanwhile, Owen goes over to "help Ewiza bounce," thereby multiplying the force of every jump and essentially making his sister do negative Gs.  Kate turns just in time to see a familiar looking expression on Eliza's face.)

KATE:  (In that deep, slow-motion, Sandlot kind of voice) "Nooooooo!!!! Waaaaaatch outttttttt."  

(At that very moment, Eliza projectile vomits all over Owen's left arm.  Owen looks down, pauses in a moment of utter shock and panic, and then he, too, loses his shit.)

OWEN:  "GET IT OFF, MOMMY!!!!!!"

ACT III:  04:50PM January 13, 2014 - Set in an immaculate home, peaceful and happy.  Two sweet children are playing gently with one another as their loving nanny/second-mother finishes putting away the fifth load of folded laundry she's done today.

KATE:  (Cheerfully ignorant of what the next hour holds) "Hey guys! I'm home!"

Things You're Happy Your Kid Said In Private

• "Champagne is good."
• "Your forehead is big, Mommy."
• "Holy crap! Holy crap! Holy crap!"

Happy Hump Day.

A Traveling Circus

A week before Christmas, I flew by myself with both kiddos from Boston to Virginia.  The lag between ticket purchase and travel date was sufficiently long as to trick me into believing this would be a really swell idea.

(Side note:  future-predicting is one of parenthood's crazy mind games; you have no clue how different your kids -- and therefore your entire life -- will be from Time A to Time B, and it's deceivingly easy to confuse optimism with realism. "Oh, two whole months from now?  Eliza will practically be a toddler by then and Owen could probably help me carry all the bags through security."  Um, or not.)

It was only right before our flight, face-to-face with six rather imposing pieces of luggage, that I began to realize how many things could go terribly, terribly wrong.  (Spoiler alert:  nothing did, but that's not the point.)  Apparently, many people who encountered us in the airport that day had a similar thought.

Like any family with young children, we can be quite a spectacle when we venture out into the world. We're an easy source of entertainment for the bored people-watcher, a satisfying side show for fellow travelers.  Owen sang the ABCs Remix (starting over at QRS) on repeat through the entire security line.  At the gate, Eliza did tummy time on a blanket I'd spread on the floor and shared her glowing sweet-potato-orange spit-up for all to see.  Owen stood up in front of the otherwise silent boarding area crowd and announced that he wanted to take his pants off.  Then he began to sing at full volume:  "Dissssssneyyyyyy Juniorrrrrrrrr...On Demand!"  (I swear he watches less than 30 minutes of TV a day.)

Away from the safety of our natural habitat of toys and books and easy time-out corners, we draw unwanted attention.  Some people smile or coo, but many people glare.  Who knows what they're thinking -- probably some version of "please don't be seated in the row behind me" -- but I try to avoid eye contact at all cost.  I already feel awkward enough; please let me live in my world of denial ("if I don't see you, you don't see me") and don't think I'm rude if I fail to look up.

If there's one thing I've learned about parenthood, it's that where the world sees uncontrolled chaos, an accident waiting to happen, I see meticulous mental planning:  a sloppy-looking mother wearing spandex pants and a baggy sweatshirt because it maximizes her toddler-chasing agility; a dad who is fully aware of the spit-up on his shirt but carefully choosing his battles; a traveling mama who hasn't had a sip to drink since yesterday for fear of needing to pee with two kids in tow.  Sure, there's chaos.  But there's almost always a corresponding contingency plan.

A kind woman next to me on the plane remarked that I was surprisingly calm for taking a flight alone with two little ones.  Of course, she didn't know about the Emergency Oreos I had in my pocket, the episode of Curious George I had queued up on the iPad, and the glass of wine that would be waiting for me at my parents' house.

Owen + Eliza: A Love Story

When you have Baby #1, everyone's inevitable first question is "How's the baby sleeping?" -- doubtless because sleep is assumed to be the main obstacle standing between you and the eventual regaining of your sanity.  But when Number Two comes along, the threat of sleeplessness is overshadowed by an even more sinister family hazard: sibling dynamics.  The delicate household balance you spent 21 months carefully cultivating can be immediately annihilated by a jealous toddler trying to find ways to get Number Two back to the hospital.  And so naturally the question now is, "How does Owen like Eliza?"

The answer, we are so grateful to say, is that he absolutely, positively adores her.

Since the moment Owen met Eliza in the hospital when she was just three hours old, it's been a love story.  While he hasn't always known exactly how to treat an infant (e.g., he frustratedly tried to force a pacifier into her nose upon first meeting), he has always adored her and doted on her completely.  He often adopts a high cooing voice and tells her that she's his "Appletizer" (no clue) and that's she's "so cute and getting so big."  He snapped at us singing too loudly one night ("Daddy! Don't wake up Ewiza!") and calls our attention to her needs when she's fussing ("Mommy! Ewiza needa bottle!").  Lately, he's started asking us to put Eliza in his crib in the morning, and a few days ago this request was accompanied by very explicit instructions: "Mommy, put Ewiza right there.  I stay with Ewiza.  You go play trains."

(Timeout: that's what you think I do for fun while you're not around?)

For her part, Eliza is just an unbelievably good sport.  From the moment she arrived, she has been a curious but exceptionally easygoing girl, a disposition that has been thoroughly tested by her very hands-on older brother.  He loves to lie on top of her and give her a huge hug (and a mouthful of his unruly curls), hold her cheeks and squeeze her hands, and position her legs in the yoga poses ("Happy Baby Toes!") he learns at school.  All the while, she looks at him with wide eyes and a big gummy smile and has eyes for no one and nothing else.  Aaron and I do all sorts of ridiculous stunts to get her to smile, but Owen only has to look in her direction to provoke a full belly laugh.

In the nearly six months Eliza has been with us, I have taken approximately 39,385 of the same photo -- some variation of Owen holding Eliza (and often, Eliza looking at me with disapproving skepticism). Since this blog is called Baby Spam and you're my captive audience, here are an unsolicited few of those many, many sibling pics.

Learning to hold "Baby Wiza in his wap"

A common theme: Owen looking lovingly at Eliza, Eliza giving me a what-the-hell-is-going-on look

The first of many times Owen will be told not to drive trucks on his sister. 

After positioning the chairs like this, Owen spent 15 minutes playing footsie with Eliza.

Putting the skills he learned with his doll to work

"Seriously, Mom?" Part I

"Seriously, Mom?" Part II

"Seriously, Mom?" Part III

Spontaneous hand-holding to settle Eliza down in the car