We're back

Do you know how easy it is to travel without a small child? I had no idea how easy it was until this weekend. Wow. I can't believe I ever complained about travel when I was childless. What on earth was there to complain about? Having a whole seat to myself? Having two hands to eat or drink with? Having too much trouble deciding which fluffy magazine to read?

As you all know by now, I hadn't gone anywhere without William in tow since he was born. That didn't keep me grounded, though. I think he and I took at least seven long flights during his first year or so of life.

So I've flown back and forth across the country with an array of diaper bags, overstuffed with snacks, treats, extra diapers and clothes, toys, books, and God knows what else. I've teetered along through miles of concourses, balancing car seats and strollers and luggage and my purse and oh yes, the baby. I've held a squirmy baby with one hand while removing my shoes and putting all my paraphernalia through the x-ray machine at the airport with the other hand, and I've changed a baby on a mat balanced precariously on the toilet lid in an airplane bathroom while the airplane shuddered through unexpected turbulence. I've collapsed a stroller while also holding said baby and trying not to get knocked over by a swarm of impatient fellow fliers bumping past me as they tried to get onto the plane. I've wrestled a huge car seat into a tiny little airplane seat while trying not to hold everyone else up as they entered the plane. And yes, I've sobbed to a gate attendant when she delivered the bad news that I was stranded in Dallas overnight with my fourteen-month-old and no luggage.

In short, I know what it's like to fly with a baby. I know all too well. And can I just say how glorious it was to fly to Houston and back with my husband and NOT have to deal with any of those scenarios?

I had one little tiny carryon bag, filled with three books (all mine!), a bag of Craisins, my cell phone charger and my camera. We checked one suitcase, filled with adult clothes and toiletries. David carried on his laptop. There were no sippy cups, no jars of baby oatmeal, no plastic key rings, no copies of "The Very Hungry Caterpillar," no diapers, no binkies, nada. I read Jhumpa Lahiri's new book and drank a Diet Coke on the plane. I even...gasp!...took a short nap! Neither of us could get over how easy the trip was going. I kept wondering what I'd forgotten.

At the hotel, David went off to rehearse with the other Tigertones, while I found a vacant lounge chair by the side of the pool. I read my book and The New York Times and thought about how lazy I was. Then I met up with David and we split a mai tai by the side of the pool. Later, of course, we went to the wedding and reception. This morning, I slept late. Frankly, that alone made the trip worthwhile. Then we had brunch with the bride and groom--eggs benedict for the good doctor and pancakes for me, which is just about the perfect meal for both of us--and then we departed for the airport.

Yes, we called home a few times. No, William didn't seem to be missing us in the least. He was too busy having fun soaking up all the attention of his doting grandparents. Which left David and me free to not feel guilty about leaving him behind while we sipped champagne after the ceremony or ate steak and wedding cake at the reception. (I did talk about him a lot, though.)

In fact, here we are after five hours of eating and drinking and generally making merry:





































We had such a nice time, although it went by far too quickly. But I have to admit: I was eager to see William again. When we pulled up to the house, Diane was holding him in her arms out in the front yard, and he broke into a huge grin when he saw us. And so did I.

And I've decided that I'm still not going to fly anywhere with him for a long time. Not until he's at least old enough to carry all his own stuff.

Wrapping up the last minute details

Well, we leave early early early tomorrow morning. William's in bed, Diane's in the guest room, and David and I are putting the last few items in our suitcases. David just printed the boarding passes, and I am making sure I have my cell phone charger and camera packed in my carry-on bag. We showed Diane where all of William's food is, how to give him a dose of Flovent, and where his clothes are. She's here often enough that she's pretty familiar with most of that stuff anyway. I think we've done just about everything now but load the car.

Wish me luck! This is (will be) a big watershed moment in my life as a parent!

Coupla quick pictures from the other day of William wearing his snazzy new hat from Leland:

Fear of flying

On Saturday morning, David and I are leaving on a jet plane...don't know when we'll be back again. Okay, yes, we do know. We're flying to Houston for a wedding on Saturday night, then turning around and flying home on Sunday.

I am nervous.

First of all, I am a terrible flyer. I hate doing it. It was torture, living in California for so many years and always having to board a plane to see my family or old friends. "White-knuckle flier" barely comes close to describing me when the plane is taking off. It's amazing I still have skin on my fingers, really.

Anyway, the second and more important reason that I'm nervous is...this will be my first overnight trip away from William. As in ever. I've never spent an entire night away from him. Never. Not since I gave birth to him.

Now, I'm okay with leaving him with his grandmother for a night. They get along like the proverbial house afire, and frankly, she probably takes much better care of him than I do. No, he'll be fine. But I'm all freaked out that our plane is going to crash, and my only son, my sweet little boy, will be an orphan and he'll grow up to not even remember his mama. He'll never remember the person who called him "Butterbean" or spent all those many, many hours over the past two years, reading books to him or playing choo-choos or soothing him back to sleep. And that's when I get all weepy. I'm getting all weepy right now, just thinking about it.

Yes, I realize that statistically flying is safer than driving. Yes, I know that everything will probably be okay. But everyone knows that I practically have a Ph.D. in worrying (it goes along nicely with my Ph.D. in Phillips Head Screwdriver usage). I always envision the worst case scenario. Always.

Everything's going to be just fine, right? Right?

Adventures at Storytime

Oh man.

