A Bear in the House



A bear asleep at the zoo

  Dear Charlie,


Right now, at eight months old, I pretty much want to eat you up at all times and frequently take nibbles off of multiple chubby, soft, delicious baby body parts. Some of my favorites are your cheeks, your toes, your thighs and that little spot just under your ear. Mmm…mmm.

You should also probably know that you can’t get enough of me either. In fact, whenever I walk into your room to get you up from a nap, you nearly break your neck to get a good look at me and when you do get a glimpse of me, you slam your head into the mattress and writhe around like something in a Madonna video. Just pure baby cuteness.

You are not crawling yet, but you’re close. You are perfecting yoga poses at the moment. You are excellent at Cobra, where you push your head and chest off the ground to beam at anybody who will look your way, and from there, you either move into an advanced belly-on-the-ground swimming/skydiving move where you flap, flap, flap in place, or you move directly into a very pretty Downward-Facing Dog. Recently your Down Dog seems to be morphing into what could be moving towards Half-Moon Pose where you keep your arms on the ground with your butt in the air and lift one leg off the ground. If you could just get those hands off the ground, you’d be in Warrior III, or I suppose if you just got your leg up a little higher you’d be in Standing Split. It’s all very sophisticated. You are also pretty skilled at Table Top, where you rock back and forth on your knees, but no actual crawling yet. That’s okay; I’ve started to move on from my hopes that you’ll crawl and eventually walk someday to researching how to raise you as a Yogi or perhaps a Buddha. (Since this was originally written, three days ago, you’ve started to do The Worm! An awesome party trick, which I hope you will take with you to many a wedding reception.)

Not only are you finding your inner Yogi, you are also finding you’re voice. This past weekend in church, right in the middle of poor Father Marty’s homily, you belted out a long string of “Dah-dah-dahs” which echoed quite nicely off the cathedral walls. Between Yoga and your attempt to take over the homily, it seems you are quite spiritual. Good boy. Teach us something.

In case you haven’t noticed, you have become know as The Bear. It started with Daddy calling you Charlie Bear and then it became The Bear and sometimes Bear-bees. You seem to answer gladly to all of them and greet them all with a wide, gummy grin that closes your eyes and tilts your head back with a kind of pure joy that only a baby can produce, that all adults wish they still understood.

You and Finny LOVE each other. Everyone keeps telling me that someday you’ll be beating each other up and fighting over everything. It’s hard to imagine right now because right now, you simply crack each other up. Last night was a video camera moment for the two of you. Finny watched me cracking you up as I tickled you to distract you from the fact that I had to wipe your nose and said, “I…got your boogies!” When he finished his dinner, he promptly ran over to lay with you on your playmat and also wanted to “Get Your Boogies!” You squealed and squealed. And that made Finny squeal and squeal. And all of it had me in tears. And then Daddy came home and he got in on the action. Fun times, The Bear, and you were at the center of it.

You are a big boy, Bear-bees. You will no doubt be bigger than your big brother some day. You are now eating three meals a day and seem to love everything from pears to squash to avocado. You are also starting to drink more formula as I have begun to slowly wean you. It’s a bittersweet process, weaning. There is joy and relief that comes from regaining my body, not filling up with milk all the time. But there is a tug of sadness that comes from realizing you are getting to be an old baby, and that soon we will no longer have that snuggly closeness that comes with breastfeeding.

The number one compliment you receive from friends and strangers is on the gorgeous state of your Frohawk. Pop-pop Finnessy keeps asking me if I style your hair like that on purpose. Nope. You’ve just been blessed with a mohawk full of tight little red-tinted ringlets. It’s nothing short of awesome.

The number two compliment you receive is about how cool, calm and collected you always seem to be. You and I don’t get a lot of alone time, Bear, and when we do, I’m usually trying furiously to get dinner prepped or a bill paid or some other nonsense before your brother gets up from his nap. You fend for yourself a lot of the time, and I’m sorry about that. I’m sorry you don’t get the undivided attention that Finny got. It’s just not in the cards for the second child. But, maybe the result is this easy-breezy attitude you seem to have adopted. You go with it, Bear-bees. You roll with the punches. You sit in your stroller, you bounce in the Johnny Jumper, you suck on whatever you can find on the family room floor (don’t worry, these are usually toys planted by me that are ideal for you to suck on), and you do it all with a grin. You’re a happy baby, Bear, with or without a ton of attention, and if you can keep this quality as you grow up, it will serve you well.

