Inside Out and Backwards

Oliver is turning five at the end of March, and I kind of can't believe it. Maybe it's because he was my first baby, but I still think of him as a little guy. Well - little in spirit, since he's roughly the size of a very short middle school child...


And truly, he's so far from toddlerdom, I can't even pretend anymore. He doesn't need me nearly as much as he used to. He can get himself a snack - typically not the kind I would have selected for him...but still. He can turn on lights (yeah - electric bill!) and the television. He can even dress himself although his apathy for wearing clothes makes for some rather incomplete outfits - usually missing pants.


And he never ceases to amaze me with his talent for putting on any shirt inside out and backwards.

Anyway - I can't help but think about how the apron strings still firmly knotted through his belt loops just keep getting longer and longer. Now, when we play outside, he'll often disappear from my line of sight. Something that would once have been the source of a panicked sprint in the direction I last saw him and possibly some pre-hysterical yelling of his name. Now I lean toward a much calmer mosey and unconcerned yoo-hooing for his return to the fold. Of course, that's typically followed by some bellowing about notdoingthatnottouchingthatnoteatingthat... But that's another issue altogether.


When he was a newborn, we lived in a third floor condo apartment. The trash chute was only four doors down from ours, but for the life of me, I could not bring myself to leave my tiny baby alone for five seconds to take out the garbage. I was convinced that I would one day lock myself out while my son lay trapped in the apartment, wailing from fear and hunger.


So I did what any other concerned mother would do - I took him with me. And holding Oliver in one arm while I used my other hand to carry that one trash bag was pretty easy. Even opening the door to the trash room was simple enough. The complications began when I had to open the chute.

It opened in much the same way that a mailbox does, but there was a latch that needed to be held down in order to pull the handle. Most definitely a two hand job. While I could open the chute with one hand, I still needed to hold it open so I could lift the bag into it. And this presented an entirely new venue for my mania.

Since my other hand was already in use for baby detail, I had to look to other body parts for assistance. Unfortunately, the chute was located too high on the wall for me to secure it with my foot or my hip. So left with waist up options, the only feasible candidate was my elbow.

The process was that I would first open the chute with my right hand. Then, holding that down, I'd press Oliver to my chest with my left arm and rest that elbow on the open door. Then, as I cut off his oxygen supply, I would say approximately five Hail Marys while I let go with my right hand and used it to pick up the trash bag, even thought I'm technically not Catholic and hadn't been to Mass in years. Then I dropped it in the chute, and the minute it left my grasp I would wrap both arms tightly around Oliver and say prayers of thanks to God for not letting me drop my baby with the trash.

Every day.

You would think I'd pull out the stroller for this - but what can I say? A mother's love and paranoia go far beyond reason.

As the year went on, I took the CA-RAY-ZEE down a notch and relaxed a bit. I could watch my toddler run around on the grass and not worry about every stumble and scraped knee. While I hated the idea of him being hurt in any way, I knew that the falls were inevitable and all part of learning to stand, walk, run...grow. Like all other mothers, I knew that I had to let go a little. And the apron strings lengthened.


Having the twins when Oliver was still a baby himself probably helped. I simply didn't have the luxury of time for unnecessary worry. I embraced the old adage that children bounce and just held my breath (and said a few Hail Marys) when I saw him doing something perfectly normal that still made me nervous.

But I'd be lying if I claimed to take everything in stride. There was always a resonance deep below my love and pride for my children that screamed, "DON'T...STOP...DANGER!" And sometimes it was pretty hard to ignore. I could turn myself inside out from the fear that anything could happen. That every step they took away from me could lead them into forces beyond my control. What if Oliver tripped on the stairs and broke his neck? What if a rabid squirrel attacked him? What if a big crack opened up in the ground? The possibilities were endless.

Fortunately, I am not a complete psychopath and never take this beyond ordinary watchful wariness. But the irony of the situation is that my big beautiful boy who has never been seriously ill or hurt in his life continues be a constant source of worry for me.

No - not just worry...fear. Bone chilling, stomach churning fear of the far more possible what ifs. What if he still can't hold real conversations by the time he starts Kindergarten in the Fall? What if he's so awkward that the other kids are cruel to him? What if he starts to realize that he's different...an outsider...?

I put up this strong front of not caring what anyone else thinks, and I actually don't - for myself. But I do care for him. I care so much - too much, and it tears me up inside to imagine him feeling any less than a bright, sensitive boy so full of potential.