I had one of those moments this morning. One of those moments when I think, with utter conviction, that I am never going to take my child out in public again.

Yes, we went to storytime again today. What is it with our downtown library? Does it just attract really docile children, or do the parents self-select? Anyway, once again, I had the wild man in the room.

It wasn't too terrible when he flung a fistful of graham crackers around the room, thus provoking looks of alarm from nearby mothers. And at least he didn't do anything bad when the little girl next to us kept stealing his hat from the top of our diaper bag. And he smiled nicely and said "hi!" to the little new-walker who kept toddling over to look at us during the songs and stories.

But oh, when it was time to go sit on the edge of the stage, he managed to push the much-smaller, new-walking toddler next to him. The little guy staggered, and of course since it was up front, EVERYONE SAW. And the storytime lady even picked the little fellow up. And his mom gasped and ran up there. William darted back toward me, but what could I do? I scolded him and told him not to do that anymore, and I apologized to the mother, who said it was okay and that her son hadn't even fallen down.

But still! What can I do? I can't have a kid who pushes other kids like that. I always correct him when he does that sort of thing, but he still does it. Not all the time but he still does it. I'm almost to the point where I'd rather only take him around much older children because he can take care of himself--and the other kids can certainly take care of themselves. I don't have to worry about him pushing a four-year-old down and possibly hurting him. If an older kid pushes him down, he usually gets right back up and keeps going, no problem. And at least I can comfort him if he's hurt, which he usually isn't, and not have to worry about all the other parents glaring at me and my child.

The thing is, William is two. I think he's a pretty typical two-year-old. He shares...sometimes. He gets territorial...sometimes. He gets grouchy or restless...sometimes. Sometimes he hugs and kisses other kids, and other times, he shoves them. The rational part of me knows that this is all a learning process. He's learning how to behave around other children, and all I can reasonably do is expose him to other children and correct any misbehavior. And that there will be failures and triumphs, both.

But it's easy to get discouraged when it seems like all the other kids in the room are these docile little kids who are content to sit in Mama's lap or right next to her and never do anything that would warrant a correction at all. Aren't there other rambunctious two-year-old boys out there? Do I need to start frequenting monster truck ralleys or something instead of storytime?

And here's another thing: William genuinely likes storytime. He responds well. He loves the song about rainbows, and he loves the puppets. He gets a huge kick out of watching the storytime guy juggle, and he even pays attention to the books at least half the time. It's not fair to keep him away from something like that, where he seems to be both actively learning and enjoying himself. I just need to find some way to manage him better.

Halloween in April

William is currently, weirdly, obsessed with Halloween. I tried to explain that Halloween only comes once a year, and we have a long time and lots of other stuff to do before it comes around again. But he's not convinced. It's not like he understands months of the year yet, so it's kind of a tough argument to make.

So lately he's been talking about Halloween almost all the time. And we've been reading as many Halloween books as William can get his hands on: "Corduroy's Trick or Treat," "Who Said Boo?" and so on. At the downtown library the other day, I told him he could pick any book to check out, and what does he pick but some random book called "Trick or Treat on Milton Street." Too bad that Richard Scarry never did a Halloween book. William would be in heaven.

I have no idea why he suddenly has gotten hooked on Halloween again! I guess that's just another item for the "Toddlers are Weird" file.

Happy Birthday, William! (A day late)

On my birthday each year when I was a little girl, my mom would always say the same thing. "(X) years ago today, I was in the hospital, waiting for you to be born..." she'd start. And I'd hear about the hot July night when I made my entrance into the world.

Oh, heck, she still does it, and I'm 33 years old! But I still love it. It's warm and familiar and comforting. It makes me feel loved to hear my mama tell me that story every year on my birthday.

And now I'm doing it for William. Yesterday morning when I went into his room to get him out of his crib, I kissed him and said, "Two years ago this morning, I was holding you in my arms for the first time, and you were brand new and tiny, with these big blue eyes and these tiny perfect little fingernails..."

William's so different now from that tiny little baby that it's hard to believe he's the same person. The quick temper's the same, and the blue eyes, of course, but not much else. He's even different than he was a year ago, on his first birthday.

April 22, 2006: William David Wyckoff is born at 6:35 a.m. at the Robert E. Bush Naval Medical Center in Twentynine Palms, California.



















April 22, 2007: William David Wyckoff cheers on the Los Angeles Angels at Angels Stadium in Anaheim, CA:

















April 22, 2008: William David Wyckoff eats yet another cupcake with strawberry ice cream as his mom, dad, Dee Dee, Grandaddy Aaron and Uncle Mark look on:




















He's had a busy year. He learned to walk, grew a mouthful of teeth, moved to Tennessee, started "school," started Kindermusik, met lots of new friends, learned to count, learned the ABC song, and learned to really, really talk. Sometimes I look at him and I think, "I just never imagined, when he was a little pink seven pounder lying on my chest in the hospital that morning two years ago, that he'd become this complex little person, running around with his shoes untied and chattering on about doughnuts and choo choo trains." It's just amazing. I feel like I can't even do the feeling justice with my words.

Sometimes I feel this weird dichotomy. I fret that time passes too fast, and he's growing up before I'm ready for him to grow up. Then I think, "Okay, he's only two years old. It's way too early to get nostalgic like this! He hasn't even started kindergarten yet." And I remember those long nights when I was nursing off and on all night long, only to have to get up when the sun rose and nurse off and on all day, too. And I think, "Oh, I don't miss that." Not that I love the temper tantrums of a two-year-old, but it's also nice to have William actually be able to tell me that he would like a banana in addition to his strawberries and yoguht, taaannk yuuuu, mama.

