The Party & Life as a MoaT

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Other than the refusal to nap and the subsequent fussiness prior to the festivities, The Goose was an angelic mess during his party. The candle was lit, the song was sung, and the cake was destroyed while I was in the other room, so I missed a good bit of the important parts and got no pictures or video not that I'm bitter. So we reenacted the whole thing the day after the party (sans guests) so that I could take some pictures, make a video, and get outta my funk about missing it the first time.

The best part about the party was actually after all of the caking and singing ... we let the Birthday Boy loose in the backyard with the chickens. He went ballistic, chasing them all over the yard and even smacking them in the butt a few times with his "walker"(they are beggars and view any human in the backyard -- no matter how small -- as a potential giver-outter of leftovers, so this was not all that difficult to accomplish). Then, to everyone's horror, the cutest little frog hopped across the backyard and was spotted by one of the chickens. I had just said, "Look at that cute, hippety hop frog" when the girls surged toward the poor creature, pecking at it fiendishly, and finally beaking it by the leg. Then they tore off into the frontyard to partake of their prey. However, chickens are not all that great in their predatory skills and as a result, the frog didn't die immediately; rather, it kept getting loose again and into the beak of another chicken time after time before one of them finally decapitated it in front of all the party guests.

So that was that.

John's brilliant babysitter (and her entire family -- they are all family friends) came for the festivities, and this conversation (regarding the fact that the babysitter's brother is taking Latin at his shee-shee prep school)was overheard not long after they arrived:

Babysitter's Mom: Andrew is taking Latin this semester.

My M-i-L: I think it's so ridiculous that they still teach that.

Babysitter's Mom: Well, it's a classical education system there and they've got the good test scores to prove that it works.

Babysitter: Yes, but I think that they would see the same results if they taught a Germanic-based language.

Yeah. This is the same girl that saw me in the low-cut shirt attempting to have a conversation about a movie I had not seen after quite a few "To Godiva For" martinis.

Otherwise, I am just my usual neurotic self these days. My mindset alternates between the following two options:

1. Staying home with this darling child forever
2. Going back to work full-time (in other states or countries that aren't accepting families, just single, working women)

The infant days are over and the toddler days are in full swing (hence the term "MoaT" in my title -- Mother of a Toddler). Even though he is not yet walking without help, I can already tell that it's just going to get worse. But it's not the systematic destruction of prized household possessions that gets to me. It's the fits, the nap boycotts, and just the general upkeep of him that makes me nuts.

For example, yesterday when he had a dirty diaper, I said, as always, "Goosey, you stink. Mommy needs to change you. Let's go upstairs." I then picked him up to go upstairs and The War of the Worlds was enacted in the living room (to the tune of "Old McDonald Had a Farm" blaring from the DVD player). It takes all my strength to wrangle him upstairs and onto the changing table where I have to strap him down (literally) while singing happy songs and pretending this doesn't make me want to apply for that job I found on the Internet that asks for a single, female teacher in Egypt. I frequently go into the garage and SCREAM at the top of my lungs, or wait until Husband returns from work and then run down the road at full speed until I get shin splints from pounding the pavement so hard. Or I power-hike up to the top of Ganier Ridge and sit on a bench in the pouring rain, watching the chickadees stare down at me from the branch above my head. They turn their heads sideways and cock their eyes downward to watch me sitting there, heart pounding. Endorphins can make it all go away (so can cheap wine, but I'm trying to stop doing that so much).

I have never overcome my inability to deal with the crying. That is the #1 reason why I have nursed him for so long and will continue to do so indefinitely. Forget the health benefits -- it stops the crying immediately. Husband doesn't seem to have this problem. He can endure the crying and whining and repeated attempts to climb out of the high chair while smearing food all over everything and whining (did I mention the whining?). He deals beautifully when The Goose lays down on the floor in a kicking tantrum whenever you prohibit his access to the ketchup bottle in the refrigerator door. But I still have some instinct leftover from the Pleistocene Period wherein my body reacts to the crying as if there is a predator lurking just outside the cave and I must quiet the baby immediately so as not to provoke attack. To that end, I will give him all manner of totally inappropriate items to quell his cries. Dangerous items. Items that could blind him (or me) or poison him. I tell myself it's OK because it's "supervised and temporary," but I realize that THIS IS NOT OK!!! But it does stop the crying at important times (like for the few seconds it takes to change a diaper). Other times it doesn't and so I whip out the boob. The boob always works. Wean him? I wouldn't dare? I couldn't cope.

The inappropriate-object-giving habit that I have developed has raised concerns from those around me, but I seriously cannot stop. If he will stop writhing around and screaming on the changing table, then I will give him anything within my reach: A bottle of Shout, an emery board, beer bottles, ink pens, a tube of toothpaste, his cough medicine, ANYTHING. It makes no sense, this habit. And sometimes, I'll take away one dangerous thing just to turn around and hand him another. The other day I took a sharpened pencil out of his hand and then allowed him to play with the space heater (it was off, but still!) just so I could go to the bathroom in peace.

I know this is most counterintuitive. But I really cannot stand to hear him cry. I know that no one wants to hear their child cry, but I think that I really have a problem. Clearly, it's one of many. Yesterday he wouldn't eat breakfast and kept trying to jail-break out of the high chair. I was making him some oatmeal and turned around to sing a song and just happened to notice that he was standing on top of the high chair tray, holding on to the back of the seat and bouncing his butt up and down in the air. So I put him back in the chair and tightened the restraining belt, only to endure more cries for freedom. Here's the crazy part: Likely he's just hungry, right? Because it's morning and he hasn't eaten in 13 hours, right? But I can't stand even the one minute of fussing he is going to do during the oatmeal preparation, so I take him out of the highchair altogether and let him play on the floor with an empty wine bottle. See what I mean about counterintuitive?

OK, I'll stop. Please don't turn me in to DHS.

On a happier note, our friends Mo & Ju-Ju are going into the hospital to be induced today. Yay for them! I hope they are blessed with a healthy baby and an intense talent for dealing with crying.

Oh, and I almost forgot: SUMMER IS OFFICIALLY OVER, so ...

"Happy Fall, y'all!"