One, two, three, four balloons!

This morning, when we were on our way to school, The Boy excitedly pointed out hot air balloons floating outside.

"Mama!" he cried. "Balloons!"

"Oh, yes, baby, there are balloons outside! How many do you see?"

He paused for a moment, and I remained quiet, just to see what he would do. When he counts, he usually starts at two, bypassing one altogether. But not today.

"One, two, three, four!" he counted very slowly.

I was so impressed, and made no effort to hide it from him. "That's right!" I gushed. "There are four balloons!"

This evening, we read "Doggies" by Sandra Boynton, a very cute counting book that, as the title suggests, features dogs. In the past, whenever I would prompt him to count, he would declare, "No!" and shut the book. But tonight, he eagerly counted the dogs, even shouting the numbers.
"One! Two! Three! Four! Eight! Nine! Ten! Eleven! Twelve! Twelve dogs!"

(Okay, there were really only nine dogs, but the effort was clear.)

Several times this weekend, I overheard him counting, and he would skip a few numbers and bounce around a bit, but he would ultimately end at twenty... and then beam, so proud of himself.

As he should be.

Doing something right?

The Boy threw me for a bit of a loop this morning.

You see, our AM routine is pretty standard. He wakes up, we snuggle for a little while, he may or may not take a shower with his dad, he gets a new diaper and new clothes, and then he eats. After he eats, if there's still enough time, he's allowed to watch one (and only one) 20-minute program (of his choice) so that I can get dressed to go to work.

Today, however, this little routine was shaken a bit.

We did fine until it was time to eat. He eagerly ate a banana (though Big Daddy wasn't allowed to give it to him - "No, Da-ee! Mama gets!"), then proceeded to play with his cereal. He started putting Cheerios into his milk (I've been having him eat dry cereal to be washed down with a glass of milk), which only meant I needed to show him how to eat cereal with milk. He got the hang of it pretty quickly, then after five bites, decided he was done with cereal and wanted yogurt. One food at a time is my rule, though, so I had him finish his cereal before I took out the yogurt.

I opened the yogurt, he took one bite, then took off running. "No Blues Clues unless you finish your breakfast, Little Man," I said to him. Usually, this results in a scowl and a slow walk back to the kitchen to finish his food. Not today. No, today he looked at me, shrugged, and took his plastic carrier containing the Gabba Friends and their train cars.

"Help, Mama, please?" he half-demanded from the family room.

"No," I said firmly. "I won't help you until you finish your yogurt."

He responded with a frown, came back to the kitchen for one bite of yogurt, then returned to his toys and partially unzipped the pouch himself.

So, he didn't need me after all.

Once again, I threatened him with no TV - and then it dawned on me that he was engaging in free play on his own. Yes, he was playing with licensed characters, but he was creating his own world. I was suddenly reminded of an article I wrote earlier this week about the waning trend of overscheduling your kids, and another article I read about the need for kids to have occasional unplugged days at home.

And here I was, put off because it threw me off my regular schedule.

After that realization, I went to my bedroom and changed my clothes. He joined me as I was brushing my hair.

"Mama? Brush?" he asked as he opened the drawer, reaching his little hand into it for a hair brush. I slid it closer to his fingers, he grabbed it, quickly ran it twice through his hair, then returned it. "Shoes, Mama," he reminded me. I put on my shoes, and he ran out of the bedroom.

I paused in the kitchen to grab my bag (forgetting my cell phone in the process), but he was waiting for me in the hall.

"Mama! Come on!" he said.

And as he ushered me out the door into the garage, I was suddenly grateful for those few moments he opted to creatively play on his own.

The Ouch Report and other things

The Boy brought home an Ouch Report on Friday, complete with tiny little teeth marks on his hand. It happened just a few minutes before my husband arrived, and the teacher was very apologetic. The Boy, of course, was (mostly) over it and done crying - but when Big Daddy asked him to point out the responsible party, The Boy led him to a boy and pointed, saying, "He bit! He bit!"