Speaking of eating, here's a photo of William eating, circa early May 2006:




















And here's a photo of him eating yesterday:
















Notice that he got his beloved "cheeburger and fire fries" for his birthday lunch.

It's been a good year, William Bear! Let's have another, okay, sweetie pie?

Birthday party pictures at long last!

William's birthday party pictures! Of course, it seems like half the pictures I took turned out blurry. I may try to clean some up and post them later, if they look better. I'll post any good ones that anyone emails to me, too.

Look how much fun he had!

The party, revisited

You know the old adage about how a really disastrous dress rehearsal bodes well for a mishap-free opening night? You don't? Okay, well, trust me. It's a well-established convention in the theater, just like you should never ever say Macbeth's name aloud in the theater.

Well, I think the same principle must be at work when it comes to birthday parties.

In the week leading up to William's birthday party on Saturday, it started to seem like the party was just not going to happen. Or at least it wasn't going to happen the way we'd hoped.

I got sick one day, William threw up another day, David started to feel sick one evening toward the end of the week, the weather looked ominous for Saturday and so on. William's friend Leland's mom emailed me to say that Leland had gotten sick and she might not make it. My dad had surgery so he and my mom couldn't come up for the party. My father-in-law got sick, and so his appearance was doubtful. The gloom descended on me. I asked myself why I had thought it was a good idea to plan a big party for a two-year-old. I even, yes, moped around about it.

Then there was the whole patio furniture debacle. We were supposed to have a "let the kids run amok in the backyard" party, but the forecasts all were predicting rain. Then, when the weather reports started looking more positive, we realized that we still didn't have any patio furniture. I won't get into the details here, but let's just say that somehow or another, all the efforts to move Mark's old patio furniture from his former roommate's house were thwarted. Mark called me early Saturday morning with despair in his voice. Neither of us could figure out what to do. I half-heartedly proposed that one of us buy a folding table at Target. Mark wondered aloud if we should try to find someone, anyone, who owned a truck. It seemed like the outdoor part of the party was just Not Going to Happen.

Then a miracle happened. His old roommate had managed to borrow a truck after all, and the two moved the furniture over just before noon. They hosed it down, and it was ready to go! Ready for platters of toddler snacks! Hurrah!

Except then it started raining again.

Then I managed to bump into my mother-in-law's car when I was backing my car out of the garage on my last errand to Publix.

And then the balloon that I bought to put on the mailbox--to distinguish our house from the other three houses in our little area that were also having birthday parties--managed to somehow get away from me in the Publix parking lot. And I didn't realize it 'til I got home.

Oh yes, and William refused to nap before the party. He stood in his crib and sang. Loudly. So that we could not miss the fact that no, he was not napping.

And my hair looked frizzy, but well, that's an everyday occurence, and so probably it shouldn't be on the list.

But you know what? Despite all that, despite all the insanity leading up to it, the party turned out just fine. Better than just fine, in fact.

Just a bunch of old and new friends laughing and eating and hanging out. Plenty of food and drinks. Thrilled with all the attention, William was in his element. I got to actually talk to everyone who was there. And weirdly, when everyone finally left to go home, we looked around and realized, "There really isn't that much to clean up." Except for the typical scattering of William's toys, the house was remarkably clean!

As my friend Mary Clare said, there were no melt-downs, no big tantrums, no accidents and no blood spilled. And that, my friends, is the definition of a successful birthday party for a two-year-old.

More pictures to come.

Birthday party preview

Six dozen cupcakes later, thirty-odd people, and one rainy Saturday later, I can say that we successfully lived through William's second birthday party. And I think we all had a terrific time. I know I did. And given that William had a huge smile on his face all afternoon AND got to drink about four juice boxes AND eat a gazillion cherry tomatoes and a cupcake AND hang out with all his peeps...I'd say he was pretty happy, too!















I'll post more pictures later! In the meantime, the photo above should give you a brief taste. An unqualified hearty thanks to all the people who made the party possible, including but not limited to Mark (for making spinach dip), Diane (for everything, especially William wrangling and diaper-changing), Phuong and Eric (for set-up, cupcake-decorating, ice-cream scooping, tear-down and a bunch of other stufff), and Jaclyn (for loaning chairs and a cooler). Y'all are awesome.

Potholder William

William "helped" me make cupcakes for his birthday party tomorrow. Just so you know, he had them on the right hands for every other picture, but this picture was the best so I posted it anyway.



















He is a very good "helper." He also likes to "help" me unload the dishwasher, and he always volunteers to "help" me load the washing machine or transfer laundry to the dryer. If I can just keep him motivated for another 15 years or so, we'll be all set!

SOOOOOO good!

I had to write this down because it was so funny. This happened on Tuesday.

From William, in his carseat, as we approached McDonald's on the right:

"Cheeburger! SOOOOOOOO good!"

Pause.

"Fire fries! SOOOOOOOO good!"

Pause.

"Yoguht! SOOOOOOOOO good!"

I guess he was hoping to convince me to pull over and drive through the drive-thru at McDonald's and get him some treats. And he was using the hard sell.

If Only I'd Known Then...

