Monday, January 31, 2011

Tough boy - Scar Face

Our son is only three months, but he has already made a few character traits clearly known to us.

He’s restless

He’s impatient

He’s tough

He doesn’t like to sit still for long and he doesn’t like to wait. When Stella was a baby, she would wake up, let you know she’s awake and then wait for you to get her.

Case in point 1. Not Emmet. Both sleep well outside, especially in this subzero weather we’re having. Emmett however, wakes up and throws a fit. You’d think as soon as he saw you pick him up or bring him inside he would calm down. No, he throws a terrifying fit until you get him inside, unbundled and upright. Sometimes he works himself into such a fit that you can’t calm him down for 5 to 15 minutes.

Case in point 2. In the middle of the night. Over the past week, Emmett has become more demanding. When he wakes up, he wants food. Not in a minute, NOW. Poor mommy can’t get up fast enough before the sirens go off.

Case in point 3. He’s got a grip and won’t let go. If he takes your hand, he’s the boss. He has almost torn clothes. He is already trying to pull himself up by himself by grabbing onto your fingers. And he doesn’t give up.

Case in point 4. I think I already mentioned the exorcist head spinning has he falls asleep. But when sleeping his head not only swings from side to side (which has worn a funny smiley face bald spot in the back of his head) but his arms and legs too. The other night we laid him in our bed to try and get him to calm down. He socked both mom and dad in the face. He may be a baby, but damn it hurt.

Case in point 5. He has a tendency to do the boxer block. He’ll throw his arms in front of his face, not giving you a chance to put the pacifier in his mouth, or cream his face, or put a hat on. If you do manage to get past his defenses, he is pretty good at ripping that pacifier out of his mouth (even if what he wanted was his pacifier) or grabbing that hat and pulling it even down further over his eyes.

Case in point 6. Children usually betray themselves when tired. They usually have a distinct habit that they revert to as they get tired. Some kids play with their hair, others tug their ear, I know one that rubs her left eye.

Emmett has two distinct traits. The first is potentially harmless. If lying down he tries to turn his head backwards; as if trying to touch his chin behind his shoulder. I say potentially harmless. What if he should succeed one day and totally spin his head around? Anyone got the name of a good young and old priest?

The second has led to a couple of is many nicknames. We started out lightly calling him Harry Potter, but it has since worsened to Scarface. When tired, Emmett will cross his arms in front of his face and unwittingly claw himself; flexing his hands open and closed, open and closed, open and closed.

This has lead to a constant bright red forehead and an abundance of scabs. We try and cut his nails extra short but he somehow finds an edge. Forget about mittens, he won’t keep them on.

Thank goodness babies heal so rapidly. It doesn’t seem to bother him but is rather worrisome to his parents.

He’s one tough baby.

Saturday, January 29, 2011

The Twighlight Zone

„jeremy… jeremy“ I hear a voice in the distance calling me.

My breast-feeding wife has been trying to wake me for five minutes. She doesn’t dare speak louder than a whisper for fear of disturbing the Prince’s feeding.

“jeremy… jeremy“

I’m sleeping on the edge of the bed. Far enough away that she can’t reach me.
She tries to grab my blanket…nothing.

“jeremy… jeremy“

The voice is barely audible; recognition starts to kick in.

SNAP…I come back into this world.

I’m here, what’s wrong, where’s the fire?

Focus, she’s asking you something.

“Can you check on Stella? I think she’s awake.”

What time is it?

“00:30” is her reply.

I stumble into the hallway. Bright light emanates through the crack in the door.

I poke my head inside, squinting against the bright light.

I step through and enter the twilight zone.

There is an unusual calm in the air.

I try to survey the situation through may haze.

My daughter is not in her bed.

Like a modern art exhibit, cast against a clear wall, her blanket sits in a heap with her potty next to it. A sopping wet pink hat sits half in, half out of the neon green potty.

Various pieces of clothing are strewn throughout the room.

Happy kiddy dance music blasts through the pink CD player.

On the nightstand sits my daughter, the lamp displaced to the floor, looking at me as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening at half past midnight in the middle of the week.

She looks as if she’s waiting for the bus. Her legs, too short to bend over the side of the table stick straight out, toes turned inwards.

I ask if everything is okay. She is wearing a different nightshirt than when she went to bed.

A vacant stare is my reply.

She has different pajama pants on…they are inside out.

“Is everything okay” I ask.

Again, no response; she knows the next question and promptly sticks her tongue out. “Cat got your tongue?” nope, It’s still there, I step further into the room and turn off the large overhead light.

“Daddy look, my blanket is wet.”

Indeed the corner is wet. I ponder the potty sitting next to it.

“Daddy I put new music on.”

I whisk the blanket and potty off of the bed and check the mattress for wetness.

I sit her on the potty and notice she wears no underwear. Turning to the dresser, I open the drawer and stare at an empty compartment.

Confused I search the next drawer and then the next. As I stare blankly at the dresser, then Stella tells me she has “reorganized.”

Finally I find a pair of underwear and proceed to dress my daughter, pants right side out and prepare a new blanket.

She must have had a fashion show. Her closet was in disarray. Every single article of clothing within her reach was displaced into a new place.

“But why do I have to go to bed” she asks me as I tuck her in. Because it’s late I try to explain but it is lost on her.

“Don’t leave daddy” she says with sad puppy dog eyes.

“Why I ask. Is it the wolf again?”


“Where is he? Hiding In the frog again? Shall I take him out of the room?”


Once the frog has been removed, she’s still hesitant to let me go.

I’m getting the hang of this parent thing; I know what’s next.

I point to the shelf above her bed. “Are the animals mean again?”

A firm nod affirms this statement.

“Shall I take them out too?” I ask as I scoop up the horse, pig, cow and elf and take them to the other room.

Now the room has been cleansed, now she can sleep.