Well, you’ll be up soon, so I should wrap this up. It’s taken me over a week to write! One last thing though. I love you, Charlie Bear. More and more each day. Didn’t know it was possible. You bring it out in me. In all of us. It’s just so much fun to have a bear in the house.

Love,

Mommy

Yoga Move #3:  Table Top

Yogi Bear moving into Cobra

Dr. Evil Bear



Get Your Boogies!

The Tissa Fairy: A Follow-Up

I would say it was not unlike the first few days of drug rehab: hard to watch your loved one go through the withdrawal, but knowing he will come out better in the end.

On the Friday afternoon preceding The Tissa Fairy’s visit, Finny actually greeted the idea of The Tissa Fairy with a renewed excitement. After his last official nap with Tissa, I said, “Okay, do you think it’s time to gather all the Tissas and put them in the mailbox?”

“Yeah! Yeah! Let’s do it!” he shouted. All right, I thought, this is going better than I had imagined.

So, Finny, Jane and I walked around the house and gathered up all the Tissas, including Charlie’s unused Tissas, and put them in a box. Then, the three of us took a ceremonial walk to the mailbox where both Finny and Jane bid a fond farewell to our box of Tissas and then, we went back in to play.

But, I knew the true test would come that night when Finny climbed into bed for a story, which is why around 7:45 p.m., I hit the grocery store and let David put him to bed.

At 8:45 p.m., I called. “How’s it going?” I could hear Finny in the background screaming. “Well, let’s see,” David said, “He’s crying ‘Mama, I want my Tissa!’ over and over again and he’s periodically gagging himself.”

“Oh, no. I’ll come home. I should come home.”

“No, I’m handling it,” David said, “Go shopping.”

“Well, maybe you should go in there. Tell him it’s going to be okay. Tell him he’s a brave boy.”

“Jill, I’m handling it.”

So, I shopped and worried and shopped and worried, and when I walked in the door at around 10 p.m., all was quiet. David had fallen asleep in the spare bedroom beside Finny’s room. He wouldn’t explain why he was in there, but I knew. David is the softest tough guy I know. If he was gonna make Finny cry it out, he was gonna do it from the room right next door so that if at any point our little Tissa addict really needed him, he would not be far away.

David said he cried for about an hour. When I walked in, Finny was conked out, sucking the air, sucking the spot where Tissa used to be.

That night, Charlie was up from 2:30-4 a.m. playing and crying intermittently. I tried to stay back in hopes of training this eight-month-old to sleep through the night without a feeding, but finally at 4, I went in and nursed him. Two hours later Finny was up—early. I knew, sadly, that he would not go back to sleep. I knew that if he had Tissa to suck on, he would have. I knew that I was so tired and David was already at the golf course and I had to go in there.

I lay down next to him. “Mommy, I want Tissa,” he sobbed.

“I know, honey. You miss Tissa, don’t you?”

“Yes, I want her.”

“Let’s lay together, Finn. Let’s try to get a little more sleep.”

“But, Mommy, I want something.” He flipped all around, could not get settled, elbowed me in the face. I guess this was “the shakes” portion of his withdrawal.

“What do you want, Finn?”

“I want SOMETHING!” Such a sad little ache in his voice.

“Finny, Mommy’s tired,” such a sad little ache in my voice, “Let’s try to close our eyes for a little bit.”

But he flipped and flipped. “Mommy, the moon’s out. It’s a half moon. Let’s look at the half moon together.”

“Oh no, honey. Not now. Let’s be very quiet and try to rest for just a few minutes.”

Suddenly I felt a little nose rubbing my nose. “Nose kiss, Mommy.”

Man, was he cute. But Man, was I tired.

Eventually I turned on his light and told him to read some stories for a little bit while I went back to my bed and closed my eyes for just fifteen minutes. I just needed fifteen more minutes.

Twenty minutes passed and I heard his little knock. It was time to find out what The Tissa Fairy had left him.

Behind his bedroom chair we found a Spiderman action figure, a Superman book, and a yellow crystal ball—all requests made by the little boy in Tissa rehab. The yellow crystal ball was the last of the yellow bouncy balls in stock at Toys ‘R Us that night. He carried all three of his treasures around with him all day.

