Naughty Trotty
At first he woke up before the sun's alarm clock ever thought about ringing.
I tried to coax him to cuddle in bed with me--at least until there was sunshine on our side of the planet--but he dragged me out of bed with a firm grip on my index finger. He wanted a drink. I obliged by giving him some orange juice.
Wait.
I gave him orange juice! I thought after it was too late. On an empty stomach!
Born with the Kendrick Curse, my son's active digestive system is highly sensitive. Juice without substance usually means diapers without substance. And many of them. Stinky too. My Mother-in-law calls it The Trots.
The Trots.
Doesn't that make you laugh?
But what was I going to do at that point? I tried to feed him some toast which he in turn fed to Mao instead. You'll kindly remember Mao is our ROBOTIC cat. How do you explain food waste to a twenty month old?
But it was nice of him to try.
I was so tired. So tired. And I shamefully hoped putting my son in front of the tv would result in my being able to sprawl on the couch and maybe . . . sleep for just . . . you know . . . fifteen minutes more?
On any other morning, at any other time in his life, The Chief would happily oblige, but this morning he wanted nothing to do with Sprout and everything to do with me. Me, me, me. He was like a soldier on duty to make sure my eyes stayed open. The minute my heavy eyelids failed me, there he was with a vice grip on my index finger pulling me off to the next adventure involving wooden-plastic-hairy whatevers.
When the world woke up we went to a bookstore.
Bookstores don't have carts where you can chain down your child and shop. So I held him for about five minutes until my pregnancy state cried out NO MORE! PUT HIM DOWN! And as soon as I did so he was off on some literary exploration. The more I tried to find him, the less he wanted to be found. So I stopped looking for him, which is when a sour-faced bookstore employee started following him around the store like a guard dog.
He ran up and down aisles squealing with delight.
He rearranged book displays.
He threw himself on the ground and rolled for awhile.
He found a seat inside an empty bookshelf and hid.
All the while, being tracked by this woman.
I knew what she was thinking every single time she looked over at me with her lemony displeasure. If she had the secret to shopping without a cart and with a child under two I could've used the advice--more than I could've used her put-out disposition. I'll tell you what, because what do you do with that face?
Then we had ice cream cones for lunch.
As anyone knows, the secret to happy motherhood is a nap. And all morning long I relished in this salvation: NAP TIME. I put The Chief down with determination and elation--his music and humidifier humming him to sleep. Then I retreated to my own bed and gave myself all sorts of emotional pats on the back for being a patient, loving . . . honk shoo.
He slept for forty-freaking-minutes.
I was hoping for a full two and half hours. You know, like usual.
I even let him cry it out in his crib for a good fifteen before I realized there was nothing to be done. Get up and get going! Said my conscious, Oh, and don't forget this, underneath your pillow! (It's your smile!)
It was post-nap when his digestive system gave way. He filled diaper after diaper until finally I decided to just let him "air it out" and followed him around the house with a load of wipes. It was at this crucial moment when I got a phone call asking to do an interview for my Provo blog. And because I am such an attention whore for that project, I said, "Sure, why not?"
Then I went back to smearing rash solution on my son's forming red spots and securing on his diaper. Afterward, The Chief carried on torturing Mao with toddler style karate classics.
By the time the tv crew arrived I had forgotten I had made the commitment.
I invited them in and apologized for my forgetfulness. On their way into the living room they almost tripped over Mao, left there by his sensai. Then one of them shrieked.
"I thought that was a toy cat, and then it moved!"
The Chief's robotic cat scared the living daylights out of the poor dear.
This reaction was so humorous to my son, he took off jogging around the house with his flappy diaper. He followed me upstairs where I retreated for some make-up and a firm brush of the hair.
If ever he sees me doing my make-up, my son makes it a threat of intolerable melt-downs if I don't give him my pricey Lip Fusion lip gloss. Since I was in no mood to negotiate I gave him the lip gloss before he could display demands. Then I finished my face.
Back downstairs the crew was ready for my close up.
We started the interview at about the same time The Chief started putting lip gloss on Mao. Gloopy, expensive, hairy lip gloss on Mao, and on my son, on his cheeks, slipping up and down on his tongue and rubbed (somehow?) on his belly.
Then he became camera curious.
He wanted to touch all the buttons, he wanted to jump on the couch next to me. He was in full force show-off mood and holy moly the circus had come to town! With another stinky diaper.
We carried on with the interview anyway. We were almost done--they just needed a close up of me blogging on the couch--when The Chief slowly inched his face into the lens until he had the entire shot all to himself. Big, fat, I-drank-juice-on-an-empty-stomach-this-morning-and-now-look-at-me/out-of-the-way-mom! grin on his face. The glee in his soul, you will never know.
It was a wrap.
I made him noodles, he tossed them on the floor. They made a wrinkled nest tucked under his high chair. I let him play with a bag of dried kidney beans. Dried kidney bean confetti all over the living room. I gave him the diaper rash creme with the top cap secured. NOT so secure, I found out when white paste was finger-painted on to my kitchen floor.
For as tired I was, he was extra hyper--a testimony to the balance of energy in a relationship. I guess. But it was the enjoyment he was getting out of all of it, the sheer relish of being destructive and stinky. No toy, no tv show, no book in this universe could give him the same amount of pleasure than simply making his mother crazy. The joy! The bliss!
I put the little demon to bed early.
And as I defeated-ly closed the nursery door and headed to the sweet callings of a fridge containing adult beverages (fizzy stuff) I noticed the artwork The Chief had created in his nursery class last Sunday at church magnetically stuck to the fridge door.
A purple-crayon scribbled picture of a boy and the words, "I am a child of God" reminded me about my son's origins. This I was peacefully glad to remember.
Because I was beginning to wonder . . .
On dear c jane today:
A Balloon Pumper?
A Balloon Pumper?
Yes, here!
On c jane's Guide to Provo today:
Get your Provo-made glass stars here!
(And I get interviewed by UPP!)
(without a camera crew this time!)