Better the Ouch Report than a Disciplinary Report. And at least the Biter didn't break skin.

* * * * *

Teething in our house seems to have been put on hiatus. I don't think all four molars are in yet, but the last time I (quite bravely) checked, it seemed like the lower molars were starting to arrive. I tried to check the top, as well, but found it increasingly difficult to navigate around his actively chompting jaws.

And a teething hiatus means more normalcy in the house. He's willing to eat again (though he'll choose bananas and berries above all else if given the choice) and has even taken to sneaking shredded mini wheat cereal from the pantry. Big Daddy caught him in the act one afternoon, shredded wheat all over The Boy's chin and shirt and cheeks puffed, full of cereal. How do you get mad at someone who's just trying to sneak some extra fiber (okay, and sugar) into his diet? I'd rather he dig into a box of Frosted Mini Wheats than Cookie Crisp or Lucky Charms, anyway. That's why I don't keep the good stuff on the bottom shelf!

Potty training seems like a distant dream. The Boy will wear his Antsy Pants, but he refuses to sit on the potty. I told my husband that I think we ought to start giving Tommy Bear stickers, since Tommy Bear is willing to sit on the potty. I need to check my sticker collection to see if I have any suitable for Tommy Bear.

The funniest thing is that whenever I tell The Boy that he can't do/have/watch [fill in desired thing here] until he sits on the potty, he scowls at me. And I mean, his entire face will turn from the sweetest smile you've ever seen to a nasty I-am-so-disgusted-by-what-you-just-suggested scowl. And, of course, you can't laugh because this is very serious stuff.

I just hope I can catch that scowl on camera one day!

The Boy and His Bear

The Boy has a brown bear we've dubbed "Tommy Bear" because he came to us wearing a Who T-shirt. That was about a year and a half ago. Since then, Tommy Bear has become The Boy's faithful companion and best friend.

Tommy Bear has to go everywhere with us now. It's beyond a comforting toy at bedtime. He accompanies us in the car on the way to school. He sits down for meals with us. He even uses the potty (and, to date, is the only one willing to sit on it for longer than a few seconds). The Boy insists Tommy Bear joins us when we go to the theme parks, run errands, or go anywhere in the car. And he has to be buckled into his seat. Safety is important, after all.

This past weekend, he instructed my husband to put Tommy Bear in the driver's seat and was adamant that Tommy Bear would drive us to dinner with my sister and her family, visiting from New York for the long weekend. When Big Daddy buckled Tommy Bear into the back seat beside the convertible car seat, The Boy howled until I explained quite plainly that Tommy Bear did not have a driver's license and therefore was unable to drive the car.

I think having Tommy Bear helps The Boy express himself. He tells Tommy Bear to eat in the mornings, insists that he wash his paws after meals (Big Daddy helps the bear "wash"), watches TV with him, reads to him, talks to him, and counts with him. I've been told numerous times that "Baesh" (bear) needs to have his diaper changed, needs to wear pants, needs socks, needs to eat yogurt, needs his own bowl of cereal... The list goes on.

I'm glad I heeded my sister's advice and bought a "twin" as soon as I noticed The Boy was latching on to his bear. This month, I've needed to swap them three times - and one is currently in the wash after peeing in the middle of the night. (Tommy Bear was the one who wet himself, you see, and it just happened to get on The Boy and all the bedding.)

I've read that it's common for 2-year-olds to have imaginary friends, and I think Tommy Bear is filling that role. I'm thankful The Boy at least has a tangible friend that we can see. I can't imagine the changes in our routines if his friend was imaginary!

Raw nerves

The teething monster has returned, and this time, it stops for nothing.

(Cue dramatic music.)

I shall never never never ever again remark how easy the First-Year molars were on our house (neverminding the stomach bug and hand-foot-and-mouth disease that accompanied it).

