Nuts

When Bob was about a year old, we gave him mashed strawberries. He loved them. Wolfed them down. Covered his giant cheeks in them. Thirty minutes later he developed gigantic hives all over his backside.

I called our pediatrician who said, “Sounds like a strawberry allergy. He might outgrow it. You can try again next year.” Solid advice.

After a little (frantic, exhaustive, compulsive) research on the subject (following the top 25 Google threads for the search: baby food allergies) I read that a child with one food allergy is predisposed to having more and that those allergy-prone kids should wait to try peanuts and shellfish until they are three years-old.

Too late with the shellfish since Bob had already enjoyed (with impunity) a shrimp shu mai from a rolling dim sum cart at Ocean Star Sea Food in Monterey Park. I moved on. By “moved on” I mean that I put some thought (worry, insanity) into the peanut thing.

I decided I would pick a date on the calendar, a random Friday after Bob’s third birthday. On that day, I would pack up Bob’s medical records and health insurance information and drive to the parking lot at the emergency room of Cedars Sinai Medical Center. (Statistically, Friday is the slowest day at the ER.) Clutching my cell phone, with my finger hovering over the speed dial number for his pediatrician, I would feed Bob a small spoonful of peanut butter and wait to see if he went into anaphylactic shock.

That was my, you know, loose plan.

Fast forward to last summer. Bob had been two for a month or so. As we sat at the park having lunch with some other families, a mom asked if Bob was eating peanut butter. Jeff and I replied simultaneously:

ME: We’re waiting until he’s three.
JEFF: He loves peanut butter!

Apparently, Bob had been enjoying peanut butter sandwiches with dad for a few months and had lived to request more.

And also the strawberry thing went away.

The other good news is that statistically, Bob will have at least a 50% chance of not being an insanely overprotective type who spends too much time analyzing statistics and hanging out at WebMd and MayoClinic.com.

Tripping

When Bob was nine months old he and I traveled to Berlin to meet up with Jeff who was on tour with his band. I had already flown many times before with Bob, but never without another grown-up in our travel party. I had booked us on a red-eye, the idea being that we would get on the plane close to Bob’s bedtime and that we could both sleep for most of the 10½ hour first leg of our trip – the flight from Los Angeles to Paris. That is not what happened.

If you have ever had the pleasure of flying in the same plane with a small child and you have an excruciating story to tell of the noise and ad hoc airplane specific hell raised by that tiny being, you may have been on our flight. I’ll spare you the details but know that when we landed in France, I called Jeff to tell him that we would be moving to Paris because I refused to ever board a plane again.

There were two subsequent flights in that particular itinerary. Neither was as bad as the first but that is not saying much since the terror of flight number one could have only been eclipsed by an emergency crash landing. Maybe.

That was the last time I flew with Bob.

Tomorrow we are booked on a flight to Portland. We are headed to Oregon to attend a wedding. There are many things working in our favor. Jeff will be with us this time. Bob is excited about the trip. We have books and toys and snacks and a CARES Harness. The flight is relatively short at just under two hours. All good. Piece of cake. Sweet, sweet panicky cake.

I am trying to ignore the teensy, little, anxious, post-traumatic stress disordered piece of my soul that will forever be circling the Charles de Gaulle airport. Bob is a year and a half older but he is also a year and a half louder.

If you are currently booked on American Airlines Flight 7582 BUR to PDX, you might consider making other arrangements.

Big Shoes

About this photo:

I took this picture on Monday.

The last time Bob decided to try on his Dad’s shoes and I had a camera handy was a year ago.

In that previous photo, he is wearing these same pajamas.

The answer to your question is: Size 15

At the moment this photo was taken, Bob is deciding which eight dinosaur stickers he will use to pull three layers of paint off of the built-in cabinet.

Someone needs to put down the camera and let in the dog.

Percy

My cousin Kim and her three boys passed along a wonderful, wooden Thomas the Tank Engine set of tracks and trains to my son Bob. He adores it. Like many guys his age, he worships dutifully at the altar of Thomas. It is a large collection and Bob has developed a particular fondness for a train named Percy.

Percy is a green, number six, 0-4-0, Avonside, saddle-tank engine and has the distinction of being Thomas’s best friend. He is also pretty close with Bob and travels with us most of the time.

