Eat at Skooters

The descent into mealtime mayhem started with the moldy sippy cup.
We had stopped at Skooters, a 50s-themed diner near the airport. Thomas had just returned from San Diego. Blake was excited to have his father home, and really, really excited about swivel stools, the open grill and the carton of rice milk I pulled out of the diaper bag.
The rice milk container is like a juice box, and Blake has not mastered the art of the straw.
But once the mold on his sippy cup was discovered, I decided to let him practice with the carton. How else will he learn?
Several sucks, squeezes and squirts later, here's what I had learned: Some things are better practiced at home.
Blake disagreed. Screams of "Beaky do it!!!!!!" and "WANT some!!!!!" filled the diner.
It's one thing for our dinner to be disrupted, but the other customers at Skooters had not signed up for this.
Mr. Gene to the rescue.
Gene had cooked our hamburgers and Thomas' open-faced turkey sandwich. He also is a father of five grown children and seemed amused by our situation.
He scooped up our son, with our permission, and sat him on the counter. They talked and pointed to things on the grill, and Blake, ever the attention seeker, was content again.
But the child had to eat, so Gene returned him to our table.
"What upset him?" Gene asked.
I pointed to the rice milk and the straw, which set Blake off again.
"WANT!!! SOME!!!!!!"
Gene was up in a flash, again asked if it was OK, then brought Blake a vanilla milkshake.
Gene is the kind of guy my Uncle Dick would buy a beer. Uncle Dick would also make sure Gene's boss knew what a valuable employee Gene is and ask that Gene get the largest Christmas bonus that could be spared.
Back to that milkshake: The straw was a useless endeavor, so Gene actually spoon-fed the shake Blake.
"So you can eat and enjoy your meal," he said to Thomas and me.
We did.
Should I worry about spoon-feeding spoiling my child? Well, this is the kid whose mother carries around a moldy sippy cup....

Skooters: (860) 623-6100 50 Ella Grasso Tpke, Windsor Locks, CT 06096

Spelling lesson

Thomas' mother keeps us well-dressed in Neumann College clothing. Thomas, Blake and I all have sweatshirts from the school, which is in Pennsylvania. That's about all I know about it, other than it's Catholic and they spell "Neumann" correctly.
Last Christmas, we received the wrong size sweatshirt for Thomas, so I called and talked to the bookstore manager about an exchange.
"You wouldn't believe how many Neumanns are out there," he told me. "This time of year, we send stuff to San Diego, Texas, Connecticut ...."
I didn't have the heart to tell him the San Diego and Connecticut Neumanns had gotten several gifts over the years from one Marilynn Neumann of San Marcos, Texas.
Tonight I was wearing my Neumann College sweatshirt, and Blake proudly read aloud the letters: "N-E-U-M-A-N-N!'
"Do you know what that spells?" I asked him.
He said very earnestly, "Yes." Then he paused.
"Shirt!"

Golden Arches

In a past life, I would have said to myself, "What are they thinking?! Don't they know what they are doing to their children?! Haven't they seen 'Supersize Me'? That kid REALLY doesn't need that Happy Meal."
Nevermind that I would have been thinking this as I swallowed juicy, wonderful bites of my own Quarter Pounder.
But now I get it.
Now I am the parent of a toddler. He's not the most fickle, but at one point three weeks ago, I could not remember the last meal that had gone well. That Friday, I decided to give us both a break and take Blake to McDonald's for lunch.
It wasn't the first time he'd had fast food, but it was perhaps the first time he'd had it on purpose. We usually eat it only when we're traveling.
Nevermind that my own upbringing included a weekly Sunday trip to McD's (the only bribe that worked to get us to go to church.) And nevermind that McDonald's, being close to my high school, was lunch of choice once I was old enough to drive off campus at noon. As an adult, I knew better.
But that Friday, I wanted a peaceful meal. The Golden Arches beckoned.
It worked! Blake ate every bite. And it was fun. A McDonald's before the lunch rush is full of oldsters who say nice things about your children. Blake and Dylan were admired, a Happy Meal was consumed, we avoided the surely-dirty Play Land, I pocketed the Hot Wheels toy for a stocking stuffer, and my sandwich was fantastic. Success all around.
The next week, at Blake's 2-year checkup, the doctor asked how he was eating. We talked about my feeding frustrations, and I admitted our recent trip to the dark side.
Surprisingly, she suggested we go back a few times a month, "If he won't eat protein any other way."
I waited another week before going again. It was harder this time to keep Blake away from the Play Land (even after I told him about Uncle Pat breaking his front tooth on a Grimmace bouncer in Charlotte, N.C.) And then this: he didn't eat his hamburger.
If he won't eat the meat, I can't justify the trip. So disappointing, because I really like that Quarter Pounder. ...