But come nap time…he remembered. The sobbing began. “Mama, I want my Tissa! Do you think The Tissa Fairy will bring it back to me?”

“No, honey. But you’re a good, brave boy and I think you can sleep without her. I’m proud of you.”

This talk went on for two days. A little crying, a little whimpering, a little squirming. And then…nothing. Not a peep. Just bed. Just naps. Just three-hour naps—without Tissa.

Huh. Miracle.

Soooo, I’m done, right? Big boy bed, potty training, Tissa Fairy. That was my list of tough stuff to conquer this year and now, I’m done. Time to call up The Tissa Fairy. See if she wants to join me for a glass of wine…a little toast, if you will, to a job well done. Maybe she and I can talk about The Tooth Fairy behind her back and figure out where the hell she is when the kids are getting the teeth. How bout a little somethin’ somethin’ for that, huh?

 
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The Tissa Fairy

Dear Finny,

How are you? I wanted to let you know that I will be coming to your house very soon to collect your Tissas. I know some babies who could use them and I am so glad you will have some to give. Don’t worry, your blankie and your teddy will keep you warm and snuggly, and I have a very special gift to leave with you!
On Friday night, before you go to bed, please leave all of your Tissas in a box in your mailbox. When you wake up in the morning, you will find a special surprise!


Thanks, Finny!


Love,
The Tissa Fairy


This is the letter Finny received in the mail this past Monday. I read it to him with great flair and gusto at the kitchen table after his post-nap snack. He immediately ran into the family room and flung himself on the rug like a 1940’s starlet and burst into tears. “I don’t want the Tissa Fairy to come and take my Tissas!”

Then, he came running back to me looking for comfort. “Mommy, hold me! Wipe these tears off my face!” I wiped and wiped. “Mommy, they’re still coming! Now, wipe these tears off my face!”

We’ve been talking about The Tissa Fairy for a few months now, talking about other friends who have safely left their Tissas with The Tissa Fairy and how exciting it was, but little Finny doesn’t quite know what to make of all this excitement over giving his Tissas away. Why on earth should he be excited about giving up the very thing he adores most in this world? He can’t imagine that there is any gift The Tissa Fairy could leave him that could replace his dear old Tissa. And the truth is, I’ve spoken with The Tissa Fairy, and she’s struggling to come up with anything too.

She’s already purchased a Spiderman action figure, but that was a few months ago. Now, he’s kind of more into Superman, but he’s not even really that into Superman. He’s unpredictable on what he will choose to fixate on: a purple tea cup, a wind-up bath turtle, Jane’s Buzz Light Year binoculars, Charlie’s bee. All of these things have captured his attention at some point and he has clung to them for a number of days without letting go. But, Tissa? Barring those first couple weeks when pacifiers are a no-no for breastfed babies, Finny’s had Tissa his WHOLE LIFE.

Finny doesn’t know a world without Tissa, and frankly, neither do I. I feign enthusiasm about The Tissa Fairy for Finny’s sake, but underneath this tough exterior, I’m crying too. Finny has always been a great sleeper, and in large part, that’s been due to his personal sleep specialist, Tissa. The kid’s been known to take five-hour-naps at certain points in his life and still sleep a solid eleven hours at night. Now, at almost three years old, he still has a good three-hour nap going on and a solid twelve-hour night sleep. When The Tissa Fairy comes to take his Tissas, is she going to take all that precious slumber with her as well?

The Tissa Fairy tried to visit once before at around eighteen months. I told Finny she was coming to take his Tissa and give it to babies who needed it. She came—somewhat foolishly—at nap time. The four-hour-napper screamed at the edge of his crib for two hours straight until I finally took mercy and went in to get him. I showed him the toy train she had left for him, and he blinked at it sleepily through the dark bags under his napless eyes. That night, The Tissa Fairy returned Finny’s Tissa. “Sorry,” she said, “I goofed. I guess at eighteen months, you are, in fact, still a baby.”