But those apron strings aren't retractable. I can't stop him from falling. All I can do is be at the ready with bandaids and open arms. They'll always be there as long as he'll have them. Which won't be forever...but again, that's another issue altogether...

Please don't comment with the "you're such a good mom" pats on the back, because the truth is - I'm not. Or at least, I could be so much better when it comes to this oldest child of my heart. I hate research...I'm terrible at schedules and structure...I have of yet to discover effective punishment for bad behavior... This doesn't come naturally to me - this mothering of a special needs child. I'm good at the love, patience and acceptance part - but not so good at the "work" involved.

But I'm trying. I sit with Oliver and help him practice his pencil grip. I encourage him to work on the things that would be easy for him if he just tried. I wheedle him into trying the things that don't come so easily with baby steps and little pressure. And I watch as he dresses, no matter how long it takes, reminding him to stay focused. I show him how to make sure his shirt isn't inside out and correct him when he starts to put in on backwards.

And he's learning. His shirt is now rarely inside out and backwards.

For a few years now, my heart has felt inside out and backwards. But I'm learning too. And with a little time, I think I'll get it right.

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ELSEWHERE:

On Wishing True...

Interiors in Art from Mariska Meijers

Beautiful Bangles from Kate Spade

On Style Key West...

Outdoor Living

One of the Best Reasons to Get an iPhone

Unless you have your camera in your hand at all times of course...because I don't.

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ELSEWHERE:

On Wishing True...

Bar Art from Kelly McDonald

Renovated Spaces from Sarah's House

Today at Style Key West: LuLu DK Fabric Design

I'm over at Style Key West today reporting on a fabric line that features some images of the inspiration behind their designs.

What do you think they could come up with from this?

Fascinating. Do stop by and take a peek.

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ELSEWHERE:


On Wishing True...
Shoes Art from Fifi Flowers

Sometimes I Really Do Put Some Thought into Parenting...

So what if there are a few mornings here and there that find my children eating Goldfish crackers for breakfast. And ice cream isn't the worst snack in the world - it is full of calcium for growing bones. And a little vacuum dirt never hurt anyone (like your kids don't put their mouths on everything in the house at some point or another!). And if my oldest wants to wear Cars underwear with his brother and sister because it's fun and he doesn't care if he looks like an exploding sausage in them? So be it.





I allow myself those lapses in judgement because I do make up for it in others ways. Visit me at DC Metro Moms to read more (and seriously - PLEASE read this since it's the only "real" post that I've written in weeks).

Did you catch that? This is not a real post - it's a sign post for the one over at DC Metro Moms. Where I tend to publish material that doesn't involve pictures of bald My Little ponies or yet another pretty picture from a decor blog. So yeah - I kind of want you to read it...

Bald Ponies and Darwin's Parallel Universe

Toys, books, clothes, brands...the "kid" market has seen epic growth in the past 50+ years. And during that time people have made entire careers in research, test marketing and quality control for all of those products and services.

So you would think that they would be pretty good at this by now. That they could identify mistakes and problems that would be immediately obvious to the parents who are buying this stuff.

And for the most part they are. But I tend to think they're a little too busy arguing over exactly how many eye slants should be available for a Mii or whether the clasp on the American Girl doll's Kelly bag truly replicates the original. Because sometimes the less subtle details slip through the cracks...

OR maybe it's just getting what you pay for. The good people at Nintento and American Girl are probably hiring all of the best "talent" and the less sexy jobs are filled with mediocre professionals who don't care enough to bring their A game to the drafting board.

This would explain some rather disturbing things that I've found in our toy box lately.


First - the cheap My Little Ponies that I recently bought for Eleanor (you know how she loves her Ponies). These mini-sized versions are more novelty item than toy and don't include the luxurious magenta manes that make the original ponies so beloved by little girls all over the world. Instead, they are 100% plastic. Kind of like My Little Pony action figures.


They look pretty normal right? Well - that's what I thought until the boys got hold of them and proceeded to snap off their manes.

But here is the disturbing part: the ponies aren't broken. The pony hair seems to be removable. It snaps right back on.

So then I thought it might be a mix and match manes thing... Not so much. The manes are pony-specific. So what does this mean? Why is that fun? How does removable hair figure into play? Do little girls play "Pinkie Pie goes goes to her chemo treatment?" Chemo ponies don't seem like a big seller to me...

