Naked Baby Syndrome

This wasn’t like the time my mom told me I was a pain in the ass to feed as a child. No, it wasn’t like that at all because I always knew that one day the same thing would happen to me, and then it did, and I was like, Sweet Jesus. Karma, you are one bad-ass Judy. This time, there were no warnings or secret whisperings that it would happen to me. Sure, I had heard about it. I knew other people that it had happened to. And occasionally I paused to wonder if Thumper would one day develop it, but the worry would pass and I’d go on with my comfortable existence. That is, until a few weeks ago when I noticed Thumper starting to pull off her shorts at bath time. I suspected that it was about to happen, I just didn’t know it could happen so fast.

A few days later, I was at my parents' for a family barbeque. When I called Thumper for dinner, my topless child bounded into the room. We all giggled and I laughed it off saying that the tank top she had been wearing was too big and probably made it easy for her to wiggle out of. Fifteen minutes later, she was in only a diaper. This was fine with me, as long as the diaper stayed on. I don’t mind baby nakedness, I just don’t want to be responsible for cleaning the pee out of my parents’ carpets. Five minutes after that, my dad alerted me to the removal of the diaper. As I put it back on her, my sister-in-law told me about our friend’s daughter stripping in the middle of the night and peeing all over the bed. We laughed, and internally I hoped it wouldn’t come to that for us.

But of course after Thumper was in bed for the night, Dawson went to check on her and sure enough, she was naked from the waist down and sitting in a crib full of pee. We changed the sheets, put her down again and then checked on her awhile later. Again, naked from the waist down, sleeping in pee. And so began the Naked Baby Syndrome.

For the next few days it seemed like everywhere we went, every time we turned around, another piece of Thumper’s clothing disappeared until there was nothing but a bare bum running around and peeing all over our stuff. Everyone kept commenting that she must be ready for potty training. I had a hunch that that wasn’t the case at all. The hunch I had was watching Thumper scream when we tried to put her on the potty naked. So I did what any modern mom would do, and called the doctor looked it up on the Internet. I read a bunch of articles suggesting that in some cases, Naked Baby Syndrome is not about potty training at all. For some kids, it’s just about asserting more of their new-found independence by being able to take off their own clothes. I instantly knew this was the case for Thumper. Just that morning, she had whipped off her shorts, then brought them over to me and asked me to put them back on. She had also made a game of regularly undressing her dolls and Barbies and making me re-dress them. So I did what any modern mom would do, and did exactly as the doctor Internet instructed.

I started giving Thumper twenty minutes of “nude-y time” every day where she is allowed to be as naked as she wants. If she wants to wear a shirt but no pants, fine. If she wants to wear only a diaper, great. If she wants to be full-on naked, okay. The hope in doing this is that it gives her a chance to practise taking off her clothes and she gets to decide exactly what to take off, thereby making her feel like she is in control. And if you have a toddler, you know very well that the only thing toddlers want more than your attention and an abundance of Disney-related possessions is full control. The only two rules for nude-y time are that naked babies are not allowed on the carpet, and if the naked baby has to pee or poop, she must sit on the potty.

Having figured out the reason for Thumper’s Naked Baby Syndrome, I felt confident that I could get it under control. Not only did I implement nude-y time, but I resigned myself to the fact that it wasn’t going to be an instant fix. I knew there was going to be a transition period. So for the first week, I waited outside of her room at nap and bedtime, going in every few minutes to either stop her from taking off her clothes or to put them back on for her. I could tell that most of the time, Thumper was just looking to get a reaction out of me. And although there were times where I was ready to give her one, I managed to not make a big deal out of it. It usually only took 4 or 5 times of doing this before she tired of the game and fell asleep. It was repetitive and frustrating at times, but eventually it worked.

So naturally, afterward I felt all triumphant and victorious. Suck it, Naked Baby Syndrome! I WIN! And let me tell you, I seriously needed this win because I am losing the dinner battle hard and suffering a slow and cruel death as a result. It’s worse than the death by time-outs. I also caught Thumper trying to climb out of her crib the other night. Lucky for both of us, she got stuck halfway and couldn’t catapult herself over the edge. At any rate, it seems I’ve got trickier problems on the horizon.