Election Day

Dylan had Thomas and me up this morning before the polls opened, so we each took advantage of the early hour and slipped out in the fog to vote. My doing this, though, prevented Blake from getting his civics lesson first-hand.
Later, Blake was chattering "vote, vote, yeah!" in response to talk on the car radio. So I seized the teachable moment.
"Blake, today we vote on a new person to be in charge of the country. Do you know what it means to be 'in charge'?"
"Yeah!"
"Really? Who is in charge, Blake?"
"Mama!"
Good boy.
...
When I told my clever spouse this story, Thomas said, "Well, clearly, he doesn't know what it means to be 'in charge.'"

We should have stayed home

From Aug. 14, 2008 ...

"Hugs are for friends. Kisses are for family."

I learned this today from Ally's mom. Ally, 4-ish, her sister, 6-ish, and her mother, biddy-ish, were at Barnes & Noble. So were Blake, Dylan and I, in what was perhaps one of my biggest lapses in judgement in, well, a couple of days. We were there to buy gifts for the neighbor boys, twins turning 3 tomorrow. I just found out about the birthday yesterday, and I've become friendly with their mother, so I needed to brave the outside world and go shopping today.

Ally found Blake irresistible. Blake found these things irresistible: Curious George dolls, kitchen play sets, children's Bibles, My Little Pony stickers, Little Mermaid stamps, Star Wars books, and two stuffed deer.

Dylan found the timing irresistible for a full-on scream fest. He'd been this way all morning with agonizing reflux. We had started getting ready to leave the house three hours before we finally did. I should have realized that once he stopped crying, it would be time for him to eat again. Instead, once he stopped crying, at nearly lunchtime, I gave Blake a banana and said, "Let's go!"

Dylan was smelly and soaked with spit-up, and my shirt was damp and stained, but Blake looked good, so ...

"He's very cute," Ally said, holding Blake's hand after he stood very still for another kiss.

"Thank you," I told her. "You're a nice little girl." Then, (over Dylan's screams from the sling, which usually has a narcotic effect, but no luck today), "Blake, please help me stack these pink glittery things you have messed up.

"Blake, let's go pick up the George dolls and find the diaper bag.

"Blake, I didn't know you liked Star Wars. Leave those alone and let's pick up our mess...."

You might get the idea. I was one of those mothers with a shrieking newborn and a wild toddler, both in need of lunch and a nap. As I think about it, tho, I don't think I've ever witnessed such a scene in real life. Only in movies or on bad TV.

In real life, you might expect someone to say, "I'll help you. Let me re-stack that My Little Pony crap. You go tackle Curious George. Today, that person could have been Ally's mom. Hey, if Ally had had her way, we would have been in-laws! But no, the woman did her best to not acknowledge me, or my "very cute" son. She only calmly informed Ally that "hugs are for friends, kisses are for family" in a tone that let me know she considered us to be neither. Whose kid was she worried about? If I find out Blake has some disease from Ally kisses, I will doubly hate this woman.

So ... Next time you see some poor, pathetic woman trying to not leave a disaster behind her at the store, if you have a free minute, at least offer to help. If you're reading this in West Hartford, I can tell you in advance that I will really appreciate the help!

I think I'll move to Australia ...

From May 14, 2008 ...

What I'm going to tell you about is not unique. It may even be routine for some. But I'm writing this down, anyway, because maybe my son will read it someday and think about apologizing. I also thought you might get a laugh out of it ... Someone should, anyway!

Today, at almost 19 months, Blake had his first real temper tantrum.

He is in need of a haircut -- his third -- so after a perfectly normal morning playing at the pool, we went to Degra's Barber Shop, where a friend had told us they charge $6 for a kids haircut.

So far, we have paid $25 for a good haircut and $16 for an OK haircut. Both times, Blake cried and screamed like each hair trimmed was bleeding. So I figured $6 was a much better price for what was likely going to be a real ordeal.

