Love Hurts

He looks very cute and innocent, I know.
Don't let him fool you.

I know I haven’t written much about Baby Oren (or as I like to call him, Sir Poopsalot. Or Baby Boo Boo. Or Smooshers McDuff. I really call him everything BUT his actual name).

Oren is the “Clifford the Big Red Dog” of babies. He’s a very adorable, huggable, smooshable, GARGANTUAN child. He’s only four and a half months old, weighs about 150 pounds, and is about 17 feet tall. He already fits into my husband’s clothing.

Yesterday, my dentist’s assistant asked if she could hold Oren (he was flirting with her). Not two minutes had passed before she handed him right back to me, telling me she had to go set up a new appointment with her chiropractor. She then hobbled away, groaning, with her hands supporting her lower back.

He’s big.

Much like Clifford the Big Red Dog, Oren has the best of intentions. He simply wants to love and be loved. But because he is such a huge, strong boy (with rather unrefined motor skills), his displays of affection generally turn into unintentional displays of physical abuse.

One of Oren’s favorite pastimes is gnawing on my chin like it is a chew toy (oh yes, I forgot to mention he is already teething. Actually, I am pretty certain he came out of my womb teething). It starts out innocent enough, with Oren just trying to tongue kiss my face (strangers at the playground think it looks so adorable). But soon the kissing turns into full throttle chewing, as Oren clenches down with his baby jaw and waves his head back and forth like he is trying to rip my chin off my face (strangers at the playground start to think this might not be so adorable after all).

Oren has given me quite a few chin hickeys. Unfortunately, they are not very becoming, and kind of hard to disguise (I can’t exactly wrap a tiny scarf around my chin). I just try to ignore my co-workers staring at my face, wondering what kind of kinky games my husband and I get into once the kids are asleep.

Oh. Then there is the very random, very thrilling, middle-of-the-night nose punching thing.

Although I had truly intended NOT to co-sleep with Oren, as I had with Emmy, I’ve ended up sleeping in bed with him by my side, every night. For the most part, it works out well, and allows me to do night feedings without having to keep getting up out of bed (yes, I am lazy. Especially at 2 in the morning). It also allows me the distinct pleasure of being punched repeatedly in the nose by my son. I’ll be sleeping peacefully, dreaming of bucolic country meadows and rainbows and dancing fairies, when WHAM! Baby Boo Boo lays the smackdown on my face.

And then he starts kicking me. Repeatedly. Right in my belly, by my c-section scar.

I’m pretty sure it’s just his way of making sure I am still lying next to him.

So now, in addition to “hickey chin,” I also have “fight club nose” and a black and blue tummy.

I should also mention Oren’s miraculous ever-growing fingernails. I swear to you, I clip my baby boy’s nails on an every-other day basis, thinking that perhaps it will keep his talons in check. But its not enough. Oren is still able to scratch “I Love Mama” or “This is great mom, but I would really love a prime rib” on my forearm as I breastfeed him.

Speaking of breastfeeding, have I mentioned Oren is teething? I have. Have I mentioned that I feel like I am in grave danger every time I breastfeed him? I do. I watch his face very carefully, waiting for that exact moment where his mouth transitions from “cute sucky-milk” mode to “Hannibal Lecter” mode. Then I say “no biting,” in a gentle but firm tone, and Smooshers McDuff smiles back at me in a “this is a fun game, mama!” way. I try to explain to him that it is not a game. He smiles back at me in a “I’m four months old and have no idea what you are saying, but I’m sure it’s funny” kind of a way. And then he bites down.

Baby Boo Boo also seems to thoroughly enjoy pulling my hair, pinching my neck, and sticking his thumb in my eyeball. Waaaay into my eyeball. Super fun times.

So next time you see me, if I am wearing a ski mask, and a helmet and breastplate, and perhaps holding a sword and shield, I’m not trying out a new “look”. It’s just that I have a BIG baby boy who loves me very, very much.

The Princess and the Pee Pee

Em and her beloved Savtah (Grandma)

I don’t remember ever going through a “princess stage,” as a young girl. I remember a distinct “Madonna” stage, circa 1984, when I was about nine years old. I can’t even begin to imagine what my teachers must have thought of my wearing lace gloves and pleather pants to school. I also remember a “Preppy” stage -  it was ALL ABOUT the izod shirts and pink jeans and friendship pins and feathered hair (which I failed miserably at achieving). And as much as I’d like to forget, I still remember my (much later in life) “Grunge” phase, which I now believe made me look like a reclusive woodsman, sans the crazy bushy beard. But mostly I remember going through the “I will wear whatever my older sister has handed down to me,” stage.

