Wednesday, February 23, 2011
"Brrr...*cough*"
We actually got a little bit of a winter here in Texas this year. Paxton even got to experience a sprinkling of snow! Whether it relates to my roots in Pennsylvania or the fact that I'm forty-pounds overweight, I don't know, but I'm always hot. I dread summer every year because it is months of sweaty misery for me. The only thing enjoyable about summer for me is time spent in the water, and even then the joy is hampered because I have to consistently make sure that both Paxton and I are covered with gobs of sunscreen, because we both fry instantly when we're exposed to the brutal Texas sun.
Every book about Christmas, every holiday song, waxes poetic about the beautiful white blanket of snow on the ground and the sassy snowmen. To Paxton, this must be as fanstastical as unicorns and talking bugs. It just isn't real. He's seen snow in his life, but it's been so rare that he, of course, has no recollection. When he was two, we got a lovely Texas ice storm that we carried him around outside to enjoy. And the year prior, we took him to Pennsylvania in December where he tenatively touched the snow and recoiled. With the one day of light snow this year, both Chris and I took him outside for adventures. I walked with him around the neighborhood and we marveled at our footprints and those of the local deer. We tried to make snow angels, but mostly kicked up gravel. We found a patch of ice and pretended to skate in our shoes. It was the most fun I've had outside in a long time! It was fun to share it with my little guy.
Of course, since Paxton was born, winter means sickness. For as long as he's been alive, if there's a virus to catch, he does. At first I attributed it to teething and the fact that his fat little fists were always in his mouth. Now I have no idea what to blame. Bad hand-washing habits? A compromised immune system from his constant allergies? Who knows, but from the time the weather begins to bring the slightest chill, his nose starts pouring like a faucet. He's not alone in his health struggles. As we have playdates with his little friends, I hear familiar coughs and watch all the moms stand vigilant with their Kleenex. I try to tell myself that he's building up one hell of an immune system that should kick in around kindergarten, but I don't really buy it. I think once you welcome kids into the family, you just have to stock up on cold medicine and Vick's because God knows you're going to use it!
Gibson is only ten-weeks-old and he already has had three little colds. It's scary to hear a tiny baby coughing or rubbing his red little eyes. Luckily he has yet to run a fever, and we've made it through his first round of vaccinations, but it still sends a shiver down my spine when Paxton moves in to kiss him on the mouth or some random preschooler tries to hold his hands or coughs near him. I'm not the type to hide out in the house to protect my kids from illness, but I should probably be more dilligent about teaching good hand-washing skills to Paxton. God only knows what kind of germs linger in those jumpy castles and on the community toys passed around at library storytime. But my little guy is always very happy to bring them home with us and share with his family and friends. That's what you get when you've got a big heart.
Every book about Christmas, every holiday song, waxes poetic about the beautiful white blanket of snow on the ground and the sassy snowmen. To Paxton, this must be as fanstastical as unicorns and talking bugs. It just isn't real. He's seen snow in his life, but it's been so rare that he, of course, has no recollection. When he was two, we got a lovely Texas ice storm that we carried him around outside to enjoy. And the year prior, we took him to Pennsylvania in December where he tenatively touched the snow and recoiled. With the one day of light snow this year, both Chris and I took him outside for adventures. I walked with him around the neighborhood and we marveled at our footprints and those of the local deer. We tried to make snow angels, but mostly kicked up gravel. We found a patch of ice and pretended to skate in our shoes. It was the most fun I've had outside in a long time! It was fun to share it with my little guy.
Of course, since Paxton was born, winter means sickness. For as long as he's been alive, if there's a virus to catch, he does. At first I attributed it to teething and the fact that his fat little fists were always in his mouth. Now I have no idea what to blame. Bad hand-washing habits? A compromised immune system from his constant allergies? Who knows, but from the time the weather begins to bring the slightest chill, his nose starts pouring like a faucet. He's not alone in his health struggles. As we have playdates with his little friends, I hear familiar coughs and watch all the moms stand vigilant with their Kleenex. I try to tell myself that he's building up one hell of an immune system that should kick in around kindergarten, but I don't really buy it. I think once you welcome kids into the family, you just have to stock up on cold medicine and Vick's because God knows you're going to use it!
Gibson is only ten-weeks-old and he already has had three little colds. It's scary to hear a tiny baby coughing or rubbing his red little eyes. Luckily he has yet to run a fever, and we've made it through his first round of vaccinations, but it still sends a shiver down my spine when Paxton moves in to kiss him on the mouth or some random preschooler tries to hold his hands or coughs near him. I'm not the type to hide out in the house to protect my kids from illness, but I should probably be more dilligent about teaching good hand-washing skills to Paxton. God only knows what kind of germs linger in those jumpy castles and on the community toys passed around at library storytime. But my little guy is always very happy to bring them home with us and share with his family and friends. That's what you get when you've got a big heart.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Tyrannical Threes
I'm glad I was forewarned that three is the age that once sweet kids become living, breathing nightmares. At least a few mom friends let me in on this little secret when I was breezing through what was supposed to be the "terrible twos". I remember one friend's eyes growing dark as she told of her loving little girl suddenly screaming "I hate you!" when told she couldn't have dessert before dinner. Paxton had always been on the dramatic side, regularly breaking down in screaming fits when, say, a friend took the drum he was playing with in music class, or a kid stood too close to him while he played with toys during library storytime. I had long since stopped being embarrassed by these antics. I couldn't imagine that three could be any worse. I had a handle on my little one's theatrics.
