My Biggest Worry

I worry about my kid sometimes.

Now, being the terrible mom that I am, I'm not worried about vaccines, or organic vs. regular food, or diaper rash or anything normal like that. Frankly, none of that ever crosses my mind. We vaccinate. We buy food that he will eat, regardless of whether or not it's 'organic'. And diaper rash is usually cured by diaper cream. No, my worries are much greater.

I'm worried that my kid will be a jock.

Now, I am a self-proclaimed nerd. And Patrick is proud of the fact that he was the nerd standard in middle school. We're both very happy and comfortable with our identity. He is that guy who will ramble for weeks about the differences between various electrical components found in your average remote. I'm that girl who will correct your grammar. Repeatedly. We're both comfortable with our insane levels of nerd-ity.

And our son can already 'dribble' a miniature soccer ball.* And he throws a ball with far more accuracy than a 13 month old should be able to. Truth be told, he throws a ball with far more accuracy than I can muster. And he picks up dance steps just by watching them.

So, needless to say, I was starting to worry. And then, this morning, my faith was restored.

This morning, after putting the DVD's back on the shelf for the third time, I decided I needed a distraction for Miles. Blocks didn't work. Neither did books. Or tickles. Or even the drum. So, I consulted the Bad Mommy handbook, and popped in a movie.

I let him choose from the pile that he had left on the floor. He picked up Star Trek. I was thrilled. Then, he sat there, enthralled, throughout the entire thing. And at the end, after Spock said, "to boldly go where no one has gone before," and the Enterprise leaped into warp? My son, who can throw and kick a ball, and seems to have more coordination than I ever will? He waved, and said, "Bye-bye!"

And then danced through the credits.

I love my kid.

*I only know that term because my older sister loved soccer and played all through high school.

:P

Miles has discovered a fun new toy.

What's more, he's discovered that everyone has one.

He loves to crawl up in my lap and stick his tongue out at me. Of course, that's my cue to stick my tongue back out at him. We go back and forth, sticking out our tongues at one another until, finally, I decide to mess with my kid.

So, I roll my tongue. And he just stares. And tries to copy it.

And for twenty minutes, we laugh like idiots over our wonderful tongues. And I wouldn't trade it for the world.

Lactose-Free

I'm sure you all remember my rant regarding the last doctor visit, no? If not, please refresh your memory here, because there's nothing like crazy to start your day. :)

After much agonizing and raving like a lunatic to anyone who would listen, I finally pulled myself together, thought it through, and decided on a plan of action. Starting this past Monday, we have put Miles on a strictly lactose-free diet. I am recording every item of food that goes into his mouth, along with his sleep patterns, behavior, and of course . . . diaper contents.

I won't go into the disgusting details, but suffice it to say that my biggest concern is that I can count on one hand the number of . . . solid stinky diapers Miles has had in his entire life. For thirteen months, now, every dirty diaper has been . . . loose, to put it mildly. I could explain it better,* but I think you get the idea.

So, I'm keeping a record. And I'm finding that it keeps me very cognizant of what I am allowing him to consume.

For instance, I realized on Monday evening that every single meal and snack included a generous helping of fruit. Not an altogether terrible thing, granted, but it showed me that he got far more fruit than he did vegetables, proteins, or even grains - his favorite food group, by far. Which meant that I was more careful about balancing his meals today. Now, that's not to say that I went crazy and changed his diet entirely - that would bias the data I am taking regarding his reactions to dairy. But I did think through every decision I made about his food intake yesterday, something I haven't done in months.**

And regardless of what this little study finds, it is, at the very least, encouraging me to think a bit more about what I feed my kid. So, even if I find that my instincts are wrong, and he really doesn't have an issue with dairy, I will still have learned something that will help me to better care for my son. Because, at the end of the day, that's the best I can do.

For the record, though, 48 hours into the study, and things have already solidified, if you get my meaning. I can't say this is necessarily a permanent result, but . . .

Perhaps my motherly instincts weren't so far off after all . . . :)

*In fact, I've found I have quite the knack for describing the contents of Miles' diapers, much to Patrick's chagrin . . .

**I know, I know, I'm a Bad Mommy. Why are you surprised?

Mothering a Boy

Here's a little piece of trivia for all of you: I never expected to have a son.

