Noody Noody Noody

We are a pretty modest family. I suppose it’s because of my WASPy, repressed upbringing. Of course I want my kiddo to have an unrepressed childhood and feel comfortable talking about his body. I actually don’t think I’m equipped to do make sure that happens, though. I’ve always been intensely shy, and there was a time I couldn’t even talk about my arms or legs without feeling super uncomfortable. I’ve gotten over that, and I’m very comfortable with my husband, but I don’t have the background or natural ease about the human body that I probably should (that is, at least, if I want to teach my little guy to have that). And I could be wrong, but I feel sure that this is not something I could learn from a book.

I don’t have a problem with him being naked, although he is clothed more often than not, so maybe I do subconsciously. Still, he has his moments of naked time. He recently ran into the room without a stitch on, shaking his tush and shouting “NOODY NOODY NOODY!!”

My reaction was normal, I though, “My God! What are they teaching him at daycare?” Immediately followed by, “My GOD! What are they going to think I’m teaching him??”

When he was younger, I was less concerned about one of us being naked. But, he notices stuff now, and his noticing has coincided with his ability to open doors. In addition to him feeling like any closed door is a personal affront.

Scene in our bathroom, that has two doors: Mommy!! (Pounding on the door. Frantically turning the knob) I can’t get it!! Oh, I know, I try the other door. Mommy!!! (clawing at the knob) This door is wocked too!!

Recently he walked in on me while I was changing, and I tried to play the it’s no big deal thing. By that I mean, I tried not to whip around, covering myself like a teenager just caught with her boyfriend.

“Oh hey!” I said, in an unconvincing casual voice that immediately piqued his interest.

“Hi Mommy!!! I like your… those!”

This is a little ironic, because he had zero interest in my those when I was trying to nurse him.

“Yep! Um.. Thank you! Girls have these and boys don’t.”

“No I don’t” he said, looking at his flat chest. And went away, unbothered, leaving me questioning my words and feelings about that situation, nudity in general, and heck, everything else.

I don’t really think I’m alone in my anxiety about body stuff. When he first discovered his penis (which we call a “peepee” because frankly even TYPING “penis” makes me uneasy, and oh thank god he’s a boy, because I have no idea how I’d manage talking about vaginas at all.) Anyway, when he first discovered his peepee and became interested in it, I asked his pediatrician about how to deal with it without being weird or making him feel wrong about it. She said, “that’s a great question!” in a tone quite similar to the been-caught-changing tone I used with the kiddo, and suggested distraction as a method for handling err…addressing the matter.

I’m sure this is well intention advice, but 1) it doesn’t really address the problem, and 2) from what I’ve noticed, it’s not so easy to distract a male from his penis, once he has developed an interest in it. In fact, I think most males spend much of their lives trying to distract themselves from their own penises (penii?).

When I consulted a friend who has an older boy, she said she told him, “It’s your penis and you can touch it if you want, but other people don’t want to see you touch it.” Such a grown-up thing to say. I hope I can muster that when the time comes. At the very least, I don’t think I’ll blurt, “If you keep touching that it’s going to fall off!!” And maybe (given my upbringing) that’s progress I can be proud of.

The Perils of Feeding a Toddler

YesterJen: “When I have a baby, I’m going to feed it only organic fruits and vegetables, and we are going to have dinner at the table every evening, during which time we adults will share the events of our day and our child will learn to sit respectfully and listen.”

So that happened. If you call goldfish crackers and Kraft mac&cheese “organic fruits and vegetables” and meals shoveled mindlessly in mouths while we sit in front of the television “dinner at the table.” To be fair, there is a coffee table. Chris does sit and listen respectfully, to Yo Gabba Gabba.

I remember how excited I was when he started eating food, and he really liked the pureed fruits and vegetables. I thought, “He LOVES carrots and sweet potatoes! We are on the path to a lifetime of healthy eating!” I kind of hurt my shoulder patting myself and Gerber on the back.

Then we switched to actual human food. “He will eat what you eat,” lied my pediatrician with a straight face. A little while later, my kid developed taste buds and opinions… seemingly simultaneously.

“Chris, here, try this broccoli! It’s like little trees.”

“No, thanks Mommy.” When pressed for a reason, he explained calmly, “It’s too yucky.” Can’t argue with that. They are his taste buds after all. I thought broccoli was yucky for a lot of years.