Or so I thought.
Some time just before he turned three, Paxton started morping into a super villian. He took great pleasure in purposely disobeying me, even adding an evil laugh to the act. He watched Dora the Explorer regularly, and while he picked up a bit of Spanish, he was most influenced by the mischevious little fox, Swiper, who endlessly stole things from his frenemies just to make their lives a little worse. Paxton thought Swiper was the coolest thing since remote control cars. He oftentimes would run up to me, grab my car keys and throw them across the room saying, in a naughty tone, "Ha, ha, ha! You'll never find your keys now!".
Paxton's sense of humor has also gotten a little more warped. He finds it hilarious to frustrate mommy and daddy by squirming, wiggling and going boneless while we're trying to dress him. When I was pregnant, I was afraid I'd go into labor from all the struggling and contorting I had to do just to get his pants on him. Since then, I just try to guard my C-Section scar (to no avail). Lately, I've started instigating time out when he resists getting dressed. I'm not sure who suffers more when I put Paxton in time out. My life is suddenly in a holding pattern. I have to sit quietly and pay him no attention while he screams, reasons and begs for his freedom. I go into full Supernanny mode and silently lead him back to his time out spot every time he dares to get up (often) and make a run for it. Tonight he was really pulling out all the stops, shouting "Mommy, you hit me! You hit me mommy! My arm hurts!". He said that every time I led him to his spot by his arm. If he knew how to do it, I have no doubt he'd be calling CPS.
Our parrot, Bartok, gets concerned when anyone cries. While Paxton was having his meltdown, Bartok said, "Are you okay?". Paxton normally ignores the inquiry, but tonight he must have been feeling isolated while Mommy stared at the clock, ignoring the tantrum just as Jo Frost instructs. Paxton answered Bartok saying, "I'm okay, Bartok. Mommy is making me sit on the floor. I'm on the floor, Bartok!!!". I had to take his chair away, because he was trying to bend the rules, dragging the chair all over the house while in time out. Since I had to start over every time he moved from the time out spot, the three minute punishment turned into nearly 30 minutes. We were late for a going-away party for some friends. It was a high-stress time, but I knew if I backed down, he'd run all over me next time. Three-year-olds sniff out weakness and are not afraid to go for the kill.
Luckily, Paxton still has plenty of moments when he is the light of my life. He's funny, brilliant, sweet, creative and unique. I am daily awed by his wonderful personality. And in the moments when I'm wondering where my sweet boy went, I remind myself of all the books and magazines I've read that assure me that this is a normal, even positive stage in every child's development. He is testing his boundries and asserting his independence, figuring out his place in the world. It's not pretty, but it's necessary. And it can't last forever, right? Right?
Or so I thought.
Some time just before he turned three, Paxton started morping into a super villian. He took great pleasure in purposely disobeying me, even adding an evil laugh to the act. He watched Dora the Explorer regularly, and while he picked up a bit of Spanish, he was most influenced by the mischevious little fox, Swiper, who endlessly stole things from his frenemies just to make their lives a little worse. Paxton thought Swiper was the coolest thing since remote control cars. He oftentimes would run up to me, grab my car keys and throw them across the room saying, in a naughty tone, "Ha, ha, ha! You'll never find your keys now!".
Paxton's sense of humor has also gotten a little more warped. He finds it hilarious to frustrate mommy and daddy by squirming, wiggling and going boneless while we're trying to dress him. When I was pregnant, I was afraid I'd go into labor from all the struggling and contorting I had to do just to get his pants on him. Since then, I just try to guard my C-Section scar (to no avail). Lately, I've started instigating time out when he resists getting dressed. I'm not sure who suffers more when I put Paxton in time out. My life is suddenly in a holding pattern. I have to sit quietly and pay him no attention while he screams, reasons and begs for his freedom. I go into full Supernanny mode and silently lead him back to his time out spot every time he dares to get up (often) and make a run for it. Tonight he was really pulling out all the stops, shouting "Mommy, you hit me! You hit me mommy! My arm hurts!". He said that every time I led him to his spot by his arm. If he knew how to do it, I have no doubt he'd be calling CPS.
Our parrot, Bartok, gets concerned when anyone cries. While Paxton was having his meltdown, Bartok said, "Are you okay?". Paxton normally ignores the inquiry, but tonight he must have been feeling isolated while Mommy stared at the clock, ignoring the tantrum just as Jo Frost instructs. Paxton answered Bartok saying, "I'm okay, Bartok. Mommy is making me sit on the floor. I'm on the floor, Bartok!!!". I had to take his chair away, because he was trying to bend the rules, dragging the chair all over the house while in time out. Since I had to start over every time he moved from the time out spot, the three minute punishment turned into nearly 30 minutes. We were late for a going-away party for some friends. It was a high-stress time, but I knew if I backed down, he'd run all over me next time. Three-year-olds sniff out weakness and are not afraid to go for the kill.
Luckily, Paxton still has plenty of moments when he is the light of my life. He's funny, brilliant, sweet, creative and unique. I am daily awed by his wonderful personality. And in the moments when I'm wondering where my sweet boy went, I remind myself of all the books and magazines I've read that assure me that this is a normal, even positive stage in every child's development. He is testing his boundries and asserting his independence, figuring out his place in the world. It's not pretty, but it's necessary. And it can't last forever, right? Right?
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