I know, that sounds strange. Especially since I always wanted one. Growing up, my ideal family included a son and a daughter, in that order. And yet, until I found out I was having one, I didn't realize that I had never really expected to have one. I had, somehow, assumed I would only have girls. Maybe because that's the family I grew up in, or maybe it's something deeply psychological.

I have found, though, that I was made to be the mother of a son. I love rolling around on the floor with him, being his jungle gym. I love that he's so rough and tumble, that he can take a spill and keep running, just as hard.

Like this weekend. He was running downhill and tripped, scraping his head along the blacktop. As people around us began to panic over the possibility of a head injury, Patrick calmly picked him up, and we comforted him. A smidge of panic fluttered in my belly, but I kept it at bay while I made the basic examinations. He was still alert. A small bump was forming, pushing outward under the scrape. He was screaming, from a mixture of pain and fright, no doubt, but otherwise, his demeanor hadn't changed from a few minutes before. From somewhere, an EMT came running up, and did the same checks, and gave him a clean bill of health. Calmly, I asked what to watch for, just in case. He told me, and I locked it away in my memory, certain, somehow, that it would be unnecessary this time.

And it was. Five minutes later, he was eating chicken and smiling, a new band-aid proudly displayed on his forehead. And five minutes after that, he was fighting to run down that same hill a second time, completely undaunted by the experience.

And me, I'm doing okay, too. Because I am the mother of a son, and I know that these things happen. And will happen again. And he will be okay.

Though, he does look pretty hardcore with his new bruises, no?

New Skills

Miles amazes me, every day, in a myriad of new ways.

Sure, he knows how to play pat-a-cake. And how to go up and down stairs. And about a dozen different signs. And give hugs, and blow kisses. He knows all sorts of amazing things. And now, we can add a new skill to his repertoire: the high five!

This weekend, Bethany taught him to high five. Of course, she taught him by tickling him after each one, so every time he high fives you, he immediately clutches his arms to his sides to protect himself from tickles. It's kinda adorable, I won't lie. :)

In other news, he's also learned how to throw things off the second story from behind the railing. . .

Ah, well. Some milestones you celebrate. Others you just sigh, shake your head, and try to move past. :)

Meet Daphne

I have a new friend that I think you all need to meet. World, meet Daphne...

Yes, Daphne, my brand-new (refurbished) Notebook computer. Yep. This thing is the size, shape, and weight of a decent hardback book, with all the functionality of a basic laptop.*

Daphne is the newest member of our computer family. Way back when Patrick was naming his desktop computer**, he chose the name Aggamemnon, mainly because he liked the sound of it. Then, a few years later, he acquired a laptop. He chose to name it "Odysseus," to go with the theme. My laptop was then dubbed "Penelope," because in The Odyssey, Penelope is Odysseus' wife. Patrick's smart phone became "Telemachas," their son. My smart phone became "Calypso," the nymph who detained Odysseus for several years.***

Daphne, a sister nymph, just seemed like an appropriate name for my little roving distraction.

Not that you cared to know all of that, but it's my blog, so I'll say whatever I want, and you'll keep reading on the off chance that a picture of Miles shows up.

Like this:

Yes, it's a really outdated picture, but you don't care, do you? You're just gushing over the cuteness, aren't you?

Tune in tomorrow, when I may actually write about Miles for a change. Or not. Now that I have reliable access to a computer for a change, I can write as often as I wish, on any topic that suits my fancy.

But, you'll keep coming back, hoping for another random picture of Miles. :)

*Minus the CD drive, but really, who uses that anymore?

**Yes, we name our computers. Who doesn't?

***I can totally see that happening with my phone.

Drowning

I kinda feel that way today. Utterly overwhelmed.

We successfully moved out of our old apartment today. Two days late. Blargh. Now, all that's left is the daunting pile of boxes to unpack. Which is what I should be doing now, rather than whining . . .

But, on top of that, Miles is teething. If my motherly instincts are correct, he has not one, but two MOLARS coming in. Cue low-grade fever, high-grade snot/slobber mixture oozing out of his face, and massive doses of Cranky Baby, with a side of "Please don't put me down."

And I have work tomorrow. Which, of course, just compounds every other problem that boils down to Not Enough Time.

The one bright spot in my day was getting my brand-new (refurbished) Notebook computer. It's tiny, and cute, and perfect for browsing the internet just about anywhere. Except here, because the company still hasn't gotten around to hooking it up. Ahh, irony.

I think it's time for bed. Maybe tomorrow will find me with my head above water again. . .

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