Now that I have a spare moment…

it’s time for a real update.  For real.

The last two weeks have been kind of crazy.  And I’ve been kind of depressed.  So rather than blog about all the things I can’t even keep straight in my head, I just retreated into my own little world of TV and wine and coffee and sleep.  ::sigh::  I’m on the mend now, though.  I think.  I hope.

Since we last met, Joshua has weathered another cold, become a Tiny Terrorist, flailing and screaming and biting and spitting and fighting me tooth.and.nail to not have to do what I need/want him to do.  He’s also started holding his own bottle, which was a “skill” I didn’t want him to acquire for fear of him getting too attached to his bottle for me to take it away from him but which has proven to be quite beneficial when he wakes up while I’m trying to get ready for work.  Dan can get him out of the bed while I’m in the shower, put him in the high chair, give him a bottle, and continue making his lunch/coffee/breakfast AND feed Joshua at the same time.  PERFECTION!

And, y’all, the biggest development–HE IS WALKING. OMG!  Not full-on WALKING walking, but he’ll take a few steps here and there and then drop to a crawl.  But, I’m assured by mothers who know, this is walking.  AAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

But let’s get back to that Tiny Terrorist thing for a minute, mmkay?

If I show up to work and my boss asks me “Are you okay?” because there are bruises on my chest, it won’t be because Dan has suddenly decided to “put me in my place.”  It’ll be because Joshua thinks it’s AWESOME to pound/slap my chest because he likes the way it sounds.  And he’s interested in my eyes.  Actually, he’s interested in EVERYONE’S eyes, so he eye-gouges me (and everyone else) quite frequently.  And he HATESHATESHATES having his nails clipped, probably as a result of my first Mommy Fail, so it’s a battle to trim the baby talons.  Which means he scratches me all over the face in his attempts to figure out what those blinky things are that are staring at him all the time. 

And he bites.  OMG does he bite.  Everything.  You’re sitting in the floor minding your own business while he’s playing with his stacking rings?  BAM!  Bite on the knee.  You’re holding him on your hip while trying to also pack a lunch, make coffee and load the car?  BAM!  Bite on the shoulder.  You’re playing with his hands and he grabs your finger and you think for one split second “Noooo, he won’t bite my fingers!”?  BAM!  He bites your fingers.  Baby teeth hurt.  A lot.  I’m not joking.  And we say “NO BITING” very firmly and he does it anyway.  I don’t know what I’m going to do the first time he bites another baby at day care.

And spitting the food.  Holy crap.  This might be the single most frustrating thing I’ve encountered yet as a parent.  More frustrating than reflux and not napping.  More frustrating than spending what felt like four months glued to my recliner, afraid my skin would fuse to the fabric, because Joshua would scream if I moved.  When he spits his food out I want to scream!!  I was raised in a house that didn’t let food go to waste.  When he spits carrots all over his clothes (because God FORBID the child keep a bib on) I just want to cry.  There’s another shirt I’ll never get clean.  And another meal he won’t swallow.  And, wait a minute, do I have pears on my face now??  Yes.  Yes, I do.

I hear from moms who know that the spitting thing is just a phase.  “Just a phase” is a phrase that I am beginning to detest as much as I loathe the phrase “just a cold.”

Along with spitting, my child won’t eat table foods.  Sure, he’ll munch on some french fries (and by munch, I mean make them a soggy mess and then SPIT THEM OUT!) or some pita chips or some cheerios.  But grilled cheese?  Chicken?  Turkey?  Veggie pieces?  NO WAY, JOSE.  He is not gonna do it.  He’ll feed them to the dog.  That’s lots of fun.  But he will not put them in his mouth.  And if you put them in his mouth for him, he sticks his tongue allllllll the way out to make sure the food doesn’t stay in there.  ‘Tis frustrating.

He also hates getting dressed, or diapered, or diapered AND dressed.  He’d be content to be naked for the rest of his life.  He is such a little man.  Putting his pajamas on after bath time takes both of us, and sometimes I wish Annie had opposable thumbs and could lend a paw or four.  He flips and flops and flails and screams and cries and fights and it is such a workout.  The power of language and comprehension and bargaining can’t come fast enough for that fight.

And yes, I know it seems like I’m wishing my child’s life away, and really, I promise you I’m not.  I want him to stay little and innocent for as long as possible because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from working with teenagers it’s that they are jaded beyond belief.  By fourteen years old.  And it saddens me greatly to think about it.  BUT, I maintain that life will be made infinitely easier by Joshua’s ability to say “NO MORE PEAS, MOM.  I’M GOING TO TURN GREEN.  GIVE ME SWEET POTATOES, PLEASE.” For real.  It will be.  You can’t convince it won’t.

Sure, he’ll likely ask for marshmallows instead of sweet potatoes, but at least then I’ll KNOW what he wants instead of trying to guess and failing miserably at this game of Baby Charades we’ve been playing for the past few months. 

But, he’s walking.  And he’s happy (most of the time) and he’s napping consistently and sleeping well at night.  so I should be thankful for the little things, right?  The beautiful little things.  Like a son who “gives kisses” by trying to EAT MY FACE (which is really cute, albeit sloppy–I’ll have to explain to him that this is not a good quality in twenty years when he’s ready to date).  Or how sometimes he stops mid-bottle to smile and laugh at us, which makes us smile and laugh, which prolongs the time it takes to get him down for a nap but are moments I wouldn’t trade for the world.