No, you will never hear that story again from me. And do you know why?

Because whatever pains The Boy was spared when those First-Years came erupted he is now experiencing, and in spades. For the past two nights, he has refused to go to sleep - regardless of fatigue - and will only eventually fall asleep if Big Daddy or I are holding him. I managed to get him to sleep in his crib last night by propping a pillow under his head, but that didn't last long. His robust toddler cries have been reduced to helpless infant mewling, accented with the occasional, "Ow! Oooooooow!"

It's enough to make me want to cry.

I can take some small comfort in the fact that we'll have a reprieve once the Second-Year molars arrive. The next time The Boy will teethe, he'll be around six years old and able to express himsef verbally and understand why he's in pain.

But for now, I've never been so grateful to have my job to escape from the teething monster, especially knowing he has fabulous teachers at daycare who are able to distract him from the pain.

Really?

I don't get this kid.

We just struggled through dinner because he wasn't hungry (I let him have a late snack - bad Mommy, I know) and finally let him out of his booster seat to wander the house. It was that or continue watching him struggle to get out of his seat, complete with grunts and alternating cries of "Ow!" and "Stuck!"

Then, as I'm clearing the table and putting things away, I see him on the floor next to the refrigerator - crunching on something. When I try to open his mouth to investigate, he clamps his jaws and won't let me look. Soon after, he apparently swallowed whatever he was eating because the crunching stopped.

I can't get him to eat his dinner of pasta and chicken, but he'll find some random crumb or piece of stale cereal on the floor and feel compelled to eat it.

I just don't get it.

"What drives you?"

I've been contemplating this question for a while.

I get into these moods, you see, where the wheels in my head start spinning and I wonder what my purpose is. After all, everyone has a purpose, or so I've always believed. So what is my purpose? What drives me? What makes me jump out of bed in the morning?

Well, lately, increasing cries of, "Mama! Mama! Maaaaaaamaaaaaaaa!" propel me out of bed. It's hardly an enthusiastic leap out of bed, especially when such cries happen at 4:45 in the morning and you realize any attempts at getting this small child to fall back asleep are futile. As much as I adore my child, I wouldn't say that this "drives" me (though it does sometimes drive me crazy).*

There are a lot of non-baby things I like to do. I like to write. I like to scrapbook. I like to make greeting cards. I like taking pictures. I like to cook.

And I'm good at these things. But none of them drive me.

I was thinking of this again today after my session with Gena. She is going to be a certified personal trainer. She loves fitness and nutrition, she loves getting other people to move, she loves working out. A perfect profession for her would be a fitness instructor at a school or a personal trainer. She could probably figure out a way to do both if she wanted to.

And me? I'm an analyst by profession. That's what my business cards say, anyway. I like my job. I like the company for which I work and I like the people with whom I work. Can I see myself doing this for another 20 years or so? Sure. But does it excite me? No.

I just don't know what does.


* I will say that the cries for "Maaaaaaaamaaaaaaaaaa!" are infinitely better than the panicked non-verbal mewling cries of an infant. It doesn't make it more enjoyable to leap out of bed and rush to his room, but at least it's easier on the ears.

Where does he learn these things?

When I opened the door from the garage tonight, I heard Big Daddy talking to The Boy.

"You tricked Daddy!" he said. Apparently, The Boy was playing with his toy phone while Big Daddy prepared his own dinner. The Boy handed the receiver to Big Daddy, and when he took it, The Boy grabbed a hamburger bun off his father's plate and took a bite before returning it as though nothing had happened.

When he saw me, he eagerly ambled over to me and began to tell me all about his afternoon. Most of it was standard fare, but then he started telling me about playing baseball. (And yes, he actually says "baseball".)

Big Daddy told me The Boy was trying to play baseball. He would take a (small plush) ball, toss it into the air, and try to hit it with a drumstick. When he realized how difficult that was, he propped the ball onto the coffee table and swung at it with the drumstick, instead. Then he placed a drumstick in Tommy Bear's paw and pitched the ball to him.