Do you ever have those moments where you think, "Hmmm. In retrospect, I wouldn't have done that"?

I've had two of those moments recently. Actually I should clarify. I've had two of those moments over and over again recently.

You can learn from my mistakes.

Case No. 1: The Case of Too Many Blankets.

I put a couple of soft Gymboree blankets in William's crib last fall when it started to cool down. I figured he was old enough for us not to worry about him smothering under blankets in his crib anymore. When it got cold, I started covering him up with the frog blanket....and later, on even colder nights, I started adding the dinosaur blanket, too. And the train blanket.

The problem? William came to expect me covering him up with a series of blankets. And now that it's starting to warm up, he doesn't understand why I don't want to weigh him down with three blankets anymore. He objects. Loudly. This makes bedtime...er, complicated.

The alternative is also a problem. If I capitulate and layer the three blankets on top of him, William is happy. Until he kicks them off in his sleep because he's too warm. Then he wakes up and is unhappy about the blanket situation.

For the record, David thought of suggesting that we cover up his stuffed animals with two of the blankets, while telling William that "Mimi and Elmo need blankies, too." Sometimes that works. And sometimes, it doesn't.

Sigh.

Case No. 2: (I feel very Nancy Drew with these subtitles.) The Case of the Wrong Yogurt.

I've been buying six-packs of mini-yogurt containers for months now, and he often eats one for lunch. A couple of weeks ago, we were out of William's yogurt. So I offered him one of his father's full-sized Yoplait yogurts. I figured, they're the same brand, they're probably the exact same yogurt. And since William loves blueberry yogurt, but it's very hard to find in mini-containers, I thought a full-sized blueberry yogurt would be a fun treat for him.

Sure enough, William was delighted. He polished off the whole thing in about five minutes. I was suitably impressed. And I didn't think much of it.

The complications arose...a few days ago when I pulled a nice little strawberry yogurt out of the fridge for William's lunch. He saw the friendly little Dora the Explorer container, which he normally adores, and threw a Donald Duck-style hissy fit. Under no circumstances was he going to eat THAT yogurt! (I'm translating here.) Oh no. He wanted some of Daddy's yogurt. David and I looked at each other and shrugged. David fished out a full-sized container and handed it to William, and the crisis was averted.

The real problem: Today William turned his nose up at his own mini-container of blueberry yogurt and insisted on one of Daddy's yogurts again. Again, he threw a temper tantrum. David even tried to show him that the yogurt in both containers was the exact same kind. No dice. William was not convinced. Finally, after a frustrating struggle, David just gave up and put both open containers of yogurt on the high chair tray. William contentedly ate one bite of yogurt from the big container, then one bite from the small container, then another bite from the big container, and another bite from the small container. And so on, until he was stuffed full of blueberry yogurt. Now I'm all worried that he's only going to want David's yogurt and won't eat all the kid's yogurt that I just bought for him.

All together now, folks: "If only I'd known then..."

Please, please let this be a phase.

A quick trip to the zoo

William at the zoo today:



































If you look just to the right of William's head, you can see the giraffes:




















No, he's not supposed to stand up in the stroller, but sometimes he does anyway. He stood up right as I took the picture here.

The terrible twos

A few weeks ago, I took William over to "play choo-choos" at Davis-Kidd, a local bookstore with a really terrific children's area. As he studiously pushed a set of worn Thomas the Tank Engines along a wooden drawbridge, I eavesdropped on a couple of young mothers sitting in rocking chairs a few feet away.

One was watching her son, who was probably about William's age, play across the train table from William. She also held an infant girl who I supposed was eight or nine months old. The other woman had a son who was probably about a year old, toddling uncertainly around the play area.

The first woman said that her daughter was giving her fits. "My pediatrician said, 'oh, she may only be eight months old, but she's just got the terrible twos really early,'" the woman told her companion, who clucked sympathetically. (Really, I always thought that was just a figure of speech but something about the way this woman clicked her tongue really sounded like a cluck.)

Dubiously, I glanced over at the baby girl. She seemed to be a total angel. She was sitting in her mother's lap, bouncing gently, and smiling around a handful of drool-covered fingers. I didn't see any evidence of terribleness at all. But I know that looks can be oh-so-deceiving. One minute a child can be beautiful, clean and smiling beatifically. The next minute he or she can be a raging red-faced maniac. One minute, you're proud of your angelic child, and the next minute, you want to drop through the floor when all eyes are suddenly on your child, melting down in an ear-splitting puddle because you are out of graham crackers. Oh yes, looks can be deceiving.

William may not be terrible, but he'll be two in exactly two weeks. In the past 24 hours, he's managed to pull down and spill the following all over the floor: an open box of uncooked spaghetti, a half-full bag of taco chips and crumbs and a neatly packed diaper bag full of stuff like tubes of ointment and cups of Goldfish. He's stood up in his high chair countless times, despite my countless admonitions to stop, STOP doing that. He's pried open the pantry doors and plunged his fist into a box of graham crackers even though I had just told him that we were about to eat dinner. He's punched all the buttons on the television and DVD player in the family room. He's rubbed spaghetti, yogurt, applesauce, and apple-cinnamon cereal in his hair. He managed to get blueberry muffin stains on the back of his t-shirt. He wiggled out of my lap and ran out of the storytime room today in about a quarter of a nanosecond, and I had to chase him down, not once but three times. And he's cried indignantly because we put him in pajamas with feet one night and then pajamas without feet the next.