On a recent outing to Von’s, Bob sat in the shopping cart as we waited to check out. He asked for his beloved train. After I fished around in my purse for a minute I realized that I had left Percy at home. This didn’t sit well with Bob. He began wailing loudly for Percy. Also, Bob has not yet mastered the pronunciation of the sound made by the letter “R.”

“I want P***y!”

“I need P***y!”

“Where’s the P***y?”

“I need P***y! I need it! I need it!”

I explained to the laughing folks that made up the rest of the line, “He really misses his cat.”

Little Emcee

Our son Bob is obsessed with the 2009 Grammy awards. Through the miracle that is TiVo, in the last five months he has watched his favorite musical performances from the show no less than 60 times. More specifically, he wants to see Coldplay, The Reverend Al Green, Carrie Underwood, U2, and Radiohead. In that order.

Bob started (first 20 or so views) just quietly watching with a polite golf clap after each performance. He then began throwing in a few dance moves during "Viva La Vida". Radiohead’s performance of "15 Step" accompanied by the USC Marching Band was, at our house, further accompanied by Bob Rosenberg on the recorder. Finally, in the past month, he has taken to imitating the introductions to the bands.

“Ladies and gentleman, Reverend Al Green!”

“And now, U2!”

“My former tour mate, Carrie Underwood!”

The intros have started bleeding into other areas of life.

“Ladies and gentleman, bath time!”

“Next up, dinner!”

This week Bob took it to another level. He was tucked in for bedtime prayers. As we put our hands together, he cried out, “Wait! My intro!” He stood up, beat out a tidy little drum solo on the wall and then announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, God!”

Amen.

Radiohead - 15 Step (Grammys 2009)


Family Friday is a thingy at a Mama Blog I like at Homemaker Barbi.com.

They Say It's Your Birthday

Our kid Bob loves birthdays and everything about them. Once he gets to know you, he will want to know what month your birthday is in and will memorize this information so that he can be prepared for future cake and balloons.

We play “pretend birthday” a lot at our house. Bob has a small wooden birthday cake that he decorates. There is singing of the classic Happy Birthday song, including the “and many more” tag. There is the ceremonial blowing out of the pretend candles. The wooden cake is cut and distributed around the house to pets and people. There is make-believe eating, exaggerated swallowing, and much belly rubbing. We are also given our new age for the day.

Today it was my pretend birthday. After blowing out the “candles,” I accepted my piece of triangular wood. I then asked Bob the traditional question, “How old am I today?” He replied, “You are seven days a week.”

I am choosing to take this as a compliment.

The Beav: A One Act

Someone who sells nice photos to istockphoto.com took this.

THE BEAV

(Jeff has just arrived home from work. He enters through the front door. Bob rushes to greet him.)

BOB

Daddy! Daddy! I have a beaver!

JEFF

Wow! What does that mean?

BOB

I have a beaver! I am bea-ver-ish.

ME

He has a fever. 100.6°

JEFF

Oh. Are you OK Buddy?

BOB

I have a hundred beaver Daddy.

JEFF

He seems a little off.

ME

It’s the children’s Tylenol talking and you know, he has a beaver.

BOB

No Mama, beavers are animals. I have beaver, not a beaver animal.

ME

Right.

BOB

I love animals.


END SCENE

Smacksy Sunday Link: Listen Up

Bob Rosenberg
Bob: One Ear, Self Portrait, 2009
chalk on concrete

There have been moments where my kid is so tuning me out that I have worried that he had some type of medical hearing issue. I then do my own version of a hearing test by inserting the word "zoo", or "cake", or "chocolate" into a sentence. I am then greeted by an immediate response from my previously un-hearing child: “We are going now?” “You have some now?” “We are eating some now?” I am again assured that yes he heard me and yes he was choosing not to respond and yes I feel like ever so gently beating my head against the wall. Again.

I have returned over and over to the article, 25 Ways to Talk So Your Children Will Listen. It’s a great read on the Dr. Sears website with lots of ideas (um… 25 of them) for approaching the small and not so small who are hearing us but choosing not to listen. I have read and re-read this thing trying to burn all of these communication skills into my exhausted-from-all-of-the-nagging brain. (The link will take you to a splash page that gives you the option of signing up for the email newsletter. If you don't wanna sign up and just want to read the article, you can click through by clicking on the red "Ask Dr. Sears" link on the page.)

