Insane Child

When I was 12 years old, one of my first official babysitting jobs was for a two-year-old boy who lived around the corner (don’t worry, his parents lived there too — this is not the setup for a wacky new ABC Family sitcom about a precocious toddler striking out on his own in the big city [patent pending, do not steal my idea]). His name was Daniel and I was beside myself with excitement at the prospect of being in sole charge of this adorable little critter for two entire hours (plus: ten bucks!).

The big day arrived and I set out for my neighbor’s house with a spring in my step. I had babysat my little sisters a million times and had ample experience playing with my myriad cousins — I had full confidence in my abilities and anticipated an easy afternoon.

Two hours later, I walked home and dramatically declared to my mother: “that kid is INSANE! What is WRONG with him?!”

In the span of under two hours, I’d endured three screaming fits, broke a nail during a diaper change gone awry (that demented toddler very nearly kamikaze’d right off the damn changing table!), and was whacked in the head by a surprisingly weighty toy truck (who the hell gives a baby a metal toy?!). I was stressed, frazzled, and sincerely concerned. I honestly thought that this child was mentally disturbed. Normal children don’t behave that way…do they?!

17 years later, I have my answer: yes, they most certainly do.

I am now the proud mother of a Certified Insane Child. He’s only 14 months old, but Bubba has already crossed the line from sweet, passive baby to strong-willed, occasionally insane toddler. In the last week alone, the following injustices have sent him collapsing theatrically onto the floor in a fit of anger and/or sadness:

• He could see the box of Cheerios but Mean Mama wouldn’t give him any (he already had a plateful of delicious spaghetti right in front of him; I assure you he was not starving)
• Mean Dada was playing his guitar and wouldn’t let Bubba yank on the strings
• Mean Mama had her phone out for some exciting Words With Friends action and would not allow Bubba to take over control of said phone
• Bearski was outside the crib, lying dejected on the floor (because Bubba threw him out!), and Bubba could not retrieve him

He also regularly tries to fling himself from the changing table, and yes, I’ve had multiple toys thrown at me (in Bubba’s defense, they are always thrown as part of normal happy playtime activities; I’m still convinced that Daniel kid was out to harm me).

But other than all that, Bubba is a delightful child — I swear! He’s happy and fun and loving…sometimes changing your clothes is just too much to bear and you have to run out of the room and hide in a tent, right guys?

Send help.

Bearski

Like most babies, my son has about fifteen thousand stuffed animals in his possession (I’m pretty sure we could create a plush reenactment of Noah’s Ark were we so inclined). Most of them are relegated to Bubba’s ever-growing list of “Things That Are Fun To Throw,” but there’s one especially cuddly little teddy bear to whom Bubba has taken a particular shine.

Mr. Bearski, as he’s become known around here (I guess he’s Polish), has become a permanent fixture in Bubba’s arms. He cuddles up with Bearski all night, and in the morning he clings to his ursine friend like a life preserver when I lift him from his crib. Bearski stays by Bubba’s side all throughout the day, enjoying everything the world has to offer alongside his master:

It’s pretty freakin’ cute, obviously. But like so many awesome things in this world, there is an unfortunate downside:

If Bearski is out of his sight for so much as a second, Bubba panics. And his approach to solving the problem is to shriek as loudly as possible, and, failing that, throw himself dramatically to the floor and wail some more. It’s…less than pleasant, and it only appears to be getting worse.

On Saturday night, TFW and I were enjoying a thrilling documentary on the US Presidents (like all the cool kids do on Saturday nights; as a sidenote, were you aware that we have had a lot of really shitty presidents? I’m looking at you, John Tyler) while the baby snoozed away. At about 10pm, our raucous evening was brought to a grinding halt by some ear-piercing shrieks emanating from the baby’s room.

I raced to his aid, assuming — based on the shriek-level — that an abduction was in progress or perhaps a pack of scorpions had completed a four hundred mile road trip from the Arizona desert and were celebrating their coastal arrival by attacking my poor innocent son. Instead, I found Bubba sitting up in his crib, half-asleep (eyes still closed!) and flailing his arms around like a madman. Before I could even reach into the crib to comfort him (and check for scorpions), he found what he was looking for: Bearski. Apparently, that wily critter had escaped from his clutches at some point during the night; Bubba noticed his absence and, as usual, freaked out. Upon locating the wayward bear, Bubba laid right back down and was fast asleep again by the time I tiptoed back out the door.

I relayed the hilarious scene to TFW (complete with reenactment, of course), but he was more concerned than amused. “He’s getting awfully attached to that thing,” he mused.