I have to ask his teachers about this because we don't play baseball. We (clearly) don't have a bat in the house, we don't have a baseball in the house, and we don't watch baseball on TV. So he must have picked it up at school, right?

So, really, I don't need to get back in shape for myself. I need to set a good example for The Boy, first and foremost, and be able to keep up with him no matter what sport he wants to play. The personal fitness aspect is just an added bonus.

But baseball? Really? I can't even hit a ball when it's propped up on a tee!

I'm NOT going out in this weather!

In my attempts to regain a semblance of the pre-Mommy me, I spoke to my friend Gena about the possibility of having her train me. As she is still working on getting certified as a personal trainer, she agreed but refuses to accept any money from me. She would, essentially, have me do exercises that target key areas, assign "homework" on the days I don't see her, etc. I, in turn, would be her guinea pig and do whatever she asks.

Gena's work schedule right now is such that she is working her regular job Tuesdays through Thursdays, which means we have Mondays and Fridays to get together during my lunch break. We began our sessions last Friday, during which she had me work on my arms to tone the muscle there. Because I'm occassionally lifting and carrying a little man of 30 pounds (fully clothed with shoes), I discovered I had more upper body strength than I initially believed. But I was certainly feeling it over the weekend!

On Monday, we focused on abs and legs. On Tuesday, feeling sore but functional, I played the part of hamster at lunchtime and walked/ran two miles on a treadmill while a coworker used the elliptical at our office gym. Yesterday, still sore but in different ways, I chose to go to Target for a few necessities and walked two laps around my neighborhood last night. And today, I visited a friend's very ill mother during my lunch hour with every intention of doing laps around the neighborhood again tonight.

Only, the skies opened and poured (much needed) rain upon my house. And it's still going. So I'm not doing laps.

I'm a slacker, I know.

On Customer Service

I mentioned last week that I placed an order for Antsy Pants training pants for my son. They haven't arrive yet, but I unexpectedly received a message from the company owner/founder regarding a post at my other blog. It just so happened that she was perusing the Internet and came across my post! We exchanged a few e-mails regarding the color of my the pants in my order (I was initially disappointed that I wouldn't be able to get them all in a natural color, and she sold me on getting colored training pants to help distinguish them from diapers), and I was simply amazed to discover that she makes them on her own!

Good Lord. I got just beyong threading my sewing machine before my brain began to hurt and I set it to the side (with every intention of picking it back up again). I can churn out greeting cards by the dozen, but sewing articles of clothing - cute and functional articles of clothing, to be more specific - is beyond me.

Anyway, she's making them (possibly as I type), and I'll have them before the long weekend. I also promised to give her feedback as soon as we get a chance to test them. I'm the type of person who will brag to everyone she knows about a product that she loves, but I'll also tell the world about things I don't like - and I won't be nice about it, either. But if these Antsy Pants are anything like the level of customer service I've received, be on the lookout for some rave reviews!

I used to work at a high-end housewares store. As part of the management team, I was tasked with finding non-monetary ways to motivate our team to raise our customer service scores. It wasn't an easy task, but as a store, we collectively managed to raise our annual overall score almost 17 percentage points. It was a matter of taking materials provided to us by the corporate office, fully understanding and (most importantly) buying into the concept, and executing it in its entirety with every guest who came through the door. When you work in a service industry (as retail is), the customer has the ability to make or break your establishment.

Part of my job now is to analyze recent customer service evaluations and provide feedback on areas of subpar performance. It's a little maddening sometimes when I see the same comments every month, but I like seeing positive results, and I feel like I've made a contribution when I see the overall scores improve.

So, it warms my heart to receive great customer service from establishments I patronize. I always find it easy to part with my money when I receive great service, and then I'm the first to tell everyone I know where they need to spend their money, too.