So yeah, the ears aren’t the problem. Like Paul Newman says in Cool Hand Luke, “What we’ve got here is a failure to communicate.” You know, and then they shoot him.

Anatomy: 105

This photo was taken by someone who owns a fancy camera.

Sometime back in the olden days, long before Bob was sporting big boy undies (sometime pre-27 days ago), my mom was changing his diaper and Bob sprung a leak, as boys are prone to do. As the pee geyser shot through the air, Bob’s grandma called out in her sweet Texas panhandle accent, “We need to cover his little pecker!” (Cue hacky 1970s needle scratch sound effect.)
“Wait. What?" I said, ignoring the urine dripping from the dresser.
“His pecker.”
“Really?”
“I don’t know! What am I supposed to call it? A weenie? I had a girl!”
“They told me it’s a penis.”
“Penis.”
She somehow makes "penis" a three-syllable word.
I love her so much.

Anatomy: 104

The Penis Monologues

Bob is still spending a great deal of energy examining the male/female thing.
Just like the rest of us.

We are in the car on the way to the library.

“Daddy has a penis?” Bob asks.

“Yes.”

“I have a penis?”

“Yes you do.”

“Does Pops have a penis?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t have a penis.”

“No, I do not.”

“Does Elmo have a penis?”

“Um, no.”

“But Elmo is a boy. He has a penis.”

“Elmo is a muppet, he is pretend, not a boy.”

“Elmo is a boy! He has a boy penis! Elmo is not pretend! I saw him!”

“I’m sorry, you’re right. Elmo has a penis.”

“Bob the Builder? Does Bob the Builder have a penis?”

“Uh… yes?”

“What about Coldplay? What’s that guy’s name?”

“Chris Martin?”

“Does Chris Martin have a penis?”

“Yes.”

“Where does he keep it?”

“Trick question.”

“Where is Chris Martin’s penis?’

“London?”

“What?”

“The Hamptons?”

Anatomy: 103

As directed by the professionals, we had been working to teach Bob the anatomically correct names for the parts that people usually cover with their underpants. He is now focusing on the differences between the sexes.

On a recent car ride back from Von’s, I heard this running monologue from the backseat.

“I have a penis. You have a bagina. Mama has a bagina because she is a woman, a lady woman with a lady bagina and I have a penis because I am a boy. I am a boy with a penis because I am a boy. Who else has a bagina? Lots of ladies have them and there are also men with penises. Does Daisy have a bagina? I don’t have a bagina because I am a boy. Daisy is a woman lady dog with a dog bagina and she is not a boy. I am a boy and not a lady dog and there are lots of penises out there. Lots of man penises. Daddy is a man and he has a penis.”

As we pull into the driveway, Bob notices our sweet, semi-retired neighbor, Miss Belva, on her front lawn with her Chihuahua, Tidbit.

“Oh! Miss Belva! It’s Miss Belva! Does Miss Belva have a bagina? Does Miss Belva have a bagina? I have to talk to Miss Belva! We should have a talk.”

“Yes. I’m sure Miss Belva does have one Bob and no, you do not need to talk to her right now.”

“Want to talk to her now! Miss Belva! Miss Belva! Out of the car mama! Need to talk to Miss Belva! She has a bagina!”

I wondered how long we could sit idling in the driveway before the car would run out of gas.

Anatomy: 102

Last year, at Bob’s 24-month pediatric check-up, Dr. Bess let me know that our son would soon become curious about his body. She told me that he might soon notice that parts of his body were similar to daddy's while mommy's parts looked a little different.

Dr. Bess instructed that we should use the anatomically correct terms for body parts. I nodded in agreement, “Right. Of course.” Implying that I know that this is correct from all of those Parents magazine articles and the emails from BabyCenter.com and just being in the modern parent loop. I did know this.

And of course, we had been referring to Bob's penis and testicles as his "pee pee" and "nutsmens". I didn't share this.

Anatomy: 101

Bob Rosenberg

Oh! I forgot a body, Portrait of Daddy, 2009
crayon on paper

Bob Reclining: A One Act

The potty training is oh so rewarding. Progress is being made. Our boy is a tiny potty using machine. One of Bob’s favorite benefits of this new big boy underpants arrangement is his unprecedented easy access to his nether regions.