In short, I'm tired. Man, I'm tired. If this is what two is like, I am going to need some vitamins.

Of course, I should say that two also seems to be bringing me a glimpse of the divine, a reminder of the angel who's still there, under the yogurt-covered hair and crumb-covered t-shirt.

William came over to me while I was getting dressed and gently reached out to touch two large freckles on my back. "Boo-boo," he said, softly, with sympathy. "Boo-boo." Then he leaned over and carefully smacked a kiss on each freckle. Then he pulled back and looked around at me and smiled the sweetest smile.

And that, I think, is why I love him so much.

Knock knock

William's Dee Dee recently taught him a joke. So behold, I present William Wyckoff's very first joke.

William: Knock knock.

Me: Who's there? (Sometimes you have to beat him out to say it, because he likes to answer his own joke.)

William, with much glee: Nobody!

And laughter ensues. Yes, it may be a case of "you had to be there," but I swear, it really is funny!

Early to bed

We just put William to bed about 45 minutes earlier than usual because he was just impossible. Strangely, he seemed to understand what we were doing, and he didn't fight it. He didn't even object to the fact that we told him we weren't reading any bedtime stories tonight. He just calmly collected his babies, lay down and stuck his little padded bottom in the air, and waited patiently for his daddy to cover him up with the requisite three blankets.

Weird, huh? He's coming down with a bit of a cold, so he may just be a little more worn out than usual. Plus, it's Friday, and we've had a busy week. We've been out of the house every single day for a good part of the day. And today he had school.

I'm pretty tired myself. I actually managed to walk on our treadmill while William roamed around the upstairs before dinner. He played on the floor in front of me for awhile, then he wandered into my room where I had "Sesame Street" playing on the television, and he went back and forth. I even let him get up on the treadmill when I finished so he could "walk" on the treadmill, too. That's Big Fun, in case you didn't know. Maybe that was just enough exercise to wear him out, too.

Oh God. I hope this doesn't mean he'll be up at dawn tomorrow, though.

* * * * *

A random observation, apropos of nothing: Isn't it funny how the dressing room rules change so radically from lower-end stores to higher-end stores?

I mean, at Target (and I dearly love Target, so this is not a slam), they absolutely won't let me go back into a fitting room if I have more than the limit of six items. They make me leave them behind on a rack. I can't take anything else back there with me. And no one will guarantee that the left-behinds will be there when I get back. If there's an inexpensive clothing rapture while I'm in the narrow red closet, well, too bad for me.

And at the low-end teen store Charlotte Russe, where the clothes are practically disposable, the (bored teenaged) salesgirls have to come unlock the rickety little plastic cubicles where you try on clothes, and you have to proffer your clothes so they can rifle through them, count them and give you a number. Same thing at Express, although at least the clothes aren't as see-through. Sometimes the Gap counts your stuff, sometimes not. Their fitting rooms are nicer, though, and you usually get a bench to put all your stuff on.

On up the scale at Ann Taylor, no one cares if you take three items or 33 items back into their dressing rooms. Sometimes you even get a padded chair in your dressing room, which always has a nice large, sometimes triple-paneled, mirror. And then there's Harolds. The salespeople always offer me a cold drink--bottled water or mini cans of Diet Coke or Coke--and then hang the clothes on the sturdy pegs in the fitting rooms which are cordoned off with heavy velvet curtains. Again, no one cares what you have in your arms or if you're violating some number. The larger fitting room area has what's practically a small well-lit runway with a little box at the end in front of a large mirror, so you can see how terrific (or terrible) you look.

I just think it's interesting because I know the lower-end stores do a lot of what they do in an attempt to reduce shoplifting. But it's not like the higher-end stores don't have that problem, too. We had a couple of suspected shoplifters who frequented a Talbot's where I worked in college, and we always had to watch them like hawks. You'd think the higher-end stores would be more rigid, though, since their merchandise costs more--they have more to lose, I guess.

But you know what? Any dressing room works for me when I don't have William in a stroller with me! Ah, the bliss of not having to wedge myself and him into a three-foot-wide fitting room!

Trader Joe's comes to Nashville at long last!

We're getting a Trader Joe's!

Wooohoooo!

Bring on the dried Rainier cherries, the gourmet cheeses, the frozen lemon-pepper shrimp stirfry. Bring on the blueberry scones, the cinnamon swirl bread, the frozen ravioli. Bring on the Pilgrim Joe products at Thanksgiving, the Ming Joe Asian foods, the Trader Giotto Italian foods.

It's going to open this fall over in Green Hills. And it's not an April Fool.

I am so happy.

I realize that this doesn't have a lot to do with William, but who cares? Actually, it does have a lot to do with William. I'll be able to get a whole host of new healthy snack foods for him...cheaper than places like Whole Foods and Publix.

Can I get another wooohoooo?

The sock problem

We're still having the sock problem.

The sock problem, in case you're curious, is a strange phenomenon that started last week. It goes a little like this:

David puts William's pajamas on him.
David puts socks on William's feet.
David reads stories to William.
David puts William in his crib.
David and I kiss William good night, turn off the lights and shut the door.
Minutes pass.
William wails in abject agony.
I rush into his room, convinced that he has fallen out of his crib or gotten an arm or leg somehow stuck between the slats.
William stands up, sobbing and holding a sock.
He tells me, in rambling toddler language, mixed with tears, that he needs the sock back on or the world as he knows it will end.
I put the sock back on him.
He lies back down, ostensibly to go to sleep.
Minutes, perhaps hours pass.
It happens again.