Now that Finny is much older and wiser, at the ripe old age of nearly three, he is still not buying this “babies need your Tissa” crap. A few days ago he ripped his sixteen-month-old cousin Allie’s popsicle right out of her hands and began chomping on it, and Finny can be clear across the house and sense when I’ve given a single solitary chew toy to poor, helpless Charlie stranded on the rug. He’ll drop whatever he’s doing, whatever tea cup or rubber ducky he’s playing with, and immediately bolt across the house to take the toy right out of Charlie’s hands. So, when it comes to Tissa, you’re not gonna find this kid having any kind of sympathy for all the poor Tissa-less babies out there. Quote: “The babies DO NOT need MY Tissas!” Endquote.

Finny’s been dealing with this looming day in his own way all week. I’ll catch him thinking about it periodically, not quite sure how to feel about it. On Monday night, he sat down to “read” a book to himself and I heard him begin, as if reading it on the page, “The Tissa Fairy is coming to take my Tissas…” Then, last night, his official last night with Tissa, he cried out in his sleep at about 1 a.m. When I went running in, I asked him what was wrong? Did he have wet pants? “No,” he said sleepily, “I lost my Tissa…but I found her.” And he promptly closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

But, what about tonight? Tonight’s the night. What happens when for the first time in three years he has to go to sleep without her? What happens when he wakes up in the night and remembers that she’s gone…for good? What happens tomorrow to my three-hour napper? And the next day? Does he know how to sleep without her? Other parents have told me that they worried and stressed about taking the pacifier, but once they did, it was not a big deal. The kid got over it fast. Somehow I don’t think that will be the case here. Finny and his Tissa are like David and his hairdresser, Babs—they love each other…a little too much.

So, if I’m so worried about losing sleep, which is already in short supply around here, why take the Tissas now? Our pediatrician actually said he could have it at night until he’s four. So, why tonight? Well, for starters, it’s affecting his bite. He has the classic pacifier mouth open bite that I hope will go away if Tissa goes away now. And secondly, because, it’s just time. He’s almost three. He’s a big boy now. He sleeps in a big boy bed, drinks from a big boy cup (sometimes), goes potty on a big boy potty, and is about to start preschool. It’s time for Tissa to go.

At least, this is what I tell myself…tough talk to choke back the tears. Because Tissa is more than just a pacifier. She’s the last of it. The last sign of babyhood for my first baby. Which is probably why that old fairy is struggling so much to come up with a suitable present to leave in her place.

Tissa is a symbol of my baby Finny, my firstborn, my snuggly, little duckmouth…and really, what can possibly replace that?

Well, I guess Charlie. Yeah, you’re right, no big deal. I’ve got another one.

Bring it on, Tissa Fairy.

Circle of Life

This morning.

“Mommy, I just want a drink of your orange juice, okay?” I hear as I’m running up the stairs to grab my shoes, followed immediately by the sound of my full orange juice glass crashing to the floor.

Shit.

This afternoon.

Finny climbs up on the big boy potty, gets himself all positioned and then pees all over my leg.

This evening.

I’m flipping burgers on the deck while Laurie feeds Charlie in the high chair and entertains a newly walking Allie. Finny and Jane are playing upstairs. Suddenly from the deck, while waiting for the cheese to melt, I hear nothing but the sound of Charlie crying. When I return to the kitchen, I see Charlie alone in his high chair with no sign of Laurie or Allie. Then I start to hear vague rumblings from upstairs, the sound of hand washing. I know it has something to do with the potty. Finny and Jane, new trainees had decided to go poopy on the potty by themselves and then were left a bit at a loss when it came to the sophisticated art of wiping.

After wiping and cleaning and washing, Laurie leads the entire caravan downstairs for dinner. Charlie is still crying. Allie is now screaming. Finny and Jane are repeatedly hitting each other on the head with wooden toy kitchen food. Then, they cry. Say sorry. Go in time out. Hit each other again. Cry again. Go in time-out again. All of this while baked beans are being scooped, burgers are being cut up, corn is being buttered, milk is being poured. I nurse Charlie while Laurie serves up tiny plates of food that then remain relatively untouched by the tiny hands they were meant for.

I carry a sleeping Charlie up to bed and as I approach his bedroom, I peek into my room and notice what looks to my horror like a giant bug on my white pillow sham atop our bed. I move in closer to get a look at the monster and discover to my greater horror that it is not a bug, but a big, giant glob of poop.

