fits & starts

Superman

H. is a lightweight, but he's all muscle. When we met him at 5 and a half months old, he was jumping. His foster mother remarked how strong he was. And he still is. He may be lean (I don't think he's an ounce over 21 pounds) but don't let that fool you. The kid has superhuman strength. And the smarts to match.

And so why did it surprise me, then, when I woke this morning to horrible, can't-catch-my-breath crying  that I would run into his room only to find him...on the floor. Yes, that's right folks, he climbed out of his crib and landed with a THUD. It's at moments like those that your parenting skills are tested: do I swoop down and lift him up and ply him with kisses to comfort his shaking body...or do I just stand there and marvel at how strong and ingenious he is to figure a way out of his torture chamber? Okay, I went with door number one and hugged him and kissed him until he stopped crying. Fifteen minutes later.

So now. What to do? I guess we'll wait and see if it happens again and if so, we might have to buy one of those tent thingys. Or move straight to the toddler bed. I just don't see him staying in it after I leave the room. I'll take any advice from the Beentheredonethats. Until then, I'll just hope that Bam Bam stays put.

Is it weird...

that H laughs when he tickles his own feet?

The Age of Innocents

At H's 15 month check-up our pediatrician heard a murmur. No big whoop, I thought. Until she said, "It's probably nothing, but I'd like you to have it checked out by a specialist."

In the weeks that led up to our appointment, I continued to mostly think it wasn't a big whoop because I know it's common and she probably just wanted to have us check it to be sure. And in the interest of not creating any suspense, I can say post-appointment that it's totally not, um, a big whoop.

H and I went to check out his heart the other day, only he didn't know it. What he thought we were doing was going to play with a radio that was--for some reason--at his level, steal toys from other babies' strollers, and play with the cord to a portable heater. (NOT ON, people, NOT ON. I only let him play with cords of things that are not on.)

When it was finally--after a good hour--our turn, the pediatric cardiologist came out to get us. He listened to the boy's heart. "Yep, he has a murmur," he said. Were there any health problems? Anything he has trouble doing? Anything that I'd seen that troubled me about him? Any history of heart problems in the family?

No. No. No. And I don't know--he's adopted.

"Of course," said the doctor. "Let's have a look at his heart."

And that was when it finally occurred to me that something could be wrong. I put my little boy down on the table, distracted him with a singing-dancing Elmo, and watched as the doctor got his chest ready for an EKG. It was only then that I thought, What if he sees something he's not supposed to see? What then?

On the sonogram machine, I saw an all-too-familiar image: insides lit up in a static-y white light. The doctor showed me what I was looking at: arteries, atria, valves, ventricles, chambers, my son's heart. It was beating fast and loud, like an amplified windshield wiper working overtime.

All those years of ultrasounds, searching for a heartbeat, came rushing back. The heartbeat they show you when the fetus is only a few weeks old is just this tiny blinking thing. An echo of a dot. It's miraculous because it's beating inside you but visually, it's not much to look at. But the heartbeat of a 15 month old is amazing. The hugeness, the detail, the black and white beauty of it. The fact that it's not going to slow down or vanish or merely end up a picture on your refrigerator that you finally take down when you've accepted that it's really gone.   It was a great moment for me just to be able to look--shamelessly and with all the gratitude in the world--at H's heart as it did its work.

In the end, as I promised, there was nothing wrong--no abnormalities or defects. It's called an Innocent Murmur and chances are it will disappear one day. It's common in infants and children and won't restrict him in any way. We're all clear. On the way back from the doctor, I bought H a balloon because he loves them. It was really the least I could do for him after he had shown me his perfect heart.

Son of Maclaren

I was kidding about Shit-Me-Not Elmo. We aren't really going to get it. I never, EVER want to see that red freak's nethers. But we did get this! To those of you who accuse me of being totally materialistic because I needed to get the Maclaren, I say this: guilty as charged. But what was I supposed to do? Have my son push around a no-name brand stroller? To quote Valerie Cherish, "I don't even need to see that."

I don't know how common a phenomenon it is in non-urban parts of the country, but here in NYC everybody and their little sister has a doll stroller that they bring to the park to push around. Lately our guy has been hijacking innocent toddlers' strollers, so I knew it wouldn't be long before we'd have to get one of our own. (There are only two possible outcomes when your child "borrows" someone else's toy in the park: the kid shares or your kid gets knocked to the ground by a 25-pounder named Hamish. Seriously.)

This afternoon we headed over to our favorite toy store and there I saw it: the Mini-Cooper of baby doll strollers. We took it out for a test drive at the park and H. pushed it around for a total of 1.5 minutes (cumulative), flipped it over and spun the wheels for 2 minutes, and then abandoned it in favor of trying to climb up the slide as some three year old girl stalked him and shouted, "Fireworks! Fireworks!" in his face.

Just one more thing, and then I am off to watch this movie. If you click on the link to the baby doll stroller again, please people, read the fine print! Neither the doll nor the child are included. Come on now--what did you expect for $19.99?