The only thing that varies is the time at which the wailing commences. Sometimes it's around midnight. Sometimes it's 3:30 a.m. Sometimes it's both. And he almost always removes only one sock: the right sock. For months, months now! we have laughed at the way that William would often take off both socks and either lay them neatly next to him in the crib or drop them over the railing. But never has it seemed to bother him that the socks were no longer on his feet, not even on the chilliest nights. I mean, there were mornings when I would pick him up out of the crib and cringe when I felt the little blocks of ice that were formerly his feet. But somehow, now, a missing sock is a Big Problem.

Now. I know what you're going to say. You're going to say, "You fool. Why do you keep putting the socks on his feet to begin with?

And I will answer, "Because he looks at me with those big wide eyes and says, 'My feet cold. Need socks!' You try to resist that. You stand there and tell your poor little toddler with cold feet that you're not going to put nice warm socks on his little frozen tootsies. Go ahead. I'll stand over here and watch you do it. Go on."

The other obvious solution would be, "Put footy pajamas on the kid." Yes, that would be an easy solution IF we still had enough footy pajamas that fit him. His Christmas jammies strain at the neck, the light blue pair are dirty from two nights ago, and the remaining footy pairs either 1) don't fit anymore or 2) are heavy fleece for really cold winter nights. And it's not so easy to find nice soft footy pajamas in larger sizes. For some reason, the pajama makers assume that bigger kids shun any jammies with feet in them and, oh yes, that they love nice slick polyester, too.

I remember when we were "helping" William learn how to sleep through the night. Do you know how many experts and so-called experts have written books on how to get your baby to sleep at night? Do an Amazon search and let your eyes glaze over. I owned at least three myself, some more useful than others. But to my knowlege, no one has addressed the Toddler Middle-of-the-Night Sock Problem in print yet. Except, er, me now. And I don't even have much of a solution formulated yet, other than to buy new pajamas. I hate it when "throw money at the problem" is the best answer. But if it will buy me a full night's sleep again, well, then here's my checkbook.

Peanut, peanut butter. And jelly!

Yesterday I was talking to a woman at church who has a son William's age. She was trying to convince some of us to take home a batch of banana nut muffins because her son is allergic to peanuts. He had two episodes where he broke out into severe hives and got all swollen up when coming into accidental contact with nuts, and the resulting allergy tests confirmed it. She has to carry around an epi pen in case anything ever happens again.

Yikes. Thank God William doesn't have any food allergies. That we know of, anyway. Do you know how many things have nuts or "traces of nuts" in them? It's insane. We bought a big bag of dried blueberries at Costco, and written in menacing type on the bag of the back was "May contain nuts or nut products." Dried blueberries! It never even would have occurred to me that I'd need to keep a child away from dried blueberries for food-allergy reasons.

We have a no-nuts policy here at our house until William turns three. David says that the literature suggests a link between several autoimmune conditions--eczema and asthma and some food allergies--so it's better to just be proactive about it and limit his diet until then. And William has mild asthma and mild eczema, so the possibility of also having a food allergy is very real. But neither of us have any family history of food allergies, including tree nut allergies, and we've both speculated that William has come into contact with or accidentally eaten nuts in the past anyway. So at this point, it's mostly just a "better safe than sorry" policy. His school has a "no nuts" policy, too, so it's just as easy to keep all aspects of his life officially nut-free.

Still. I always ask about nuts when people offer him food. And I don't even bother to buy things or make things with nuts in them. It's just not worth the hassle of trying to keep them away from William. If he saw me eating, say, almonds or peanuts or banana nut muffins, he would want some too. That's how it always goes. But David realized about eight months ago that Chick-Fil-A fries its food in peanut oil, and well, we all know how I feel about Chick-Fil-A so it almost goes without saying that William has eaten there pretty regularly since we moved to Nashville. And he's eaten other foods that we only belatedly realized may have contained "traces of nuts or nut products."

So I can't wait for the day when William turns three and we can (hopefully) be a little less cautious. I cant' wait 'til I can finally start giving him peanut butter crackers. They're so easy to carry around. And honestly, I would be sad if my son missed out on peanut-butter sandwiches. I think that, done right, a PBJ or PBB (peanut butter with banana) is one of the great small joys in life. You know, really good whole-wheat bread lightly toasted, some thick blackberry jelly or preserves, a nice chunky layer of crunchy peanut butter. Mmmm. Strawberry preserves would be okay, too. And if I really had to, I'd settle for creamy peanut butter. Ah. Sometimes, that just hits the spot like almost nothing else.

In fact, I may have to go fix myself one now. William's napping. It's okay.

Opening Day, 2008 style

It's Opening Day! It's Opening Day! Baseball season is here again!

The Braves play the Nationals tonight at 7 p.m. CDT on ESPN. David just came home from Publix, where he loaded up on hot dogs and hot dog buns and other assorted stuff.

William is dressed for the occasion in his Jeff Francoeur T-shirt:



















I've been going over the lyrics to "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" with William all day, in preparation for the big event. I think he's ready.