BOB RECLINING

(5:20 PM. BOB is relaxing on the couch. One of his hands rests casually inside of his pants. I enter from the kitchen)

ME

What’s going on there buddy?

BOB

I have my hand on my balls.

ME

Oh?

BOB

(whispers)
They are very fragile.


END SCENE

Pump It Up

When Bob was still tiny, my friend Shelley gave me this excellent advice, “Never play ‘kid’s music’ in the car.” She warned that hearing Raffi, Kermit, Barney, et al, while driving would cause me to want to repeatedly beat my head against the dashboard, especially when stuck on the 405.

We have mostly heeded this advice. When we have not, we always regretted it. We give Bob a wide range of choices and he narrows it down by some mysterious set of criteria known only to him. Being in charge of the first tier of choices is a good thing. I’d much rather hear Harry Belafonte, Radiohead, Iggy Pop, and the Beach Boys than the big purple dinosaur.

We have also tried a CD of music for kids, recorded by not-for-kids musicians. Although Colours Are Brighter features artists including Belle and Sebastian, Snow Patrol, and Flaming Lips among others, it’s still music written for kids. It’s an OK half way point between music-you-would-voluntarily-listen-to and the gun-to-your-head variety. (Although I’ve heard “Go Go Ninja Dinosaur” by Four Tet so many times now that I am both a ninja and also a dinosaur.)

I understand that kids love repetition and at this age, that’s how they learn. I also understand that one can be the biggest David Bowie fan in the world but when one’s kid wants to hear “Jean Genie” for the 124th time in a row “one” can be a wee bit tempted to hurl the Diamond Dogs CD out the sunroof of the speeding station wagon. Nevertheless, the 2,000th time you hear Elvis Costello’s “Pump It Up” is still better than the first time you hear “Callie the Race Car” from the Kindermusik CD.

I'll take it.

The Nature of Change

Those that know me, might tell you that I have just the tiniest touch of perfectionism and control-freakishness. (How dare they?)

For a lifetime I have battled my own assumption that there would come a time when everyone would be healthy, well-rested and getting along, the fridge and wallets would be full, the floor swept, the dishes done, the weeds pulled, some saint will have picked up the dry-cleaning, work would be fun and fulfilling, our flossing habits would be legendary, and the pets would carry around their own lint rollers. Once this formula was unlocked, it all would (and this is key) stay that way. This was the imaginary finish line that I was running towards, trying to make it all happen. Consciously, I know that this is not how it works but still I would find myself trying to get There.

The Greek philosopher Heraclitus (smart guy, unfortunate name) is credited with saying that, “The only thing constant is change”. I know this to be true and I am really, really trying to “get it”. There is one person (besides The Oprah) who is really helping me to absorb this idea: My Kid.

There’s the matter of him changing daily. It was just last weekend that Bob was a tiny, squishy baby. Now he’s a talking, running, singing, climbing, hugging, drawing, building, boy-person.

He will wake from a nap and it is painfully obvious that he has grown 2 inches in the last 3 hours. He is all change all the time; a new word, a new fear, a new sweetness, a new sound, a new number, a new trick, a new friend, a new something; every 20 minutes.

Also, Bob notices the change in everything.

“Mama, the trees are making some colors.”

“That big spider has a web. Does the spider like to get hugs?”

“Are these new flowers for eating? They smell like pink clouds.”

“Mama? You finished all the ice cream? Oh, Mama…”

Really, everything.

So, with Bob's help I do my best to remember that Here is the only There that counts. I know that Here is messy and perfectly imperfect and fleeting and crazy and beautiful.

I know that Here is uncontrollable and that is the nature of change and that is a blessing.


You Capture is a weekly photo challenge at a mama blog I like:
I Should Be Folding Laundry
This week's challenge is: Nature
In my photo above, I am watching Bob, watching nature.

Smacksy Saturday Photo: Fast

Why should I practice running slow? I already know how to run slow. I want to learn to run fast. - Emil Zátopek

Feeling Fast
This is a boy feeling fast.
Feeling fast and speed and wind and power.
Feeling asphalt and leaves and grass and dirt.
Feeling on your marks and get set and go and GO.
All with a juice box chaser.


You Capture is a weekly photo challenge at a mama blog I like:
I Should Be Folding Laundry
This week's challenge: Feel
It was fun.