Ch-ch-ch-cha-a-nges

Oh boy. He really knows how to mix things up a bit, that H. Six days shy of turning one, he's decided to go ahead and drop that second nap, which quite frankly, has remained elusive the last month or so anyway. He's also decided that he likes to get up earlier, and then nap later, because hey--he's almost one. You can't fence him in. He has two molars coming in, so he's been waking in presumed agony in the middle of the night, and the Mr. and I are just getting more and more tired and cranky. But at least we don't have four-pronged chiclets drumming their way through our gums.

We are also at that point in babyhood with H. where even though he's still technically a baby, he's supposed to know certain things. Like, it's not okay to bite Mommy. Or pinch her. Or that when you ask, "How big is Baby H.?" he's supposed to raise his arms up as if to say SO BIG...and NOT lay his head down and shut his eyes. Or when you ask, "What does the sheep say?" one or both of you is supposed to say "Baaaaaaa-aaa--aaa." Instead one or both of you ends up crying.

When he turns 1, we'll stop the formula and put him on breast milk. Just kidding. He'll be switching to whole milk and presumably have less bottles. And eventually but also presumably stop the bottles and switch to a cup. But then I'll lose moments like the one that happened today, where the not-napping boy-baby gulped down a whole bottle, pushed it away from his mouth and began to snore. He fell asleep there on my chest, just as he did when he was 6 months old. I'm going to miss that. I mean, it's just not the same with a sippy cup.

But what we lose in the passage from babydom, I guess we gain in their capacity to understand as a toddler. After he pinched me for the umpteenth time today, and I said in my best SuperNanny voice, "Do not do that. That hurts Mommy and you may not do that anymore. It's not asseptible!" he did a miraculous thing. He wrapped his arms tightly around my neck and put his head down on my shoulder as if to say, "I'm sorry." He's in a kind of limbo. Old enough to understand, but still too young to resist the impulse. And I would be lying if I said that I didn't secretly wish that he'd pinch me again if only to get the make-up hug afterwards.

And then there's this--probably the best example of the in-between we're straddling. The place where he knows something more is expected of him and yet he's not quite sure how to do it. Every morning we say goodbye to Mr. Fits when he leaves for work. I hold H. and give his daddy a kiss. We say See you later Daddy. Daddy asks for a kiss from H. and never gets one. But this morning, I was holding H. and kissed Mr. Fits goodbye. H. decided he wanted a piece of that. So when Daddy asked for his kiss, H. lunged at him with an open mouth. Then I asked for a kiss. Same thing. Bright red, slippery open mouth coming at me. And we stood there like that, laughing at how he kissed but also so overjoyed that he knew how to return our love in a way we could see. I suppose that no matter how old he gets or how many new things he learns, that's all we'll ever really want from him.

Mullet No More

Took H. for his first haircut last week and rid my poor boy of his mullet. Mr. Fits wanted to go even shorter than what we ended up with, but I couldn't bear to part with all that sweet, sweet baby hair. So we compromised.

And now, he looks like a big boy. I keep saying to anyone who will listen that he got a big boy haircut, but I really don't think anyone cares. Yep, I'm a mom alright.

The other day he and I went to have a little chat with the manager at the restaurant where we are doing his birthday party. In Korea, the first birthday is a pretty big deal. We'll be having the traditional Tol ceremony, whereby our boy chooses his fate in life. Let's hope he doesn't choose veterinarian because apparently certain animal noises make him cry. H. will wear a han bok given to him by his foster mother. When I 'm not feeling so lazy, I'll take a picture of it and post it. I think it's going to look ridiculously large on him, but he'll wear it for at least the deciding his fate part of things. I've ordered an American cake and obscene amounts of Korean rice cakes which are also a traditional part of the Tol. I can only hope our guests wear clothes with deep pockets.

That we have an almost one year old is nothing short of miraculous to me. You go through the adoption process half-believing that someone is actually going to entrust to you a child, and then once that person actually comes to you--a living, breathing, cooing, blinking baby--you can't believe your good luck. Everything I imagined about being a parent to this boy during the wait has been surpassed tenfold. When I am exhausted, when I have changed 10 diapers, when I have read Elmo Pops In! for the 200th time that day, when my arms can no longer hold the wriggling baby who cannot stay still, when I can't seem to get the food into the mouth and make it stay there, when I can't figure out what's upsetting him or making him cry, when he doesn't nap, when he wakes early craving attention, and even when it all seems so hard, it is never lost on me how lucky I am.

Okay, maybe when he wakes early. No one should get up earlier than the birds. No one.

CSI: Nursery, etc.

Prelude to a crime scene: 10 and a half month old willful boy goes down for a nap. That he doesn't want to take. Boy, ever working on his personality, screams at the top of his lungs to let me know he's not on board with the plan. He's not crying. He's exercising his pipes. That's the nicest way I know how to put it.