Always the expert on parenting concerns (as long as the concerns aren’t mine), I reassured him: “oh, don’t worry about it. It’s not like he’ll be taking Bearski off to college with him or anything.”

TFW stared at me and deadpanned, “yeah, I’m sure all kids just grow out of this phase at a certain point, right?”

I opened my mouth to agree with him…until I remembered that at that precise moment, I was cuddled up with my 29-year-old baby blanket, and my husband was being a snarky jackass.

LONG LIVE BEARSKI AND QUILTY!!!!

Expert Answers to Your Parenting FAQs!

One of the projects I’ve been tackling at work lately is adding an “FAQ” section to the product descriptions on our website. I’ve discovered that I’m quite skilled at anticipating the incessant questions people are going to ask (doesn’t anyone just read the specs that I also lovingly wrote and which are literally right there in front of their faces?!) and answering them in a way that leaves the customer feeling educated yet not overwhelmed with information (despite what my blog might lead you to believe, I can be succinct…sometimes).

In an effort to extend my talent into other arenas, I’ve decided to create a little Parenting FAQ. Below are some of the questions I’ve heard from pregnant friends, curious childless women, and new mamas, along with my Certified Parenting Expert Advice (patent pending). Remember, babies are mysterious creatures and parenting is a dangerous game: arm yourself with knowledge lest you find yourself overwhelmed and confused!

Question: Is breastfeeding awful? Awesome? Gross? Creepy?

Answer: I personally was not a fan. I found it exhausting and endless, and pumping was at least 100 times worse. BUT! Some people have no problems and soldier forth for a solid year (or, if they’re weirdos, even longer) with nary a complaint. Your best bet is to think positive but acknowledge the reality that it doesn’t work for everyone, and if you decide to quit (or forgo it altogether), you’re not a terrible mother. Not because of that, anyway (you might be terrible for other reasons; let’s not discount that possibility).

Question: How do you not gag/vomit at the gross stuff?

Answer: What makes you think I don’t? Babies are disgusting. I say this as an authority on the subject since just yesterday I got poop underneath my fingernail and today I watched a doctor extract infected pus out of my baby’s ears (yes, that’s ears plural).

Question: I have seen moms literally eat half-chewed spit-out food off of their kids’ plates. Have they just lost all hope in life or what?

Answer: Yes.

Question: Am I crazy for worrying all the time? Will that ever change?

Answer: No, you’re not crazy. Well, you could be — I am not really in a position to judge on that one. And no, it’ll probably never change. In fact, it will almost certainly get much, much worse as your kid gets older and gives you more ammunition about which to worry. Sorry!

Question: How do I avoid laughing when my kid does something naughty but also hilarious and adorable?

Answer: This dilemma will resolve itself naturally. At first, the behavior will get worse, because your laughter will be interpreted by your baby as an endorsement. But don’t worry: whatever “cute” thing he was doing will eventually stop being cute (and rest assured, this will not take long), and you will soon stop laughing every time he throws his sippy cup off the highchair. Problem solved!

Dropping spaghetti onto the dog’s head will NEVER stop being funny, unfortunately:

Question: How do I know when to call the doctor and when I’m just being a Nervous Nellie about something?

Answer: This largely depends on the type of person you are. You need to be honest with yourself: if you, like me, are a crazy person, then just assume that 90% of the concerns you are considering raising with the doctor are absurd and will make you sound like, well, a crazy person. If you must call, you can always do what I do and preface your question with “I know this sounds silly, but my husband wanted me to ask…”

Question: How long does the whole “not sleeping” thing really last?

Answer: Some loathsome parents get maddeningly lucky and only suffer through a few weeks of torture; others have babies who wake up every 3-4 hours for months. Whether it lasts a month or a year, I can assure you of two things: first, it will seem endless and you will think you are losing your mind; second, it will eventually get better and you will completely forget how bad it was, and that’s how your brain tricks you into thinking having another baby is a good idea.

Question: Will my body ever look the same again?

Answer: Are you a supermodel and/or wealthy enough to hire a personal chef and trainer? If so, then YES! You’ll be back in business in NO TIME! If you’re a normal human like most of us, then start saving your money for a new wardrobe. On the bright side: new wardrobe!

I hope this has been educational and enlightening! If you have any other burning questions that need the attention of an expert (me…duh), share them in the comments and I’ll answer them in FAQ Part Deux next week!

Top Ten Tuesday: Why Hello, SITS-ers!

Today’s the day!

My blog is being featured over on SITS today, and I haven’t been this excited since the advent of DVR technology (so. many. crime shows!).