I go downstairs and pop the top off a bottle of Corona. Thirty minutes later while doing dishes I knock that bottle of Corona off the counter and it goes crashing to the floor.

Shit.

Circle of life.

Listening

When he’s caught imagining…


“Ummm…we need three eggs for Peter Cottontail,” Finny mused as he contemplated the blank pages of my grocery pad that he had pulled off the refrigerator.

When he’s figuring out his world…

“I can’t see the sky this morning,” Finny puzzled at 5:00 a.m. through tired eyes as he sat on his little potty. “That’s because it’s still night time,” David responded. But it didn’t matter. He was up and that was that.

When he’s trying to strike a compromise…

“Mommy, how about we have three M&Ms and a lollypop? Does that sound like a plan?” Finny proposes after going pee-pee and poopy on the potty.

When he’s trying to calm down…

“I’m just a little upset right now,” as the big tears roll down his cheeks and the big bottom lip turns under and he tries to get ahold of himself after a stubbed toe or a bit tongue or a particularly drowsy nap.

When he’s trying to make friends…

“Hi, my name is Finny. I came to the library today and I have a band-aid on my knee because I have an owie. I live on _______. Do you want to come to my house to play?” Twice now the stunned other child has run away, not quite sure what to make of his rather forward approach.

When he’s looking for a laugh…

“Eeee Teee Phooone Hooome.” Said in his best, slow alien voice when Dr. Rath turned his fingertip red with the light from her otoscope. We all erupted in laughter.

And when he’s praying…

“What do you want to thank God for today, Finn?”

“I want to thank God for curtains and fans and the moon and trains and blankets and lamps and Peter Cottontail.”

“Well, that just about covers it.”


And now Charlie, big, little old Charlie, is chiming in from his little corner of the world. With a voice seemingly deeper and a little raspier, he has started talking back to us, turning back his lips to reveal his mouth full of gums, saying, “Dah, dah, dah, dah, dah.” Music to my ears. Another voice in the house. Another little personality rolling across the blanket.

Such a big world. So much to take in at once. Thoughts, feelings, ponderings, wonderings.

I like being the teacher, but I love being the listener. Taking in all the pure, joyful innocence of the universe wrapped up in the sweet, soft little sounds of my children’s baby voices.

The Sweet Spot

Somewhere along the way, I stumbled upon it. The sweet spot. That feeling of ultimate bliss, ultimate joy, a realization that I truly have everything I’ve ever wanted. The key though is not in the having; it’s in the realizing.

There was a good while there when I felt a bit under a cloud. I grumbled and whined about my discomfort during pregnancy. I grouched and pouted over my harried life with an infant and a toddler and no time for myself. I was plagued a bit by a woe-is-me syndrome I couldn’t quite kick. I struggled from a lack of perspective and a lack of sleep that made even small daily tasks seem a giant hurdle as I poured orange juice in my coffee and lost my temper over silly things like dropped toys.

But, it seems here in mid-July I’ve hit a sweet spot. A delicious moment in time when I’m not so constantly on the hunt for sleep or time to myself. Instead, right now, I crave time with my kids, time with my family. Last night, I actually allowed myself to leave the dishes in the sink to cuddle up with Finny under a blanket and watch TV. He laid his little head on my shoulder and found his own sweet spot. This afternoon, I put down the hair dryer and rolled around on the floor with Charlie just soaking in every last smile and squeal he threw my way. I kiss, kiss, kissed every last bit of him. Charlie, it turns out, is covered in sweet spots.

The windows are filthy. The refrigerator hasn’t been cleaned in ages. The extra room in our basement is a pit of dispair. And the weeds. Lord God Almighty. The weeds are attacking and anyday now I’m certain a field of clover is going to rise up and strangle us all.

But, these tiny, pesky worries and concerns, they sort of go in and out these days. They don’t linger long. Because I’m in it. The sweet spot. A moment in time when I am actually sort of blissful about how blessed I am.

Sometimes when I’m in the sweet spot, I am attacked by dark, useless fears of losing it. David and I made the mistake of watching the Jaycee Lee Dugard special this weekend and as intriguing as it was, it left us both crying and afraid, imagining what it would be like if that nightmare descended upon us.