Yells persist. For several minutes. Yells of fury. Indeed, our boy has a temper.

And then. All is quiet. Not a peep.

Time passes. Because this is an afternoon nap, I must wake him so that we can begin the nightly ritual of play, feeding, winding down, getting ready for bed and finally, bed again.

Unwittingly, I've entered a crime scene.

Victims: Fluffles the Lamb, lil' duckie, the snoring bear. One pacifier. Everyone has been flung from the crib except the boing-boing bunny. He is laying there, next to sleeping baby, silent and in shock. Not a boing-boing to be heard.

Evidence: I submit these photos, taken while the perp still slept.

******

In other news, we bought a few bouncy balls yesterday to spice up playtime. H. loves them. He chases them to the far corners of the apartment. You know who else loves them? The beagle. Before you say, "Of course he loves them! He's a dog!", let me clarify. Jackson is the anti-dog. He could care less about balls. (Including the pair he used to own. Thanks, I'll be here all night.) We take him to the dog run, throw a ball and he runs after our hands.

So now that the baby has a couple of balls to play with, the J-man all of a sudden wants to bend it like Beckham.

*****

H., who used to love being in his stroller, now...not so much. He screams at the top of his well-oiled, oft-used lungs. People turn around. I think what he's trying to say is: It is just. So. Frustrating. To be in. THIS. STOOPID. STROLLER!!! Be that as it may, it's gotten so loud that I've already caved and done the one thing I swore I would never do: ply him with treats to make him stop. Yep, that's right. I stuff his mouth with Cheerios just so he doesn't scream. It's so loud, birds flee from trees, dogs cower and grown men cry.

So anyway, we were on line for burritos today and the man ahead of us asked to see what some dish looked like. The woman behind the counter raised the lid the exact time my son decided to unleash one of his blood curdling screams. Get this--I heard the man say that he was scared because he thought the sound was coming from the pot. And then he said it twice more. OKAY DUDE! I GET IT! MY KID SCARED YOU! GROW UP!

Disclaimer: Portions of this post may have been exaggerated to prove my point, whatever that is. Except the part about the dog who now loves balls not having any. That's true. And the guy at the burrito place being scared. No balls either.

HiDad HiDa Dad Dadda Dad HiDad Dad Dad Hi HiDad Oooh Ooooooooooh Oooh Oooh Oooooooh OOOh HiDad

All the words H. knows how to say and says ALL DAY LONG. Even when HiDad is not around.

In other news, I asked him if he wanted to read a book and he smiled and looked over where his books are.  I don't want to speak prematurely, but I'm just going to throw this out there: GENIUS.

His hair is getting longer. Please mullet, stay away. It's too soon to bring a scissor (scissors?) near his beautiful, perfect head. But the wannabe mullet leaves me no choice.

He stands. He's proud of his standing. He's much better at crawling than standing, but not for long.

He likes to eat: cinnamon raisin toast, grilled cheese, avocado, creamy stuff that comes from jars, YoBaby in any flavor, rice cereal and baby oatmeal, peas, string beans, minestrone soup, chicken, vegetarian split pea soup, pizza crusts and much much more. Still...he doesn't have the hugest appetite in the world. We pace ourselves.

Teeth. Three of them. He grinds them together. And I thought incessantly scratching his fingernails on the wall was bad. And he bit me twice today. He doesn't know that this hurts me. But something about it is fun for him. There are two more teeth on the way--they've already peeked through. This may explain last week's sleep fiasco.

He tries to eat my nose. There's no explanation for that.

At diaper changing time, he pulls down everything that's on the tall end of his changing table. And I mean everything. Lotion, wipes, white noise machine, CD player. He stands up on the table and swats it all away.

At naptime, if he's feeling especially betrayed by the imposed boredom, he pushes his crib away from the wall and throws everything out of it. Pacifier, Fluffles the Lamb, the snoring bear, the boing-boing bunny, his socks. Before falling asleep.

In swim class, he holds on tight and puts his head in the crook of my neck for 45 minutes straight. This is why we keep going back.

In music class he--oh, that's right, he slept through music class this week.

On Wednesday, we walked from our apartment in Brooklyn over the bridge and to South Street Seaport. I bored him with stories of how his mom used to go there in high school to make out with her boyfriend. And then we shared a frozen yogurt. He liked it. After I fed him each bite, he smiled and said, "HiDad."

What does the horsey say?

WAIT! Don't answer that! Unless you want to make a sweet 9 month old baby bawl his eyes out.

We can do the dog, kitty, cow, duckie, birdie, and piggy. Hell, we can even do the lion. But we cannot, under any circumstances, EVER AGAIN, do the horsey. Because if you're doing it just to see if he cries--WHICH HE WILL--it will be up to you to make it stop.

Pat Kiernan: The Next Best Thing to Baby Einstein

Nothing brings a smile to the baby's face quite the way Pat Kiernan of NY1 does. What does he have that Elmo doesn't? Someone explain.