Category Archives: bean
Jinx
My sweet, precious do-gooder of a child. My perfectly empathetic and sensitive child. The one other moms comment on by saying “how she is so well-behaved.”
The class mom of the two year-old class at her preschool organized a coffee klatch for us to get together after this morning’s school drop off. One of my close friends was there with her very active 1 year old-old, which prompted me to gush on and on about how Lolo has always just been “good”. My best example of this has always been that she has never attempted to climb out of her crib. She has asked before if she could either climb in or out of her crib. But, I told her that only mama or papa can get her in and out. And, that was it.
Since abandoning her nap a few weeks ago which really feels like years ago, I have instituted a one hour session of quiet time. She has to be in her crib and mostly quiet. She can read books, sing and play out her elaborate, lifetime channel for toddlers, mini-dramas. But, she has to be there while I eat my lunch in utterly, blissful silence.
Today, I put her in her crib with three books and went about eating and folding mounds of laundry. I was on the phone when I heard an enormous sound. It sounded like a metal dumpster fell from the sky outside our house. And, then she started wailing. I raced upstairs to find her in the middle of her room with tears streaming down her face. I asked what happened and she said, “I twied to climb outta my cwib.” I checked her over and didn’t see any visible wounds or bumps. I asked what she fell on and she appropriately said, “Da gwound.” Then I more specifically asked what part of her body she fell on and she pointed to her face. So I peered into her mouth to find two chipped teeth. It wasn’t horrible but they were now sharp enough to cut her tongue. I raced to the phone and the dentist said to come straight over. The good news is that it was all pretty minor. He grinded the edges and said it was the best possible scenerio and only time with tell if they darken. The teeth won’t be dead he said but they could discolor. Wha?
So, we went home to wind down from the crisis and I started to make broccoli and sausage pizza for her dinner. I kept verbally checking in with her while I was in the kitchen and she would call out a confirmation that all was okay. Once the pizza was done, I asked her to come to the dining room to eat and she didn’t answer. I walked to the playroom and she wasn’t there. I walked to the living room … nothing. I asked where she was and I heard a very guilty, “Over heah.” I found her wedged between the wall and the hutch with my very thick and juicy lip gloss opened and clutched in her hand. Her face was covered in glossy mauve as she both applied and ate the lip color. Her hands were drenched as well.
This doesn’t happen to me. I am never tested like this. She had to sit in time out and then lost her TV privilege for the evening. But she didn’t care because she just wanted to have one, singular bite of pizza and then play doll house with me. I was completely at a loss. Who told her that it’s fun to test the limits? Damn school.
Fractions
We were playing with her mini kitchen and came upon some wooden vegetables. Matter of factly, she turned to me and said, “Mama, this is just half a carrot.” Clearly, we need to let her borrow Mr. Banks’ graphing calculator.
30 Pairs
Shopping List:
-30 pairs of “big girl” undies
-4 plastic tarps
-Stickers
-Gummie Bunnies
-High fiber snacks
-Big girl wipes
I’ve been earmarking this summer as the right time to potty train Lolo in between travel dates. When she hides under the dining room table each and every time she poops when we’re home, it’s time to put that recognition to good use. But, then I looked at the calendar and realized there is no perfect storm as we are in and out of town each month. With no time like the present, I dove into a potty training program recommended by a friend. (Extra Nugget: I’ve actually done a commando potty training program similar to this one when I was a nanny after college and it worked like a charm with Esther, so why not Lolo.)
I just finished Day 1 of 3, and I am about to pass out. The program requires you to be at home for three days straight doing nothing but paying attention to your child and catching them in the act of an accident … so you can race them to the potty … so they are getting that sense of urgency.
At lunch time, there was a pile of 7 pairs of wet undies on the bathroom floor. But, she was dry for her 3 hour nap (she rejected the pull-ups I bought because they weren’t panty-like enough) and then accident-free the rest of the afternoon. (Right now she is wearing Kushies Training Pants because they were better than a 72 cent piece of cotton standing between her and an entire night’s worth of urine.)
I know there will be many more ups and downs over the next two days and coming weeks, but I can at least scratch off day 1 and now fall into bed. I can still hear myself saying “Tell Mama when the pee pee is coming” over and over and over and over.