We parked in one of Degra's two parking spaces and went inside. Turns out, they charge $18, and suddenly Blake's hair didn't look so bad to me. Plus, I had seen a sign on a place down the street that said Kids Cuts $11. I told the woman that $18 was a little steep for us today, and thank you, we'd look someplace else.

Blake had other things in mind.

He wouldn't sit back in his car seat. The tears came instantly. The screams were ungodly. He arched his back. He tensed all his muscles. He locked his knees. His arms wrapped around my neck in a stranglehold.

I stood him on the ground. He grabbed my hand and ran back to the door of the barber shop, which was open to let in a nice breeze.

I explained that we would go somewhere else to get his hair cut and picked him up to go back to the car. The scene was the same, only it escalated.

I got him out of the car again. Again, he walked back to the door. I considered plunking down the $18, but at this point figured a haircut could turn dangerous.

We repeated this back-and-forth, tears streaming, screams waking the dead, for 45 minutes. At times, I held him, sitting on the bumper of the car, and he seemed to calm down. Then I would try to put him in his seat and it would start over.

I'm sure the woman inside the barber shop was thinking that $18 was not nearly enough for a little boys haircut.

Eventually, I was able to get his arms in the straps of his car seat. I loosened the crotch attachment to accommodate his stiff, straight body, and got it fastened. Then I pulled it tight, which essentially forced Blake to bend and sit back.

We drove home, the screaming, sobbing and hyperventilating continuing.

I took him inside and we sat in his rocking chair. He pointed to a book. We read it, and he feel asleep, without his lunch. He's still sleeping now.

The book he picked? "Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day." I'm not kidding.

And, yes, I know, some days are like this.

Mork calling Orson

When I was 8 years old, some kids on the school bus made fun of me for not knowing what "nanu nanu" meant. I also didn't know why everyone was shaking hands in a split-fingered way. See, my bedtime was a so-unfair 8 p.m., so – somehow -- I was oblivious to "Mork and Mindy."

I told my parents about the kids on the bus. They bought me some rainbow suspenders, but I never got to watch the show until it was in syndication.

So I got a chuckle this weekend when Blake's toddler chattering produced a distinct "nanu nanu." He noticed me laughing, and "nanu nanu" became the phrase of the day. I showed him the Orkan handshake and called him "Mork."

For some reason, when I said, "Mork," he would respond, "Da Da!"

I tried to tell him that his father was not from Ork, but I needed a visual.

I don't know who the people are who have time to post things on YouTube. But I found the "Mork and Mindy" opening theme and played it for Blake.

I have since played it about 4,000 times.

It got us through dinner last night. He ate every bite of turkey burger and green beans. His only protests were when I didn't hit "replay" fast enough.

Since then, "nanu nanu" has gotten a bit tiresome, as Blake screeches and shrieks for more YouTube entertainment. It makes me think about that 8 o'clock bedtime. Genius. Absolute genius.

It occurs to me that our kids knowing who Mork is might be as weird as my not knowing in 1980, but in case you want to give your child a dose of pop culture …

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EbEBErvW-Uc

"Mommy"

10-7-08

Blake’s first word, “duck,” didn’t come until he was 17 months old. About the same time, he started using sign language, so verbal communication, other than screams and shrieks, came somewhat slow to him. But lately he’s had at least a new word a day. Sunday, it was “zucchini.” Yesterday, it was “Mommy.”
He’s been saying, “Mama,” for months, but when I heard that first real “Mommy,” I just wanted to hear it again.
However, Blake, at almost 2 years old, does not always perform on cue.
He said it when he was whining, loudly, after waking from a nap. It went something like this:
Blake: Whine, cry, fuss, slobber, stomp, “Mommeeeee!”
Me: Blake, did you say, “Mommy?”
Blake: No.
Me: Can you say, “Mommy”?
Blake: No.
Me: Can you please say, “Mommy”?
Blake: No.
Me: Can you say, “Mama”?
Blake: No.
Me: Can you say, “Dada”?
No.
“Baby”?
No.
“Tippy”?
No.
“Shoes”?
No.
“Socks”?
No.
“Car”?
No.
“Cat”?
No.
“Zucchini”?
No.
“OK,” I said. “Can you say, ‘No’”?
He paused …. Then, “Nope!”