But no sense in borrowing that kind of trouble. It looks a bit tacky in the sweet spot. So fear, be gone. Worry, be gone. Weeds, I surrender, you win. I’m going in for more smooches, more splashes in the baby pool, a few more sips of wine. Today, I’m celebrating the fact that I have two little boys and one big boy who endlessly shower me with affection.

Today, I’m celebrating the sweet spot. That rare and special moment where the sun shines a bright and brilliant spotlight on all my blessings so that I see clearly and vividly just how spectacularly the world about me is sparkling.

Pure Imagination

About two weeks ago, the circus arrived at our house. They pulled up into the driveway with their big trucks cars and started unloading a great, big, exciting cast of characters. Finny, it seems, is the headmaster and he puts on what is, well, in his mother’s eyes, the greatest show on earth. And as luck would have it, I have a front row seat for all live performances.

I have been waiting for Finny’s one-man show to arrive for quite some time now. I remember wanting it especially badly back in January, February and March, when Charlie had just arrived and Finny would not go anywhere without me, could not even stand for me to not be holding him at all times, especially when Charlie was crying or nursing. I wondered when the time would come when Finny could entertain himself.

Well, it’s arrived and it’s even better than I’d imagined because not only does Finny now entertain himself, he entertains all of us, and we’re captivated.

The benefits of Finny’s imagination abound, but one of the greatest is the fact that it cannot get lost under the passenger seat. Neither Finny nor I are particularly adept at keeping track of his toys. Each day he seems to be fixated on something new. From a bathtub rubber ducky to a purple tea cup he pilfered from his cousin Jane’s collection, it is hard to keep track of all of the little toys and gadgets he grows attached to. Since he was a baby, Finny has had a habit of always needing to have something in each hand, or sometimes a thing in each hand and additional items tucked under each armpit. He’s actually something of a hoarder, a quirk I’m sure some therapist could dissect for us. He is constantly climbing the stairs with his elbows because he will not let go of his collections, and he is fond of saying, “I have too many hands!” when he is asked to pick up his juice cup but cannot for the life of him figure out how to do it with a superhero in one hand, a zebra in the other and a wooden chicken leg tucked under his chin. These things are constantly getting traded out for other magnificent finds because as he puts it, “He has too many hands!” to hold them all, and as a result, we end up searching for Mega Man at 7:45 p.m. because he’s “somewhere” and Finny has decided he cannot go to sleep without him.

But the imagination, well that’s a different story. It follows him wherever he goes and makes its way into all sorts of different places. While driving home from Stroller Strong class the other day, it showed up in the backseat of the car. I noticed in a rare moment of peace that I was actually listening to something other than a Disney song without protest. When I turned around to see what was going on, there was Finny holding Thomas and Percy, re-enacting a dramatic rescue scene. “Thomas! Help me!” cried Percy as he plunged over the edge of the car seat. “Hold on, Percy! I’ll save you!” Thomas replied as he dragged his old friend back to safey on Finny’s lap.

A few mornings ago, as I was getting breakfast ready, I noticed that Finny was not clamoring for a show. He plopped himself down next to Charlie on his playmat and performed a little play with the lion and the cheetah which happened to be laying beside a “lake” on the playmat.

“Lion, would you like to come swimming with me?” posed Cheetah.

“No, dear. I forgot my slippers.” The obvious response.

I clamped my hand over my mouth to keep from bursting out laughing, not wanting to interrupt and desperately wanting to see what would happen next.

Most often The Finny Show seems to come out at mealtime, a sort of dinner theater. I know I should discourage him from playing with his food, but what about performing a play with his food? I just can’t help myself. When the crusts of bread form a tunnel and the purple grapes come alive as a family trying to get across, I don’t want to scold him for playing with his food; I want to see what’s going to happen to that poor, desperate grape family.

“Come on, Grandpa! You can make it! Mother, are you coming too? Hop on! Do you have your money? You need some money…” Where are they going? Why do they need money? And just what else is sitting up in that little brain of yours, Finny?

David and I have been telling Finny stories since he showed up, and now, finally, it’s his turn.

Rolling over, sitting up, walking, talking, potty training—all huge milestones, but this imagination business? Well, I think it’s safe to say, this is my new favorite.

I’ve got my popcorn ready. The big top is up. All that’s required is a quiet moment, an attentive ear, and a few idle breadcrusts and the show begins. The student becomes the master.

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