Ewizabef and Kaferine
Her new princess influences. All things purple, pink, dancer and princess are precious.
Her First Poop Joke
I was changing her diaper first thing this morning as usual. I removed the 7 pound pee pee bomb and replaced it with a fresh diaper. As I was poised to place the diaper cream on her bum, she said, “Mama? You gonna put poo poo on my bummy?” She laughed heartily and I realized that telling poop jokes must be Chapter 2 in the handbook on how to be a 2 year-old. Right now, we’re still working through Chapter 1, “The Art of Whining”.
Domestic
I just had another domestic hot flash. After I dropped Lolo off at the childcare room at the gym, I hopped on an elliptical and tuned into one of the three palatable daytime shows on at 10am: The 20th Hour of the Today Show with Kathie Lee and Hoda, Good Day New York (which has actually made its way onto “The Soup” with Joel McHale for the utter nuttiness of it all) and dare I say, The Rachael Ray Show. I know it. Color me a housewife. Just throw in some “Juicy” velour sweatpants and a blackberry phone (wrapped in the hot pink rhinestones) and I am the picture of Northeastern, domestic, stay-at-home bliss.
But, I have to watch something while I sweat it out. My circa 2005 iPod mini is filled with kids music, so that’s not an option. Anyway. I’m there and I am switching around my three channels when I land on Rachael. Yes, she’s utterly annoying. The large head, the strained and screechy voice, the parmesan cheese being thrown everywhere all over the EVOO. The audience actually claps when she adds cheese or bacon to a dish.
She’s making a pasta entree (shocker) that actually looks quasi-appealing. I’m in a dinner-making rut and could use some inspiration. This could be the dish that turns me around. I mentally earmark the recipe and decide I’ll give it a whirl.
I was utterly self conscious about shopping for the ingredients as if everyone in the produce department knew I was making a recipe that I saw on daytime television while I was at the gym while someone else was taking care of my child while I selfishly worked out.
I love what I do and wouldn’t trade it for the world. But it’s not really something you can talk about at a party when someone asks you what you do. Once you mention you’re a full-time mom, their eyes glaze over with disinterest. Visions of ice cream-stained sweatpants and lots of TV float through their head.
I take what I do very seriously and work hard at it. And, I mean “work hard at it” by more than lugging laundry and emptying the dishwasher. So, when my life veers dangerously close to a stereotype, my armpits sweat a little bit. It’s silly, I know. I herd a wild toddler by myself all week long and deserve 2 hours a week to watch ridiculous television without guilt on an exercise machine. I would just hate to get caught with a fresh manicure, bedazzled “Jersey Girl” tank top and a new tan and then have to defend my position.
Blanket of Lead
Finale
I realize I never updated the expanded Internet community on Lolo’s digestive system (which I talked about here and here). Last Friday it all came to an end and we were once again able to re-enter society. It was as if someone flipped the switch on her battery. One minute she was defeated and lethargic, and the next she was walking around wobbly-style requesting vast amounts of food. In fact she ate her way through the weekend and hasn’t stopped catching up on what she missed.
Update: Saltines
Update on our Saltines Situation.
1. Mr. Stinkerbean got it and slept for 18 hours straight. (I’ve got to come up with a better codename for him. How about Mr. Banks? Does that make me Mrs. Poppins?)
2. I just found out from a friend who’s kid has the same EXACT thing and our same doctor that once the virus hits the lower G.I. tract (and you know what I mean by that), it can take up to 5 or 6 days to clear the system. I’m having flashbacks of the “Rotavirus Christmas” but somehow feel more prepared to handle it mentally.
3. You may wonder how I have time to post during this madness. Well, during the daytime, she doesn’t want to sleep by herself in her room. She wants to sleep “dahn-stahrs” with Mama. So, I sit with her on the couch and try not to make too much noise by her side. What better quiet therapy is there besides Internet crawling? Have you searched for herb gardens lately? They’re hard to find in a modern all white format.