Joking aside - it's just cheap construction. Probably involving sweat shop labor in a third world country.

What bothers me more is a disturbing trend I've found in some children's literature. We have at least two books that turn Darwin's survival of the fittest theory on its head.

Now, I understand that if you are going to read books about animals who walk, talk, wear clothes, go to school and live in houses with central air, you have to exercise some suspension of disbelief. But I also think that the writers should be somewhat responsible about it.

If a children's book author decides to "go there," then I honestly believe that they should be thorough and consider the implications attached to everything from turns of phrase to illustration details. Sadly, it seems that poor choices and flat out hack writing prevail.

Two books in particular keep me up at night. One of which is The True Francine by Marc Brown.


Those of you with children who watch (or those of you who are young enough to remember watching) Arthur, the popular children's show may be familiar with this series and the characters in it - all of whom are animals.

I won't even get into how they live in the same community yet manage to maintain all bunny/all monkey/all mouse/etc. families without any inter-species marriages, because my head might explode. But I will say that this 28 page book manages to contain two instances of text that any child might call into question.

The first is ridiculous. Look at this group walking to school, discussing the teachers they might get:


All animals right? So are the teachers you see them imagining in those thought clouds. But then Buster (a bunny) makes this joke:

'He sleeps in a coffin,' said Buster, 'and drinks human blood.'

HUMAN blood. Does this mean that the word "human" can be interpreted as referring to all sentient creatures, or that there are human farms on the outskirts of town and the animal kids are concerned with "human" rights?

THEN, we learn that Muffy (a monkey) who is teacher's pet tells Mr. Ratburn that "the cat ate her homework."



I wonder what Sue Ellen thinks of that...


There is also a strange mention of Francine's pet gerbil, but I think that's enough about this anthropological nightmare.

The other book is one from Rosemary Wells' Max and Ruby series:

Excuse the ripped off cover - I live with several very enthusiastic page turners.

This one takes a different approach to animal characters by asking us to assume that only bunnies made the Darwinian leap. And there are plenty of birds, frogs, and other small garden animals wandering around to add weight to that.

But in both the books and the animated series, we see a creepy assortment of human dolls in the bunny house.



Every time I read Max Cleans Up, I'm struck by this anomaly and wonder where the real humans are. Obviously, they exist for the bunnies to use them as models for their dolls, but they don't actually appear in living form.

Is this some kind of Planet of the Apes thing where humans are a slave race and maybe Max and Ruby are too poor to afford one of their own? I think not since there are plenty of scenes outside of their home, and you would expect to see some hulking humanoids doing manual labor or carrying bags for their bunny masters.

The other possibility is that the human race is extinct, yet cherished in cuddly form by bunny children, much in the same way our human children love dinosaurs. Either way - the issue is not addressed. Am I the only one who finds this weird?

Most other mothers I talk to are more concerned by the lack of parents in the Max and Ruby household and the fact that young Ruby is single-handedly raising her little brother with only sporadic help from a loving, yet somewhat dotty grandmother. In fact I've read two posts on this subject so I think that it has been adequately covered.

Ultimately - it comes down to editing. And there is an obvious breakdown in the system here. Bald ponies are a risk you run when you buy cheap plastic toys, but one would think that publishing companies would have a bit more integrity.

So you can add another concern to the list of disturbing things our children are viewing. Step aside guns, there's a new threat in town. Evolution is the new violence.

A New Favorite

Today at Style Key West, I'm marveling over the accomplishments of an incredible entrepreneur, Jackie VonTobel.

And how exactly did I become her new biggest fan...?

I Love a Good Dance Number

I have been slacking on this site for all of my rock star-ness on my others... BUT I did write a real post this week. It will be on DC Metro Moms next week though.

I didn't get around to any fiction either - mainly because I have to really think about the part that comes next. It's based on something real so I have to do a little research to refresh my memory.

So today I'm just posting something that makes me happy. I finally saw 500 Days of Summer yesterday (typical - I'm very often late to the party when it comes to movies) and I loved this scene that takes place right after he "gets the girl."

The only thing that bothers me about this clip is that it seems to be shortened. I know that there was a part when he looks in a mirror and sees Han Solo looking back at him. I thought that was genius. I've had a few of those moments myself. But maybe not the Han Solo part. I wouldn't say Princess Leia either...maybe Kelly from Charlie's Angels. Because she was just as bad ass as she was pretty.

Have a great weekend!