Smacksy Sunday Link: The Timer

We limit the TV watching time for our son Bob to no more than an hour a day. This was cause for some rough negotiations with the guy who “needed” to watch just a few more minutes of The Wiggles/Yo Gabba Gabba/Barney/Teletubbies/Thomas the Tank Engine/Toot and Puddle/Rev. Al Green Performing Live (Tivo’d) on the Grammy’s .

After months of tears and pleading (Bob), and threats and whining (me), I tried a new tactic that has been working beautifully. My new BFF: The Timer. When Bob sits down to watch a show, we set our kitchen timer for 20 minutes and when the bell rings, it’s time to turn the TV off. For some reason this seems reasonable to Bob and he will alert us that, “It ringed!” and move on to another activity. The 20 minute time frame allows for 2 more TV viewings at other times in the day but mostly, we never get to them.

After employing our new timer method for over a month now, it’s still holding up. Since then, we have only had cause to buy one new timer after the old one mysteriously ended up in the toilet.

I’m finding out that the timer idea is nothing new, just new to me. I found this post on www.wellgroundedlife.com. It has some great ideas using the timer for maximizing productivity and staying focused and other things you shouldn’t be worrying about until after the weekend.

Happy Sunday.

Potty Training Day 10: A One Act

It's day 10 and counting. Bob’s got the pee pee in the potty thing down. He lets us know when he’s got to go. He occasionally checks in to let us know when he doesn’t have to go, just to keep us in the pee pee loop. He will tell people behind us in line at Von's, "I'm dry!" He has even conquered his fear of public restrooms. (We’re still working on mine.) Lots of progress in the pees department, yet poops in the potty, are proving to be more elusive.

DAY 10

(4:15 PM. BOB and our dog DAISY are playing in the backyard. I enter the backyard from the house.)

ME

Hi guys. What are you doing?

BOB

(Running to greet ME)
Mama! I had a poo poo outside!

ME

You did? Oh no. Where did you do that?

BOB

(points to a small smear on the concrete)
Here!

ME

There's nothing there. Where's your poo poo?

BOB

It's in Daisy's tummy!

END SCENE

All the Beasts of the Field

I am absolutely not immune to the anxious, worried, first time parent thing. By “not immune” I mean I am an anxious, worried, first time parent. I frequently (constantly) check the developmental charts to determine how our son measures up. I understand that every child develops at his own rate and that average ages for developmental milestones vary from kid to kid but I like to know where he’s landing within the spectrum. I also know that I am a little insane in this area and resisted the urge to call the pediatrician when Bob still hadn’t mastered the use of a straw at 28 months. Like everything else, it happened. Eventually. When he was ready.

Bob is a sweet, smart, happy, guy so it took some real effort to find something to be concerned about. Last summer, I decided to start worrying about what I perceived as Bob’s lack of imagination. Bob enjoys facts. He likes to know the names of things. “What is that building called? What is that truck called? “What is that bird called?”

At a little over 2 years old, he went about systematically memorizing the names of the continents, the planets, the streets between the market and our house, the 7 wonders of the ancient world and, the countries on the globe. (Djibouti is his favorite. It’s fun to say Djibouti.)

As crazy advanced as Bob’s memory was, I worried that he did not seem capable of make-believe. I became somewhat (completely) fixated on the fact that he was not interested in naming his stuffed animals, but rather wanted to know their “real” names. When I told him that they did not have names yet and that he could name them anything he wanted, he stared at me exasperated, “No mama. What are they called?”

He was unwilling to create names for his toys and we weren't going to do it for him so, by default, they were known as black dog, small bunny, big bunny and the like. He was suspicious of me and annoyed that I wouldn’t just tell him the big sheep’s real name.

Fast forward to the beginning of this year. My mom received a small, plush, white pony from her bank as a gift for opening a new account. My mom gave the pony to Bob who loved it immediately and carried it through the house, showing the pony around. That evening while tucking Bob in for the night, he held up his new friend and said, “Say goodnight to Wallace.”

"Kenny" and "Kenny's Dad"

"Brick"

"Getty"

"Jeez-Louise"

"Gene"

"Willy" (Jeff thinks Bob's saying "Lilly")

"Cash"

"Uncle Thomas"