-Alice

Alice's (Un)Helpful Advice

Recently my friend, the Social Caterpillar, put out a call to arms bat signal plea for help. She confessed the truth about another one of her lovable yet awkward quirks that, if left untreated, could possibly do damage to the psyche of many as well as directly affect the future status of her uterus. She admitted to being horribly uncomfortable around children. Not because she doesn’t like them, quite the opposite really. She wants to be super-fun, ultra badass, always-brings-the-LOLs Auntie Caterpillar to all children she meets so that they will “cry real tears when I’m leaving.” She asked me to write a post about how to talk to children without making an ass of yourself and I said I wouldn’t mind doing so at all. I just can’t promise that I have anything useful to say. This is because I too am embarrassingly stupid around tiny humans.

Prior to having Thumper, I had zero experience with children. I never babysat when I was younger, mostly because there was no one to babysit. I’m the youngest of four, and have no younger cousins. My siblings didn't start having kids until the time that I surprisingly, but happily, found out I was expecting Thumper. So I went through life blissfully dim when it came to children. This is probably why everyone was so shocked when they found out I was pregnant. Well, that and the fact that I was known to like an alcoholic beverage or two (or seven) every now and then, as well as take off my shoes and/or cry over the inevitable piece of jewellery I’d break while consuming said beverages.

To say the least, my experience in Mommyland has been quite the learning curve. Having no reference point means taking everything as it comes and crossing my fingers that I don’t screw it up too badly. Since my child is still young enough to pronounce “you’re welcome” as “yelcome” and “grandpa” as “paca,” I have yet to encounter the awkward stage of talking to a child who can form full sentences and therefore carry on a regular conversation.  The most interaction I have with an “older” child is with my friend's son, and he’s only three.

Truth be told, I was mildly bewildered when I first started hanging out with the aforementioned friend because her son offered a lot more verbal back-and-forth than Thumper did at the time. And before him, I had never met a three year old I felt the need to impress. But the pressure was on. If he didn’t get along with Thumper that was one thing, but if he didn’t get along with me, then I would’ve had to kiss my newfound friendship goodbye. So not only am I inept at interacting with other people’s kids, but my situation may be worse than the Caterpillar’s because people expect me to be good at it since I have a spawn of my own.

Since I’ve started working in a restaurant again, I’m faced with this inadequacy on a weekly basis. Before I was a mother, it didn’t matter if I was awkward with the kids I served. I tried my best to be cheerful and engaging but I think the expression on my face usually alternated between panic and exasperation. But that was okay because when you don’t have kids, people rarely expect more than the basic pleasantries from you. Now it’s as if people think I should be able to serve families with some form of grace and poise and a level of fun-ness unattainable to those without children. Say what? Having kids is not a gateway to any of those things. In fact, it’s just the opposite. Since having Thumper I generally live in a constant state of chaos and worry, where any hint of ‘aw isn’t that cute’ or ‘we are having so much fun’ is usually marred by objects flying all over the place in unhinged toddler rage.

So to answer Caterpillar’s question of what the secret is for kid-talk, I guess I say: I have no fucking clue. Let me know when someone has real insight for you because I could also benefit from it. However, I will offer this piece of potentially helpful advice: if you think that your sub-par child-rearing skills is a reason not to have kids, then you’re wrong. An acceptable reason to not have kids is if you hate kids or are prone to punching kids. Or, you know, if you do copious amounts of illegal drugs, I would strongly suggest you work that shit out before getting pregnant. At any rate, interacting with your own kids will always be easier than doing so with someone else’s, unless you’re giving a sex talk, in which case it’s proportionality awkward either way. 

My other piece of helpful advice is to stop caring if you’re a big weirdo around kids. As long as you’re not being creepy-weird or rude, no one will judge you. Like I said, parents don’t expect non-parents to have a clue how to act because none of us did either until we were forced to figure it out when that baby was placed in our arms. I suppose I should listen to my own advice on this front. I do tend to over-worry that other people will think I’m an inadequate parent when I make a fool of myself in front of their tiny humans. But the reality is that being awkward in front of other people’s kids doesn’t mean you are or will be a bad parent. Similarly, being able to make other people’s kids pee their pants with your awesomeness and hilarity and fun-filled antics doesn't always equate a good parent. I hate to break it to you, but once that kid comes out of your vag, you will become as whacked out as the rest of us.

I'm sorry and you're welcome.

-Alice

The Top Ten Things That are Cute Now...

...But Will Be Irritating in 7-10 Years

You know when you hear a new song on the radio that is so awesome that all you want to do is listen to it over and over? And then after a couple of days, you realize this same thing that was once epic and amazing now makes you want to superglue your ears shut so you'll never have to hear it again? That's kind of like what happens when your child does or says something super cute. You revel in its adaorableness, and then pause to wonder how long it will be until it forces you into a self-induced permanent silence. Such as...