If you’re not familiar, SITS is a fantastic resource and community for bloggers. I highly encourage you to check it out (not right now, of course: spend seven or eight hours reading everything I’ve ever written here first). If you’re stopping by from SITS and you’re new to my blog, you can read a bit about me on my creatively-titled About Me page, and you can check out my all-time favorite posts on the Top of the Pops! page (which I had to sub-title “best of” because I wasn’t entirely sure anyone would know what I meant; didn’t stop me from using it, though). To aid you in your quest to get to know me better, I’ve also compiled a little list for you right here…

The top ten things you should know about your new favorite blogger (that’s me…obviously [presumptuous?]):

10) I have a ridiculously adorable one-year-old son named Ryan, who I call Bubba for absolutely no reason (he is not particularly large and I am not from the south; it’s inexplicable). This entire blog is about him (or me being crazy with regard to him), but if you want to read about his entrance into the world, I highly recommend my two-part labor story. I swear it’s worth it, if only for the near-topless photo of a nine-months-pregnant me. HOT.

9) I’m married to a delightful fellow, known herein as TFW. We met many many moons ago in the mosh pit of a punk rock show (true story). Click here for some cute pics of us!

8) I’m a giant worrywart. That’s pretty much the crux of the blog.

7) I was mired in a serious depression for an unfortunately sizable chunk of my life. This is not a focal point of this blog (or even of my life at this point), but it’s solid background info on me so I’m including it nonetheless! You can read a bit more on that here and here.

6) I’m a punk rock gal (although I can rarely be motivated to get off my ass and out to a show these days; seriously, you start playing at 10pm?! I’m tired at the very thought of it), complete with a variety of tattoos — you can see one of them here:

5) I work from home, but not in a cool “let me take my laptop down to Starbucks for an hour and then enjoy a lengthy nap!” kind of way. Nay, my job is pretty much the same as any average office job; I just happen to be at home.

4) I’m a giant nerd. I prefer reading to clubs and I’m pretty much obsessed with my baby blanket (the illustrious and cleverly-named Quilty).

3) Here are some things I adore:

• Reading
• Fountain Dr. Pepper
• True-crime TV shows
• Watching sitcoms over and over and over again (particularly Seinfeld, 30 Rock, and Roseanne)
• The New York Yankees (I even wrote a blog called The Yankees Chick many years ago…)
• Dogs
• Professional wrestling (don’t judge me)
• My Quilty (seriously, stop judging me!)

2) And a couple things I hate:

• Eating vegetables
• Not drinking Dr. Pepper

(I’m easy to please.)

1) I desperately want to be your friend. I’m a terrible Twitter-er (tweeter?), but I’m trying to figure it out (why must it be so fast-paced? Doesn’t anyone else have to work?!) — holler at me and I swear I’ll say something back (probably 8 hours later, but…eventually). Facebook is much more my speed, and we should all be best friends forever over there.

If you’re still with me and I haven’t scared you off yet: enjoy your visit — hopefully you’ll laugh at least once, say “awww” a minimum of three times, and roll your eyes at me precisely seven times. I dream big!

Daycare Dilemma Part 33 1/3: The Reckoning

I’ve got big news on the childcare front.

No, my babysitter didn’t magically start showing up on time (you’re hilarious, thinking that was even a possibility; on a related note, does anyone know how I can program my phone to send her a “can you give me your ETA, please?” text every morning at 8:10? It would save me the hassle). And no, I didn’t hammer down a solution. But I can report that I believe I have successfully worked my way through the five stages of childcare grief at last:

Stage one: DENIAL (July-September 2012). Surely the near-daily lateness can’t go on forever — I’m sure she’ll come on time tomorrow! And come on, all these last-minute sick days must just be a weird fluke; how often can a person get sick?

Stage two: ANGER (October-November 2012). Seriously?! You’re “sick” again? I’m running out of vacation days over here! Damn you for forcing me to even consider daycare, a scenario about which I cannot even fathom ten good things! The best part about working from home is having my son in the house with me, even if I’m not the one taking care of him. I AM NOT GIVING THAT UP.

Stage three: BARGAINING (December 2012). OK, OK. We can do daycare eventually, I guess. But why don’t we just stick it out till Bubba’s a little older? If the babysitter could just get her act together for a little while longer, I swear I’ll start looking at daycares in a couple of months and I won’t even act like a crazy person about it! I PROMISE!

Stage four: DEPRESSION (January 2013). Fine. That didn’t work. I’m just going to sit here and think about all the terrible things that could potentially happen as a result of sending my poor innocent child to daycare and perhaps shed a tear of self-pity and/or horror as I peruse the childcare section of Craigslist. Why is this happening to me?!?