4. One of the saddest parts is that Friday night we went out as a family for her 5 p.m. dinner since we’d been stuck in the house from the 12-inches of new snow. She was so excited to be out and about. Something had clicked with her about how babies are different than big girls and that big girls put all of their pee pee and poo in the potty. She felt it coming twice during the day and we rushed to the potty with success. Then, she felt pee coming at the family pub (a glorified bar with enough highchairs to accommodate a toddler at every table in the joint). Mr. Banks and I looked at each other frozen, silently asking, “Do we really let her do it here?” I jumped off the cliff of germ paranoia and let her sit on an actual bar toilet. How could I explain to her that potty training doesn’t apply to public restrooms? I sat there and let her revel in her potty joy as I trembled at the sight of brown, splatter stains on the tile walls. (In my mind I was already giving her a bath and wondering how soon a toddler can learn to squat over a toilet.) Fast forward to her waking up in her own vomit. When I picked her up, she started crying because she felt pee coming and she wanted to sit on her potty and not go in her diaper. She insisted, so I let her sit on her little toilet with a towel wrapped around her as she was throwing up in a trashcan. At least it brought her a little mental comfort.
5. I am now using rubber gloves to change her diapers to cut down on the erosion of my hands.
Saltines
It’s always so casual the way people say it. “Oh, sorry. We can’t make it to the party. I have a stomach bug.”
A bug doesn’t really do justice to what my kid has had to endure this weekend. It sounds too nonchalant. Just a petty nuisance, if anything.
Lolo has been in a nihilistic gastrointestinal nightmare since Friday night when she woke up at 9:30 pm having brought up all of her dinner in her sleep. I’ll keep the details of the night to a minimum. Suffice it to say that it was more than miserable and pretty gory. But, she endured it with courage as her stomach turned against her.
Saturday morning, I called her doctor’s office and spoke to a nurse who broke it down for me in plain English. She said, “This is going to take all weekend. This virus is violent and brutal and extremely contagious. I’m an ER nurse as well and the emergency room has been rocked by this thing. You don’t want her there. So you’re entire job is to hydrate her around the clock ,every 15 minutes. You’re not going to cook or clean or take care of errands. Your job is to get more liquids in her than she’s bringing back up. If you have 2-3 pee diapers today, then you’re golden. As long as she has kidney function, you should stay at home. Wash your hands like a dickens because if you don’t, you’ll get it, too.”
She didn’t know she was preaching to the choir on the hand washing. Seriously, my skin is going to revolt against me. I think I may need a skin transplant for my hands. It’s disgusting, but I have to endure the burn. I can’t get this thing or the Stinkerbean ship is truly sunk.
So, we’ve ordered takeout all weekend, been washing hot water loads of laundry around the clock and used more disinfectant wipes than is probably healthy. But, that’s okay. It’s all for the bean. She’s so very brave and the only one around who would think about smiling for the camera at a time like this.
Right now, the virus is attacking her lower G.I. tract, so it’s hopefully on its way out. But, it will take a few more days for her poor body to recover.
This is the sick boat where Lolo has been for days.
The bravest trooper to ever live.
This is supply central. Rice cakes, flour tortilla, banana and Pedialyte via medicine dropper.
It's disgusting.
Two
My baby is two, and she is amazing. The best part is, she knows it.
She’s peed on the potty at Nordstrom, the JCC and now the public library. If those real world germs don’t mature you, then I don’t know what would.
Everything is about being a big girl. She sits on big girl chairs (because now any chair she uses is automatically a ‘big girl’ one), goes potty like a big girl (when prompted and only if it fits into her schedule), and asserts her independence more and more every day.
Waiting for her to decide which toothbrush she’ll use each night is like waiting for a ruling from the Supreme Court. Right now her choices are Dora and Sesame Street. But, I know I can always speed up the process with good old reverse psychology. I tell her which one I think she wants and she always chooses the other one. Every time.
She continues to amaze me with her leaps in language. I told her we were going to “grab Mama a drink before we hit the library” and she said she wanted to go to the library first. She called out to the mailman to “wait for me” as we were chasing him down the street with a letter. She continually asks me, “What Mama doin’?”, “What Mama seein’?” and “What Mama want?”
She requests specific songs and albums off the iPod and dances to the Backyardigans “Racing Day” ditty as if it touches her inner soul. She insists on doing pretend makeup every morning with me and thinks it’s exotic and absolutely hilarious to call me “Mommy.”