10. I not like it – I’ll admit that this is most definitely annoying when I’m asking Thumper to eat peas anything, but I’ll also admit that her broken English does make me smile. Not at that exact moment of course, because I’m too busy clenching my fists and teeth and offering my soul to the devil. But you know, afterwards when I’ve gotten a glass or two or seven in me, then I can smile and giggle about her horribly constructed yet adorable sentence structure. But when she's twelve and telling me so she no longer likes Disney Princesses and My Little Ponies, no amount of wine will make me smile.

9. Mommy, I carry you – What Thumper really means when she says “I carry you” is “I want you to carry me.” And while this phrase was confusing at first and is annoying when I’m carrying seventeen other things, I still don’t mind it because like “I not like it,” the poor phrasing is still adorable. (NOTE: this phrase is only adorable to the parent of the child saying it. Other parents, grandparents and strangers are likely to roll their eyes and tell you to stop the nonsense and stop baby-ing your child. Feel free to do so. I will just write you a letter on my blog telling you to suck it.) But if she's still asking me to carry her when she's ten, I will then be forced to tell her to suck it.*

*I will not actually tell her to suck it. That's weird. But she will definitely be glared at.

8. No! Cat! Come here! COMMMMEEE HEEEEEEEERRRRRRRREEEEEEE! – Her concern for the cat’s well being is both charming and endearing. It’s nice to know I have someone else watching for when the cat runs out the door, sits at high altitudes or buries himself in my freshly cleaned clothes. And while it will be equally charming and endearing when she’s chasing after the cat with make -up and doll costumes in a few years, something tells me the resulting mess and/or revenge the cat will likely seek on me will not be so charming or endearing.

7. I can’t reach it – This could be considered mildly irritating now, considering it’s usually uttered when I’ve asked her to pick up a toy or book that she is sitting two feet away from. But given that she’s not even two years old, I find it very smart of her to have figured out how to use my own words against me. (As you may remember, I often say this to Thumper when she drops things in the car and expects me to have go-go-Gaget arms to pick stuff up.) However, once she passes the age of five, it’s no longer considered a “smart” move. It will then be categorized as a “smart ass” move and those are two very, very different things.

6. More Ke$ha! – I know, I know. These are the two most scary words a parent can hear. I almost laughed when she said this one day in the car after some Ke$ha song finished playing. But then I imagined her ten year old self saying it. And then following it up with More glitter! More fishnet stockings! More mindless lyrics and bad rhymes! MORE AUTOTUNE AND ORGIES DAMMIT! But don’t worry. I have a plan. When she asks to see a picture of Ke$ha, I will just show her photos of Taylor Swift.

5. Mommy! Where are you? – This is about the only thing that can make me laugh at 7 am. And even then, the laughter is short-lived once the innocent and appropriately volume-d phrase uttered from a sleepy baby in her crib morphs into a cruelly high-pitched and vowel-dragging-out shriek from a disgruntled child who is ready to get the eff out of bed. But its annoyance will take on a new meaning when she's old enough to call me (or text me) every five minutes saying, where are you? I want to go to the mall. Where are you? I need you to pick me up from the mall. Where are you? You have to drive me and 20 other pre-teen girls to the movies to see Justin Beiber in 3D.

4. Oh my gosh – This is always a crowd pleaser. Okay so the crowd is pretty much always just me and Dawson. But still. The unexpectedness and sweetness of a tiny toddler saying oh my gosh in reference to something happening in Ponyville or in a Curious George book always wins us over. Alternatively, when the “oh my gosh” is accompanied by eye rolls, huffing, slamming doors and stomping, we will no longer be smiling about it.

3. La, la, la. Whatever - There is a really horrible song called We’re Going at it Tonight by Hot Chelle Rae (What is that anyway? A band? A person? Seafood? I don’t know) that gets stuck in my head all.the.time. Its only redeeming factor is that Thumper tries to sing along to the chorus and it’s freaking adorable but only because she doesn’t realize that “whatever” will be the word she uses to break my heart and dismiss me throughout her teenage years.  

2. I need this – Well, technically speaking Thumper, you do not “need” a soother or more cookies or to watch Cinderella six thousand times in one day. You just “want” it but your over-dramatization is quite endearing so I will give you (almost) whatever you want. When you’re older and tell me that you “need” a cell phone, make up, my credit card or my car, I cannot promise I will be so accommodating.

1. I don’t know – Initially this was a cute and acceptable alternative to screaming NO NO NOOOOOOO whenever she was asked a question she didn’t like, didn’t care to answer or didn’t know the answer to.  I’m sure that when she’s sixteen and mumbling a barely audible “I dunno” with a slight shoulder shrug while texting everyone she knows about how lame I am, it will no longer be cute or acceptable.