Stage five: ACCEPTANCE (January 20, 2013). We are paying top dollar for the luxury of an in-home babysitter…and she shows up late every day (or not at all…). The daily stress is no longer worth having him at home. Bubba is a big boy — he will be fine at daycare. Now I just need to be a big girl and suck it up!

So here I am, calling daycares and mentally preparing myself for the big change. In the meantime, I’m making sure to cherish the last few days or weeks that I get to see scenes like this on my lunch break:

Never mind, I’m back to stage four. HELP!

Wordless Wednesday: Baby It’s Cold Outside

It’s been FRIGID here in LA lately.

And by that, of course, I mean that it’s been 60 degrees. That’s the HIGH TEMP, you guys!

Leaving the house without various hats, hoodies, and blankies is out of the question.

You Is Such A Good Talker!

Whilst wasting time in the parenting section of Reddit recently (after spending 2 hours looking at dogs in the “aww” section, of course [a habit I highly recommend everyone develop]), I came across a scathing submission from a young childless woman. She ranted that she hated hearing parents talk to their kids in “baby talk” and she wondered why it’s so ubiquitous — can’t we all hear how stupid we sound? When she had kids someday, she assured everyone, she would never lower herself to speaking in that annoying sing-song voice, and she would always use proper terminology and formal grammar with them.

Condescension and laughable naivete aside, the uptight shrew got me thinking. She did have a point: baby talk is totally unavoidable. I honestly don’t think I’ve ever come across a parent who doesn’t say cutesy things (usually in a cutesy voice!) at least occasionally. Babies like it! And it’s fun to talk that way! Plus, in the beginning at least, all the sleep deprivation depletes your brainpower and forming coherent sentences is just way too difficult.

So sure, I say “baba” and “milkie” and often speak in the third person like I’m my son’s personal Life Narrator (“Mama loves Bubba!”). But I’m not that bad. I’m an intelligent, normal adult with adequate social graces. I’m definitely not annoying like the obnoxious parents to whom that insipid harpy was referring!

Or so I thought when I first read her diatribe. But now it’s been on my mind for a few days, and I’ve made some alarming discoveries. Like, for instance, the fact that I replace an awful lot of words with what can only be described as “nonsense sounds.” And I’m apparently under the impression that even the simplest grammar conventions no longer apply to me. Over the course of just one hour tonight, I caught myself saying the following:

“No-no, Bud — that’s an ouchie for Mama!” (Sidenote: why must he bite me?!)

“Awww…why you be a sad boy? You no need a new dipey!”

“Uh oh! Now you gots no sockies!”

And then I gave him “chickie” for “din din” and brushed his “toofers”…

Goddammit, that condescending bitch was dead on. I sound like a moron.

Still better than being a dreary wench, though. “Pardon me, Son, but it’s time to extricate yourself from that receptacle, suit up in your nightclothes, and settle in for a period of slumber:”

My way’s better. Night-night!

PS: My only dream in life now is for that woman to have a baby, be secretly recorded, and subsequently forced to watch/listen to herself say “baba” and “blanky” and “binkie” on loop.

PPS: Spell check hated virtually every word of this post.

Then and Now: An Uplifting Tale About Depression (Seriously)

Last night while catching up on the season premier of The Biggest Loser, I experienced a surreal moment of self-reflection. One of the young women on the show was struggling mightily, not with the workouts or the diet but with the emotional aspect of the process. She was crying and distressed, and while the show didn’t give us much background on her life or mental health, it was painfully obvious that she was very depressed. After toughing it out for a day or two she tearfully decided she simply could not proceed with the show and headed home (and hopefully to a therapist).

Her sadness struck a chord with me. “That poor girl,” I thought. “She’s so sad, she can’t even function! How awful that must be.”

And then a few moments later, I remembered: I used to be like that.

Ten years ago, my life was an unmitigated disaster. More specifically, my brain was a disaster. I was 19 years old and living in San Diego, ostensibly in the middle of my sophomore year at SDSU (but rarely being productive in that arena), and I was very, very depressed. I was living under a dense fog of despondency that enveloped my every thought and left me effectively paralyzed. Seemingly simple things like attending even one class or being sociable with my roommates felt preposterously out of reach (“surely everyone can see that I’m a terrible person just by looking at me and will hate me if I so much as speak!”). Ill-equipped to deal with my emotions and clouded by shame and self-loathing, I obsessed over food (or lack thereof) in an attempt to distract myself from my misery and used self-injury to punish myself for all manner of perceived inadequacies.

This pathetic routine wasn’t new to me — I’d been dealing with these issues for several years (and to some degree, for my whole life) — but never had I felt so utterly helpless. I hated myself and knew that I was wasting my life away but felt powerless to change; I truly believed that there was just something inherently “wrong” with me and I would never have a normal, happy life. I eventually had to drop out of school and move back home, which, as you can imagine, felt like hitting rock bottom.