She makes me ooze with love and pride. I still wonder everyday how we created such a lovely, light-hearted and caring child.
Happy Birthday Lolo!
Holiday Recap
It wouldn’t be a holiday out of town for the Stinkerbean clan without a trip to the closest urgent care center. Lolo awoke at 5 a.m. Christmas morning with a fever, some red spots on her stomach and back and a wicked cough. Since everything except for Walgreen’s was closed, she was soothed by juice, Motrin, and lots and lots of presents from Santa. (The hotdog and cheese brought by room service for dinner wasn’t bad either.) I was soothed by in-room coffee and gossip mags.
(I knew she wasn’t feeling well when she actually wanted to sleep in our bed. Normally, she only agrees to get in our bed so she can order us out to play.)
The spots eventually went away so our biggest fears of chicken pox were allayed but she definitely had an ear infection and some sort of upper respiratory infection.
As usual, she made it through in good spirits fueled by the attention thrown at her from both sets of grandparents. It was wonderful to see everyone and be able to get out of town for a bit.
The cold in the Northeast is unbearable right now. Frigid. Bone Chilling. So cold it makes me whine. You can’t be outside for more than the quick run from the car to the house. So we’ve been hunkered down inside with a lot of homemade entertainment like paper bag puppets, finger paint and dollhouse play. Yes, Lolo received the much anticipated dollhouse which we managed to conceal in the car on the way down South. When she received it, she was completely nonchalant like she knew it was coming and had already played with it in her dreams. (Pictures worshiping the dollhouse are forthcoming.)
Blizzard of 2009
We’re back from our holiday travels, and I am just now sorting through the “Blizzard of 09” pictures. We didn’t break any records with our 8-inches of precipitation, but it was fun to see right before we ditched the Northeast for warmer Christmas destinations.
It turns out Lolo places snow in the same category as sand, amusing to look at but better left as a hypothetical pastime.
She wanted no part in it other than to watch us shovel. She does enjoy that it requires a very specific and special wardrobe though.
Pondering When To Have a Second Child
It always happens. When you start to ponder something internally, you suddenly notice that “thing” everywhere. Whether you’re thinking about finally buying skinny jeans or getting your teeth whitened, it’s now all the rage amongst the cool moms. Well, if you haven’t been walking the mean streets of suburbia lately, everyone is pregnant.
As with all stages of life, you find yourself taking the same steps at relatively the same time as your peers. Sometimes you’re the first to jump and sometimes you’re the last. Our ticket to adulthood was the tried and true path of college, marriage, graduate school, baby and then suburbia. With a house, a yard and a dog, it’s assumed you will have at least two children, most likely close in age.
When we were trying to get pregnant with our first, I had this notion that I would want to have the second baby pretty soon thereafter. It sounded like a fine idea. A good use of time and resources. Just add it to my Google calendar and set an alarm. I already felt behind trying to have my first at 30. But, the reality of how much birthing and mothering take out of you from both an emotional and physical standpoint slaps you in the face and dashes all your plans for efficiency.
Don’t get me wrong, I have always visualized myself with more than one child. I was an only child for most of my life and wished I had that insta-companionship with a sibling. Now I can’t imagine my life without my brother. But, honestly, right now, I’m in a groove. I can shower, eat, get to the gym, get to the park, play, shop for groceries with one hand and send a few emails during the day all while helping Lolo learn and grow each day. And, I haven’t even mentioned how hard it’s been to lose most of the baby weight. So, why do I want to shake it all up if I’m comfortable with where I am?
Because you’ve got to keep up. Right?
And, this is when Parenting Magazine arrives in the mail with the headline, “When is the perfect time to have your second baby?” I ripped into the issue hoping for a little objective truth. Seemingly they analyze every angle of the equation interviewing moms with two kids under two and two five years apart. What they come up with is an even-handed spreadsheet of pros and cons that leads you nowhere.
I feel the pressure. When we’re at a mommy-and-me class, other moms ask if she’s my “only one”. Friends ask if we’re thinking about it. I start to regret every time I ever asked anyone if they were having another baby. With your first, you dive in guns blazing because you’re ready to have a baby right now and won’t stop until you have one. When you think about doing it again, you know how steep the cliff is. You know how far you will have to free fall backward and how hard it will be to claw your way back.