But all of this is okay. It will be infuriating for at least a decade, but eventually I'll get my revenge when I'm calling her saying, Where are you? I need you to change my adult diapers!

-Alice

Law and Order

As my daughter inches closer to turning two, I get excited thinking about all of the wonderful and fun adventures we can go on now that she’s older. Like going on a carousel ride or spending a day at the beach or perhaps running through the sprinkler in the backyard. What I always fail to realize during these daydreams is that there’s no guarantee that Thumper will enjoy any particular activity. Such as going on a carousel ride or spending a day at the beach or perhaps running through the sprinkler in the backyard.

You see, last week I packed Thumper in the car for a two-hour drive to the beach. I armed myself with beach towels and sunscreen, sand toys and a Frisbee, a cooler full of snacks and an umbrella. I even joked to Dawson that the umbrella was a stupid purchase because Thumper likely wouldn’t sit still long enough to ever be underneath it. I thought that since she spends most days outside or begging me to go outside, that she would relish the chance to spend a whole day at the beach where she could get as dirty as she wanted and chuck stones into the water for hours on end. Apparently none of this appealed to her, because she spent the entire time sitting on the towel under the umbrella. I almost checked to see if someone had super-glued her bum to the towel because I’ve never seen her sit still for so long. Ever. There were no sandcastles built. No gleeful splashing in the lake. No lazy walks in the sand collecting pretty rocks. And worst of all, we still managed to leave covered in sand. Which normally would be okay because you have such a good time that it’s worth it to spend the rest of the summer wiping sand out of your butt. But when all that happens at the beach is a series of tantrums related to fear of water, fear of wet sand and the fear of what could happen when you come out from under the umbrella, well then the sand stuck in my ass crack only serves a reminder of my wasted time and broken dreams.

And the week before the failed beach trip, we took Thumper to an amusement park. For the most part, this was a success. She (surprisingly) loved the teacup ride and had a blast getting to “drive” a car around a track all by herself. What she didn’t love was the carousel. After 20 minutes spent watching it go around and around, and screeching excitedly about the horses, I took her for her first ride, expecting her to giggle and squeal in delight. Instead I was met with screams of pure horror and a child who held onto me so tight I thought my insides would burst out from my eyeballs. So instead of sitting on one of the pretty little ponies, we sat in the little carriage thing, which is so not as cool.

I guess I can’t really blame my daughter for all of this. I suppose I was just getting ahead of myself with all my big plans for the summer and forgot that, although she can talk and walk and she drools way less than she did this time last year, she is still very little and it’s not really all that surprising that she scares so easily. What puzzles me about it, and obviously frustrates me, is that all of the things you think your child will love, they hate. And all the things you think they wouldn’t like or aren’t developmentally ready for yet, they can do and love.

Just a couple of months ago, Dawson and I had a fight because he let Thumper go down the stairs the normal way, as opposed to the baby way - going backwards. I argued that she was too little and too reckless of a walker (seriously – this girl walks into everything. Walls, tables, chairs, cats, other babies and so on.) but Dawson insisted she was ready for it. So I gave in, and knock on wood, she hasn’t taken a tumble yet and seems to know that she has to either hold onto the railing or hold our hands. And you all know how she feels about splash pads, which of course extends to sprinklers because let’s face it, a splash pad is just a fancy sprinkler system. I was so sure that Thumper would love frolicking through them, but alas, it was a love affair that was doomed from the start. Doomed because of that stupid law of parenting that says that whatever you want or expect your child to do or love, they won’t and will hate. I don’t know who made up this law, but I think they deserve a swift punch to the gut, or at the very least, several consecutive time-outs and no dessert.

It’s not like I wasn’t warned about this law. It’s not like I haven’t been experiencing it since the day Thumper was born. I just thought maybe there was another law that no one talked about that said that children would grow out of it once they became toddlers. I thought that maybe no one talked about it because if you did, then the law would become void and your punishment was to have to go back to having your child hate things they are supposed to love, and love things they’re supposed to hate. I’ve now realized that that’s not a law, but I definitely think that someone should work on making it one. I don’t know who that person would be. Maybe God, maybe Oprah. Maybe the wizard from the My Little Pony movie that helps the ponies get rid of the Smooze. Either way, it needs to happen, and happen fast. Otherwise I’ll have to give up on splash pads and the beach and quite frankly, I’m not sure I can survive that.

-Alice