Top Ten Tuesday: Daycare Dilemma, Take Two

Last month I was all worked up about the possibility of sending Bubba to daycare, unable to even come up with a complete top ten list of reasons it might not totally suck. The prospect of shipping my kid off to the care of strangers was stressing me out so much, in fact, that after writing that post I decided to just block the subject from my brain for a while. “Let’s see where we’re at in a few months!” became my mantra.

And burying my head in the sand was working splendidly!…Until this morning, when my babysitter was an hour late. After arriving 30 minutes late yesterday.

Sigh.

Clearly, I need to revisit the topic and make some changes, both to my childcare situation and my attitude towards it. My attempt last month to be optimistic was obviously unsuccessful, so I figured I’d try a new tactic: maybe I just need to get it all out of my system, articulate what exactly I’m so nervous about, and then move on! That could work, right? Sounds legit.

Let’s give it a whirl…here they are, my top ten daycare fears:

10) I’ll never get to do anything with my son outside of meals, baths, and diaper changes. I really don’t think I’m being dramatic with this one — if I have to drive him to daycare before work and then he’s gone all day until we get back home in the evening, that literally is all we will have time for! When are we going to run around the house naked and climb into laundry baskets?!

(OK, I stay clothed.)

9) I’ll spend the whole day obsessing over what he could be up to over there (and imagining countless terrible scenarios). “What’s that, coworker? You want me to do something work-related for you?! GODAMMIT, you’re insensitive — do you not realize that my son could be sobbing unattended in a crib or drinking bleach from an unlocked cabinet right this very moment?!”

8) Bubba will cease bonding with me, preferring the company of his daycare providers to mine. Because see #10.

7) The daycare will have a “don’t bug us” policy and will not allow me to check in on him during the day. (Truthfully, assuming I do eventually get my shit together and send this kid to daycare, let’s hope they do indeed have such a policy…because I’m insane and otherwise won’t be contained.)

6) They’ll let him eat terrible food packed with artificial coloring and preservatives! The horror! (as I drink a Diet Caffeine Free Dr Pepper…)

5) There’ll be too many kids around and no one will pay attention to poor Bubba. I have a sad mental image of the little guy just sitting forlornly in a corner, totally ignored while the staff is occupied with the other heathens. And then he’ll probably turn into a serial killer because he didn’t get enough attention. IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT?!

4) He’ll never nap (and will drive his providers crazy with his daily refusals to rest). I mean, what if they don’t have a Maureen Wachter Patented Pit O’ Toys in their crib to trick him into sleeping?!

3) I’ll miss…everything. Talking. Running. Jumping. Learning stuff. Saying cute things!!! I could vomit.

2) He won’t be adequately supervised and will injure himself, possibly severely. Let’s face it, he doesn’t always make the wisest choices:

He needs to be monitored closely. To say the least.

1) I’ll hate the situation (duh) but the baby will be fine and TFW will love the reliability (he’s the one that suffers when the babysitter shows up late since he has to wait for her arrival before he can leave) and the monetary savings, and thus I’ll be forced to suffer in silence because there’s not really anything for me to be upset about. Yes, that is correct: I’m worrying about potential worrying.

OK, didn’t work.

Send xanax and a punctual babysitter.

Weekend Wrap-up: Sore Neck Tube Edition

After working from home for 4.5 years, I’ve noticed a few changes in myself:

1. I have convinced myself that wearing jeans every day and never putting on makeup or doing my hair is 100% acceptable (I’ve also convinced myself that TFW totally prefers me this way; please don’t burst my bubble)
2. I have ZERO patience for traffic since I rarely drive, and driving anywhere further than two miles away feels like it takes FOREVER.
3. I never get sick.

The first two are somewhat unfortunate side effects of an overall excellent situation, but that third one is FANTASTIC. As it turns out, completely avoiding human contact save for the occasional trip to Target will do wonders for your health! In 4.5 years, I have not contracted a single serious cold/flu/virus/infection. I’ve had a few run of the mill colds, but nothing that lasted more than a day or so and certainly nothing that required medical care beyond the magic of DayQuil.

So when the baby spent all of last week coughing and sniffling, it never crossed my mind that said sickness could possibly find its way into my pure and seemingly invincible bloodstream. I was wiping his boogers off with my hands (I’ll wait here while you go vomit…ok, back? carry on) and kissing his sick little face like it was going out of style all week, with nary a passing thought to the fact that I too could wind up sick.

And then Friday afternoon rolled around…