I refused to do the “You will sit at this table until you eat it,” spiel. Not to protect my darling child’s personality or sense of freedom, but because I knew I he would out-wait me. Dude’s got 300% more stamina than me.

Instead, I took note of what he would eat. Accidentally and disastrously praising him for finishing all of his M&Ms. Maybe the green ones have some chlorophyll in them.

In the long term battle over food, we’ve gradually reached a kind of food settlement. It has been agreed that his entrees will be pasta, pasta with cheese, chicken in nugget form, pizza and cereal. With badgering, he will pretend to eat peas, green beans or corn (canned). The only nutrition-related victory I get is that he will actually consume fruit voluntarily. And semi-annually, he will ask for and eat a can of peas for a snack.

During one of my fear-based Google jags, I found that, for toddlers, you should consider the caloric and nutritional intake for the week, not for the day or the year. I think, deep in my mind, I’ve over-expanded that. Now I eat a lot of fruits and vegetables in the hopes that what matters is the nutritional/caloric in-take for the household not the individuals. This would work out for us all, since Jeff and I could stand to lose a few pounds, and Chris needs the vitamins. Can’t figure out how to factor in the cats, though.

Life and Death-Trap

My husband and I bought our house (a fixer-upper) for its charm. We had two incomes, no kids and an interest in DIY, or at least an interest in the deep discount you can get for a house when it’s basically falling apart.

Then we had a baby, and the charm of the vaulted ceilings, tile floors and stone work quickly turned to terror. The high ceilings made way for the loft with its low railing and 15 foot drop. The floors, covered in hard tile, perfect for bruising clumsy toddler faces, turns slick as black ice when a drop of water falls on it. The fire place, is a place for FIRES. The pool. The pool haunted my nightmares.

As long as he was a baby loaf, it wasn’t too bad, We could set him in one of his multiple baby-holding devices and be relatively certain he would be safe. Once he gained mobility, though, the dangers loomed everywhere. It seemed easier to wrap him in breathable bubble wrap than baby-proof the house. In the end, we decided on corralling him in a large square baby prison for most of his waking hours and carrying him to any area of the house he needed to go.

This method worked pretty well and had the added benefit of making the rest of the house seem like an exciting vacation land to a kid.  “Do you want to go to the kitchen?”  “YEAH!!!”  He’d cry, clapping his chubby hands. I wish I had that kind of enthusiasm for going to the kitchen.

Eventually we relaxed the physical boundaries and replaced them with psychological ones. “Don’t EVER touch that handle!” we’d warn, pointing to the knob on door leading to the patio and the locked pool gate. “There are monsters and demons out there, who want to eat your hands!”

OK, well we didn’t do that, but we wanted to.  We do warn and remind and quiz. “You can ONLY go out there with a grown-up, it’s not safe out there, do you understand?” And he does. The door is also locked and he can’t reach the lock, but he’s clever. Lest you think that we are overstating things. We live in Florida, at the edge of a swamp erroneously named a lake. The paralyzing terror of the pool aside, it is dangerous out there. Florida wildlife pretty much exists to annoy, poison or kill.

As soon as he could toddle, we started daydreaming of selling our charming little deathtrap to a healthy, equally stupid, childless couple. It remains a daydream, because even if the house didn’t have thousands of incomplete DIY projects, we don’t even have the energy to keep it clean enough for potential home buyers to view it.

It doesn’t matter though, the new, safe home I imagine doesn’t exist. Each aspect of the fantasy home has some corresponding fear.  It is somewhere out of the city (crime), but not in the woods (animals) which leaves the suburbs (serial killers). It is one story (stair-falls), but the windows aren’t on the first floor (intruders). It is someplace warm (hypothermia, snow driving) but not too warm (snakes and biting insects). My brain’s capacity for imagining danger suddenly knows no bounds.  To talk myself down, I have to look at the facts: Billions of people survive childhood every year. My congested drive to the office verifies that, as they are all CLEARLY on the road, trying to cut me off. The problem is, how easy it is to become in my mind the parent of the one child who had the one freak accident. WHAT-IF haunts me. WHAT-IF never leaves and gains power all the time. WHAT-IF Is relentless, and it’s an asshole