Hey, look out for the lalabus! What time does the lalabus come?
I think we should let children name things. My 19 month old says “lalabus” instead of bus, or autobus (which Hubster is trying to teach him, because it’s Czech). I love it, and it’s much more fun. Previously, I would see a bus and have no emotion. Everytime I see a lalabus now it makes me smile.
My 18 month old consistently maintains solid eye contact with anyone looking at him. His bright baby blues will meet your eyes unflinchingly while he smiles, investigates your expression or openly stares. If he’s feeling particularly shy, he’ll hide around my legs. Even then, he usually peeks out to sneak a glimpse from behind my knee.
I love this about him, but I thought this was a baby thing, seeing as how they don’t have shame or self confidence issues. I was thinking I wish more adults were like him. I do.
And then I read this article on BabyCenter, “How can I encourage my toddler to look people in the eye when speaking to them?,” and I realized not all babies do it. I was pretty surprised by the article.
When I see my boy stare head-on at someone, he looks fearless, confident. I know as he gets older, he’ll question these traits in himself, but I’m proud to know he’s starting with them. I don’t think there’s anything we’ve done to encourage this; it’s all him. I only hope we can encourage him to keep it up as he gets older and starts to question his own opinions and feelings. Eye contact is underrated.
Just more than a week ago, my little bug passed the year and a half mile marker. We’ve come so far, but he is still so little. Last weekend, when someone else was playing with him, he fell on a stone fireplace hearth and cut his head so badly that it required three levels of stitches. I didn’t even know that existed. And I literally feel like my heart can’t take it.
It was an accident. I get that. The logical side of me understands that accidents happen. But fuck logic. I don’t care. I can’t stop replaying the scene in my mind, visualizing his face, the seemingly black hole I saw on his face when I grabbed him and screamed for my husband. There are at least 4 things I should have done differently that would have avoided this accident. Simple things. Easy fucking things. And why didn’t I do them? I sure as hell don’t know. He was having a blast. I was comfortable. I’m not one of those “crazy” parents who’s worried about everything.
I think I want to become one of those parents. If it stops or at least lowers the chances of anything like this ever happening again, then I want to be one of those parents. Because this giant bandage and scar that will soon be in the middle of the forehead of this sweet little boy’s face is way, way, way too much for me to bear.
And I know it’s not nearly as bad as so many other things that could happen to him. I don’t care about that. I care about my reality, which is this, now, and I hate it.
The first songs I heard on the radio on the first day of the new year were: Everything little thing’s gonna be alright by Bob Marley, Patience by Guns ‘n Roses and Come as you are by Nirvana. Reminders are useful.
Or maybe the lesson is I should grow dreads like Bob, rock some serious braids like Axel or stop washing my hair like Kurt’s grunge look. Maybe it’s all about the hair. It so often is.
I have a lot more random or tangential or paranoid thoughts since having a baby. I recently stopped leaving my glasses by the bathroom sink overnight, opting instead to lay them on my nightstand in case I need to see to rescue my baby during the night. Quick access to the glasses may be key.
He’s snoring in our room, and it’s so cute. But jeez, keep it down, baby! I need to sleep, too!
Spinning him around makes him squeal with delight, but man, I get dizzy so quickly. Is that an age thing?
And I think how horrible that we let his 16-month birthday pass us right by with no notice, no fanfare. Forgot even. We start by counting hours, then days, weeks, months and then years. And any minute now, he’ll be 5.
Come as you are.
Every little thing’s gonna be alright.
Tonight, I searched online. Baby eats toilet paper. Because, apparently, he does. Not handfuls of it. But when the bathroom door is open, he just marches (yes, walking!!) himself right in, goes straight for the toilet paper roll, pulls off a smidge and starts munching.
He’s not so keen on magazine paper or notepads. He’s tasted them in his time, but these days, TP is his paper of choice.
The online answers I found ranged from the witty (because they like it) to the downright accusatory (it’s obviously OCD; get a psychological evaluation) and then back to the hysterical inducing (toilet paper has lead; get your baby to the doctor immediately!!)
Should I panic? Run to a psychologist? Get him a spoon? Aaah!
Perhaps the more important question to ask here is, why don’t people stop their babies from eating TP? At least I do that.
He spots a ray of sunshine from across the room and rushes to it, excited about the prospect of this new toy he hasn’t seen before. When he gets to it, he doesn’t seem to mind that he can’t grab it. He finds a way to play with it anyway. He squeals and bangs his hands against the wall where the sun makes circles by streaming through the holes on the back of the chair. Someone tries to distract him with a truck, but he’s not ready yet to leave the sun.
At nearly 13 months old, my son is still in the phase where playing with our fingers and toes is great fun. I wiggle my toes, and he grabs at them, sometimes giggling. He’s delicious. My little sunshine, and I never tire of watching him.
I’m actively working to be as PRESENT as I can with him every day. I no longer multitask while we nurse. I stop, rest, caress his head and watch him. He’s not really a big snuggler, so those are my opportunities each day. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be nursing, and he’ll soon be out of this phase and into the next — walking is imminent. I’m making a conscious effort to enjoy and appreciate what we have together now. I hope I can keep it up.
I was out for a walk in the neighborhood with my 9 month old the other day, and we passed a little boy and his dad in their driveway. The dad was sitting on his bike; he was ready to go. The boy was standing there, in his bike helmet, looking at his bike that was stuck in the shrubbery aside the house.
Now, I’m a terrible judge of age in random children. I always think they are older than they are. I don’t know – are kids taller these days? Maybe I’m shrinking. Perhaps he was 4 or 5. He had a young voice.
Anyway, this cute towhead said something to the effect of, “Daddy, I rode my bike into the bushes.” Dad replied: “Why did you do that? That wasn’t very smart.”
I didn’t judge. I empathized. Because jeez louise, how HARD it must be to say the right thing to your child EVERY TIME they do something wrong or misguided or just make a silly mistake. How IMPOSSIBLE it must be to have endless patience and all the right things to say.
Maybe I misjudged. The dad could be a total douche and that is just one of the many douchy, negative things he says to his son every day. Maybe. But I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt. I mean, he was taking his son out for a bike ride on a beautiful day. Maybe he just screwed up.
Point is, I know for sure that I will be constantly fighting my mouth to not say demeaning, unsupportive things like that. Fingers crossed, I will do OK. And my kid won’t need too much therapy to deal with his wacky childhood.