Is this urge I’m having a result of watching too many episodes of “A Baby Story?” (Really, it’s on all the time. I think Pampers pays TLC to air it at naptime to ensure future revenue.) Am I afraid of being left behind? When I’m finally ready, will my ovaries have closed up shop?
That’s when I realized that many of the moms I know needed a little (a lot of) help making the leap as well. They didn’t really try to get pregnant with their second but they didn’t try to prevent it either. It’s a very conscious effort to let it just happen because they couldn’t jump without a push.
If we analyzed all the variables, pluses and minuses, we would never do it. It’s insane. It’s just an insane proposition to instantly add a new human being to your family. Even more insane if you already have a tiny human that needs all of your time and attention save the two hours a week you get on the treadmill. So if I am to make sense of all of this data and wrap this article up. To take that necessary step, you have to let go of rationality? In the end, you just have to want all the wonderful things a baby brings, and not think about all the poop.
If I abandon my fears and let mother nature take its course, can I then get back on my Google calendar and schedule my postpartum tummy tuck?
It’s Easier to Dance in Cozy Pants
Randomly Lolo noticed a dollhouse image in one of her picture books that she has seen a thousand times and said, “dollhouse please,” as in, I need one NOW. So, I thought it was the perfect time to “ask Santa” for a dollhouse. Without missing a beat she started chanting for Santa at the top of her lungs as if he was upstairs in the bathroom and could instantly produce a toy.
Not satisfied with calling out to this mysterious-giver-of-wishes, we went into the playroom to write Santa a letter (since I don’t have his mobile number). We mailed the letter yesterday and have been dancing to Christmas music while we wait for his arrival ever since.
(You’ll notice that shortly after recording some footage, she wants to “see” the results. She knows that digital cameras provide that instant satisfaction so you can gaze at your hilarious self.)
Giving Thanks for Stickerbooks
Before the turkey was dressed or the sweet potatoes sliced, the extended Stinkerbean clan decided that it would be quite festive and fun to head into the city on Wednesday for some sight seeing and shopping. Lolo was enthralled with the process of riding the “choo-choo” in her very own seat with four adults to dote on her. Navigating Penn Station and the #1 train downtown to Union Square was a breeze due to the fact that we were traveling post-post-rush hour, and I had ample hands to help carry the bags and stroller up and down the subway stairs.
We sipped lattes, mingled and jingled at Urban Outfitters where my father couldn’t believe people actually chose to listen to their ongoing soundtrack (clearly tortured Indie Rock is lost on him), walked amongst the crowds, and munched on a yummy and casual lunch. We were definitely on the downslope of our adventure after eating, but I thought it would be a good idea to head to the bookstore so Lolo would have something to occupy her on the trip home. (It turned out to be our saving grace.) Clearly the 5 story Barnes and Noble on the Square is her mecca. She would have slept overnight had we not lured her out with a Wonder Pets stickerbook, otherwise known as pure gold to a toddler.
As soon as we made it to the NJ Transit section of Penn Station, I realized what a show we were walking into. It was the Wednesday before the holiday and people were leaving the city a little early with all manner of suitcases, boxes, equipment, and live pets in cages. It was a zoo and we were trapped in the middle. The situation was only made worse by the fact that they don’t announce which track you’re train will be leaving from until 10 minutes before its scheduled departure. We got caught in the classic 50/50 odds and chose the wrong side of the station to hedge our bets on as we were shoulder-to-shoulder with New York’s population. In an Amazing Race turn of events, we were separated from each other as soon as the track was announced. I had the baby, my brother had the stroller, my dad had the tickets and my mom pulled up the rear somewhere in the crowd with our bags. There was a little holiday spirit mixed into the chaos though. A random businessman reached out to hold my arm all the way down the stairs so I wouldn’t be pushed forward while carrying Lolo. Once the masses made their way to the track, I found my mom and brother, but not my dad. At this point I was thinking, we’ll be the last people on the train and won’t get a seat or simply will be turned away due to capacity. We had no idea if my dad had already descended the escalator to the track or whether he was looking for us on the main level. We couldn’t split up to find him but couldn’t get on the train without him.