The 5 Ws and the H

As a journalist, one of the most important parts of my job was to ask questions. To ask the right questions. I'd start out with the basics--you know, the 5 Ws and the H--who, what, when, where, why and how--and then progress from there.

The "why?" is often the biggie. And on that note, I have a few "why? questions" about my own life.

Why do baby clothes run in an even wilder gamut of sizes than women's clothes?

(It's just plain weird that my 23-month-old child has clothes that he can wear right now in 18-24 months, 24 months, 2t, 3t, and 4t. Oh! A good follow-up question: why don't they make more stain-resistant children's clothes? Is there some smoky back-room collusion with the detergent industry going on?)

Why does that darned crib aquarium eat batteries like a carnivore at a steak convention?

(It takes three D batteries, and I swear, William pushes that button like it's his job and he can't take a coffee break. David and I are prying that thing open with the Phillips head screwdriver once a week. We should own stock in Energizer or Duracell.)

Why does William refuse to sit in his Time Out chair when he is supposed to?

(And what can we do about this? It's getting out of control.)

Why do I even bother trying to explain to my son why he needs to sit in Time Out when he's in one of those wild-eyed, wild-hair moods?

(Like he's listening. God. He's still cute, though.* And **. And ***.)

I've got my trusty little mini tape recorder around here somewhere (I'm all old school). If you can just tell me to whom I should direct my all-important questions, I will get right on it.


*


















**
















***

Exhaustion, the toddler-inflicted version

I am about to state something so profound that your ears might ring after you read it. You may hear a heavenly choir of angels.

Ready?

Having a toddler is exhausting.

Okay, maybe I should qualify that statement. Having my toddler is exhausting.

I love William with all my heart. I would jump in front of a speeding car for him. I adore him so much that I almost can't imagine having another child and loving him or her half as much.

But. And there is a but. But he can wear me out like a dozen personal trainers. He should come equipped with a towel, a water bottle and an energy bar.

Today, I took William to the downtown library for their storytime and puppet show. Two weeks ago, we went, and William was an angel. He sat in my lap and laughed and enjoyed the show. I was awestruck by his good behavior. Today, however, it was like someone had surreptitiously pumped him full of sugar. He could barely sit still. I spent most of the storytime either jumping up and chasing him or hauling back into my lap or at least to our spot on the floor. I offered Goldfish and Craisins, two of his favorite snacks, in the hopes that food would keep me sedentary for a few minutes. Ha.

Remember that old expression "ants in your pants"? That described William today to a T. Or to a W, I guess, as the case may be.

I felt like I had run a half-marathon by the time the storyhour ended. I was wrung out! I was jealous of the mothers nearby, the ones with the sweet little sedate girls in their pretty dresses, sitting quietly in their mothers' laps. Their mothers didn't have to get up once! They didn't have to do any wrangling at all! Meanwhile, I felt like I had earned my own World Wrestling Federation nickname by the time it was over. Gah!

Just so you know, this isn't an unusual occurrence. I have to chase William nearly everywhere we go now if he's not contained in a stroller or shopping cart. That's fine at the park. But have you ever considered what it would be like to take him into, say, the post office? Or into the store to buy just one thing? Yeah. Not such a good idea. God bless all the people out there who are so patient with us and who smile benignly when I bellow, "William, come back here NOW!!" across the room. I especially love the people who say kind things like, "My child was just like that. Oh, isn't he cute?" Thank you, nice people.

I am grateful, however, to have a lovely and lively little boy, one who never hesitates to hug and kiss me. I can't even tell you how I felt yesterday when I was going to pick William up from the church nursery and ran into him and his teacher in the hall. His little face lit up underneath his hat and he drew in his breath in happy surprise and said, in the most delighted voice ever, "Mama!" Oh. Oh my. Is there any better feeling on earth? It sounds so cliched to say "my heart skipped a beat," but you know what? It just might have.

Speaking of which, I can hear the little prince calling "Mama?" from his crib. I am being summoned. He's been asleep for about two hours, and I think I have managed to build up some of my lost energy by now.

The potty

Attention. Attention.

We have our first successful potty time. That's right. William went pee-pee in the potty for the very first time mere minutes ago!

Sadly, it happened after he peed all over the door jamb at the entrance to the bathroom. For anyone who happens to visit us anytime soon, I thoroughly cleaned up the affected area, so you have nothing to fear.

But as soon as we realized what he was doing, we offered to let him go pee-pee on the potty instead. He said, "Yes." And David helped him onto the Elmo potty, where William managed to go pee-pee, just a little bit.

We cheered and clapped and kissed him. And after his bath, I gave him a monkey sticker to wear on his pajamas. This delighted him, both because he got a sticker and because it was a monkey sticker. He explained in a very long sentence with many recognizable nouns but not so many recognizable other words what had transpired. But I think he understands what was going on.

So hurrah! I don't expect to have this happen again for a long, long time, but if it can happen once, barely, it can happen again.

Easter Sunday

Do you remember what it was like to experience Easter as a child?

I was just musing about Easters past. For me, so many of my memories of childhood Easters are tied up with what I wore.

I remember the year that my mother splurged on the most beautiful pale green dress for me to wear on Easter. I was about eight. The dress had puffed sleeves and three pearl buttons down the front. I'm sure it cost a pretty penny, since it came from Parisian, and those were the days before Mom went back to work. But, oh, that dress! It felt so special and serious. I'll never forget wearing it.