But dressing like a princess? I can guess that as a young child, dressing up like Cinderella (post-fairy-godmother-makeover) never really appealed to me. I couldn’t climb trees or play ball very easily in a tutu and tiara, after all. Function over fashion was my motto.

Which is maybe partly why Emmy’s very passionate “princess stage” is driving me coo-coo crazy. She insists on wearing a tutu to school, paired with just the right leggings and just the right pink (has to be pink!!!) frilly shirt. This morning she had a mini-tantrum about her purple pants that had been JUST FINE BY HER two weeks ago. I thought I had convinced her that her pretty, flouncy shirt was long enough to qualify as a dress, but when we got to school the first thing she said to her teacher was, “I’m not wearing a princess skirt,” in a woe-is-me voice, while giving me the evil eye.

She’s two and a half years old! If we are having these kinds of issues when she’s just a toddler, I can only IMAGINE what our arguments over clothing will be like when she’s, say, 14 years old. This is gonna be FUN, folks!

The thing is, I WANT Emmy to develop her own sense of style. I WANT her to take pleasure and to feel confident in the clothes she wears, even now, at such a young age. I want her to be her most authentic self. So why do I take such issue when her whole authentic self wants to dress like a Disney character?

I mean, if my daughter was going through a robot phase, and wanted to dress like a robot every day, would I protest? I honestly would probably think it was super cute, and would likely be fine with making sure her silver shirts and pants were always washed and available for her to wear.

I guess, in my head, wanting to look like a princess seems so PREDICTABLE, and so unimaginative.  And I equate wanting to look like a princess with wanting to ACT like a princess (pampered, not wanting to break a nail, etc.), which I really don’t want to condone as a parent.

But does dressing like a princess automatically make a little girl ACT like a princess? Probably not. In Emmy’s case, it mostly inspires her to want to do twirly dances until she gets dizzy.

So should I just chill out and check my princess prejudices at the door, and support my daughter’s obsession with looking like royalty? Should I rejoice in Em’s ability to express her uniqueness (even though it’s not so unique), and stop trying to convince her that jeans are super fun to wear? I know there has to be some sort of middle ground here, where I don’t force her to wear overalls, but also don’t have to let her wear a tutu ALL THE TIME (she even wants to wear them to bed).

Have you dealt with this or similar drama? Any words of wisdom to share?

Ah, yes, before I forget, I have to also talk about Pee Pee. Em is doing amazingly well at potty training! She seems to be taking the job very seriously, and seems to be getting excited about becoming a “big girl” – she even mentioned not needing her “massy” (pacifier) for bedtime last night. Of course, that sentiment lasted about two minutes, but it is still great progress… I couldn’t be prouder of my.. ahem.. princess! 

Too Many Mornings Like This Morning

I just feel like there have been too many mornings like this morning.

Mornings following horror and tragedy.

I fell asleep last night while watching the news (again). I fell asleep while watching more images of people running in fear, and more images of smoke and ambulances and tears. I fell asleep to the sound of more news pundits interviewing more eyewitnesses and more terror experts.

I fell asleep with my arms wrapped more tightly around my children (again).

How many times has this happened now? Too many times. I don’t want to count.

There have been too many mornings like this. Mornings where I have to quickly switch from the news to Dora the Explorer, so my toddler won’t have to see the images of broken things and broken people. So she won’t start asking questions about accidents and boo boos. So I won’t have to answer questions that she shouldn’t have to ask.

What bothers me the most is I feel myself getting USED to this kind of morning. I feel my brain and body slowly acclimating to news of terror. I feel my heart responding to this kind of news with a sort of:

“Oh no. Again?”

“Again.”

“Senseless killing?”

“Yes, again.”

“Children killed?”

“Yes, again.”

And then I have to go about my day, with a sense of sadness that will slowly fade, with a sense of heartache for people I do not know but can imagine knowing. And with a sinking feeling, knowing that another morning like this will happen again, probably all too soon.