We opted to stick together and go down to the track at least. In a movie-like scence, we looked all the way up and down the track and saw no one until suddenly a crowd dispersed and my dad appeared. We ran for the last door and hopped on together. The only reason the train hadn’t left was that a transit employee was arguing with a passenger. Classic Jersey.
People were standing in every possible crevice, and we pushed our way into the body of the train so we could at least be in an aisle with plenty to hold onto. I plopped Lolo down on the floor, asked my mom for the stickerbook and was ready to sit on floor of the NJ transit train myself to entertain my daughter when a saint offered me his seat. Then another saint offered my mom a place. I was reeling from the stress and chaos and pushing and worry, and my child was squealing with joy over “Linny, Tuck and Min Ming, too”. In fact, the entire train car knew she was using a sticker book as she has one volume level, and it’s “ON”. The book itself advertised over 700 stickers and I think we exhausted at least a third of those in the 35 minute train ride home. Thank you Wonder Pets and Happy Thanksgiving! Now open the wine.
“Real Girl”
On her own, Lolo picked up on the fact that there are generally two kinds of people in this world, boys (eh) and girls (awesome). And, from her potty book, she is very aware that she is a real girl just like “Prudence.” Since then, she’s shown a natural affinity for things that involve “real” girls. She craves her ballerina “dancing girl” pajamas, her plastic police woman figurine and her fairy (fah-ee) girl sticker set.
The other day, I stopped by the “stoh” to pick up some replacement toothbrushes for the family, but they were out of the usual Sesame Street ones we get for Lolo. As we were exiting the aisle without a toothbrush, she started exclaiming “gahl, gahl, gahl too-bush”. She had spotted a Barbie toothbrush and was in love. The long hair, the stylish, flared denim pants and the twinkle in her painted-on-eye. She held onto it all day long. I made a mental note that this is where it begins: mothering a girlie girl.
We decided that until Santa arrives, she would completely enjoy a little dollhouse family to roleplay with. Suffice it to say that she wishes she was fashioned out of environmentally-friendly wood and 5-inches tall so she could more closely connect with this family. I mean really connect with them. The first day she had them, she just held them and moved them around the house together as if the having-ness was all she wanted to focus on. They were hers and they were wonderful.
A week later, she was totally into helping the family live out their suburban dreams. Stupidly, I gave into her polite request to bring the family on our dog walk. We bring books and toys all the time. Lolo keeps them in her lap or hands them to me when she’s done. Inexplicably, on this walk, at some point, without reason she tossed the real girl overboard. We were two blocks from returning home when I saw the “papa” doll slip out of her hand on the ground, so I did an inventory to make sure all the other family members were accounted for. I ransacked the stroller only to realize that we were down by the most important member of the team, the real girl. So, I trucked backwards through our dog walking route with my eyes glued to the leaf-laden ground. It was pointless I knew, but I did it anyway. In the end, I walked the same path three times over and only headed home because the sun was going down.
She didn’t get it. She walked in the door at home looking for the real girl in the playroom as if she would magically reappear. I was crushed. But, she just rolled on.
“No real girl here? Oh my look at that, there’s a real boy that the mama can take care of. His hair is nice, too.”
I did find a “Mexican Worry Doll” in one of my boxes of old stuff that I thought I could put to good use as a temporary replacement. I expected her to think it was awesome to have a girl back in the family. She looked at the doll with her old and dowdy dress, her head wrap that completely covers her hair, her cardboard arms (one of which is broken) and handed it back to me.
A real girl is on order from Amazon for 7 dollars.
“Happy Ween”
She doesn’t totally understand this tradition yet, but from what she’s seen so far, she’s into it.
Number one on the list is this new food group called “can-ee.” Why anyone hasn’t supplied her with these scrumptious treats before is a mystery. She had a taste of a 3 Muskateers bar after her lunch on Halloween day and she was smitten. When she awoke from her nap and saw the basket of candy out of the corner of her eye, she burst into tears when I said that she couldn’t have any right then … until she had some grapes. Obviously, it was a lost cause … I gave her the chocolate and headed out to get some more from our neighbors.
Score!
stinkerbean 