I also remember the gorgeous pale pink dress with the little lace trim on the bottom. I was in seventh grade that year. I had a big petticoat to wear underneath it, almost like a modified hoop skirt. Man, I loved that dress so much. It felt like an Easter dress should feel.

Of course, I feel a little chagrined that so many of my childhood Easter memories involve clothes. Our pastor noted that he overheard some girls recently talking about their special clothes for...Palm Sunday. It's like we have this tendency to gloss over the seriousness of Holy Week and focus only on the celebratory parts. Well, the celebratory part is vital...it's the crux of the Christian faith...but the serious aspects are awfully crucial, too. You have to have the crucifixion before you can have the resurrection.

So I am glad that at least I do remember the joyful feeling of sitting in a sanctuary with the chancel all covered up with potted flowers. The relief that Easter was here at last! And the ritual singing of "Jesus Christ is Risen Today!" In fact, that hymn is so ingrained in my Easter memory that I felt a little shiver go up my spine on Sunday morning when we sang it as part of the congregation at Westminster.

We did have a beautiful Easter this year. Yes, I was obsessed with making sure that my son at least had the perfect Easter outfit, even though I was wearing an old dress. Yes, I eagerly put together a big Easter basket for William and looked forward to having a family lunch together at the Wyckoffs' house. But there were other small pleasures. We all delighted in the fact that Aaron and Diane pulled out of their parking spot when leaving the early service, thus leaving us the perfect parking place for us as we pulled our car in behind them. And David and I were so happy to sing along during the chorus of Handel's "Messiah" at the end of church. And I felt blessed to be part of such a large, jubilant congregation on a sunny Easter morning. And have I mentioned the bunny cake?

It was a good day. A good Easter. William is still too young to remember this Easter, but I will remember for him. And pretty soon, he will start making his own memories.

Okay, I'll narrate you through these....

Who says you can't have turkeys on Easter?



















Ah yes. William and David upon arriving at church. William was doing his typical small-town mayor routine: waving and smiling and calling "hi!" to everyone he saw.



































Standing in front of the beautiful flowers in Aaron and Diane's yard:



































































The traditional Wyckoff family Easter bunny cake. William got to "help" decorate the face. It had homemade frosting on it and lots of blueberries. And yes, it tasted deeelisssshusss.

















































The Easter basket I mentioned. The Play-doh has been a big, big hit. "Play Play-doh," William now orders me. "Mama, play Play-doh NOW."















One of my favorite pictures because you get such a nice close-up of William's little pink face:















And the ceremonial Easter Sunday reading of "Twas the Night Before Christmas."
















(For the record, the ceremonial reading of TTNBC is not yet an Easter tradition. William insists that his Grandaddy Aaron read it to him every time he visits their house. So for now, it's more of a every-time-William-and-Aaron-get-together tradition.)

Just a preview

I'm too tired this evening to post the entire run of Easter Sunday pictures. But I will do it tomorrow, I promise. We've just had a very full day that started very early, and I'm kind of wiped out. It was a lovely day, though, don't worry.

In the meantime, here's a preview!















William in his Easter outfit in the back yard at Post Road!

The big Easter Egg Hunt

This morning was cold and clear and beautiful---and a good day for small children like William to hunt for Easter eggs among hordes of other small children who aren't quite sure why they're being urged to pick up small plastic eggs that don't have anything fun or tasty inside. That's right: today was the big Easter Egg hunt at the Nashville Zoo.

You know, Easter Egg hunts for small children are very funny things. They're not really "hunts." They don't actually hide the eggs. They just take big baskets full of eggs and dump them in a huge mess on the yard and let the kids run after them. The people at the zoo did make a token effort to spread the eggs out over the field, but still. There was no hiding or hunting involved whatsoever. Shivering, yes. Especially all the sweet little girls in their Easter dresses. Hunting, though, not so much. Egg-snatching might be a better description for the event, now that I think about it.

Here are David and William arriving at the site for the egg hunt with Leland, Chris, and Mary Clare:
















David and William preview the egg-snatching site. That's Shab and her husband Santi there next to them.
















Shab and Yago:

















Yago with his daddy Santi:
















Leland with her daddy Chris (and David nearby!):
















Another group shot:















Leland and William were ready to hunt some eggs. Er, well, once William could see out from his hat, he was ready.















It took the zoo people for freakin' ever to finally start the event. People were lined up around the field for almost an hour, and if you've ever had to corral a squirmy toddler, you know that it seemed like light years longer than that. But I guess I got off easy. David pretty much took over toddler-wrangling duty. He also received the honor of being the parent who got to help William pick up eggs.



















Now, I will say that William was prepared. We practiced picking up eggs from the family room floor last night. He was very clear on the concept of picking up an egg and putting it in his basket. He just needed them to let him out there to actually to get to some eggs!



















I found some!


































Look, Mom! I found half an egg!



















At the end of the big eggs-travaganza (come one, you have to realize I was waiting all day to use that one), we turned in our baskets of eggs for a goody bag. I think they reused the eggs for the next age group's egg hunt. William was pleased with his little trinkets, probably much more so than he would have been with his eggs. (He found six, by the way.)

And for the grand finale, William got to ride on the big carousel for the very first time.




















That's a pretty big day, huh? And I didn't even tell you about how we wandered around the zoo for awhile and eventually went to have lunch at Baja Burrito afterward. William's supposed to be napping now, and honestly, I think I could use a nap now, too.