I've been talking to myself a lot today. Some people say that's normal. Some people say it's a sign of fading sanity.
"Hmm, it says in the forum that the best way to teach a baby how to use a straw is with a drink box...I think I've got some of those"
sit baby in baby chair for easier clean up.
place straw in box
put the straw in the baby's mouth and lightly squeeze the box so she gets the first sip
let baby drink the rest on her own
"huh, that doesn't sound too hard"
I retrieved two drink boxes of apple juice and gave the first to Samuel. When Stacia saw how enthusiastic Sam was about the gift, she decided she should have one too.
"That went well" I said smugly.
I used the drink box to lure her to the chair and proceeded to follow the instructions I'd found on my infallible source of parenting wisdom. She put the straw in her mouth with a bit of a cynical "I'm not going to like this, am I?" sort of look. But then I gave the box a slight squeeze and her eyes lit up. Wide-eyed, she began to laugh. This was not conducive to swallowing and there was a small apple flavored explosion covering her face and my hand in a mist of juice. She was surprised but only laughed harder and, finding her apple covered baby joy irresistible, I laughed too, then she laughed at my laughter and it was a magical moment. And then, as the laughter died down, she had a very logical thought that must have gone something like "If it was funny once, surely a second time will be twice as funny"! She spat her second mouthful right in my face and tried to kick things off again with an artificial laugh. I tried to explain to her that some things are only funny once. She chortled then tried to mimic my serious expression.
"Good. Yes. Juice is serious stuff. No more spitting".
She put the straw back in her mouth and began squeezing more juice not in a serious fashion really, but she was subdued.
At this point I heard Samuel crying in the other room. I put a paper towel on Stacia's tray and ran off to help my distraught five-year-old. Samuel had lost a toy, and cheered up quickly at the prospect letting me look for it since he was tired of looking. I asked where he had looked so far, and it turned out his search had consisted mostly of sitting in the middle of the room and crying for me to come find it. After searching the room for a few minutes, I asked him to stand up and help.
"I found it! I'm a faster finder than you!"
"You were *sitting* on it"
"Yes, and I found it first"
Before I could retort I heard my 16 month year old calling out one of the most useful terms in her limited vocabulary
"Uh oh!"
Knowing that this utterance could be used for anything from a misplaced strand of hair to a house fire, I ran back to the kitchen trying to prepare myself for...well, anything. At first all I noticed was that Stacia had somehow found her way to laying tummy down on her baby tray. I ran forward, intending to rescue her from a two foot drop, but just before I could reach her my foot slipped out from under me.
"Uh oh!"
I scuttled backwards and reassessed the situation. There was a nearly perfect circle of apple juice extending outward about five feet from the baby chair in every direction.
"How, on earth..."
Stacia looked like she had taken a shower in the stuff, and there was a decent amount of standing liquid both on the tray and in the chair.
"...but it was just one box..." I said, weakly
"Uh oh!"
"...I was only gone a minute..."
"Uh oh!"
"...it said "easy clean up"
"Joooos"
"so, so, so much juice"
When I picked her up, her hair, shirt, and diaper were all dripping and heavy with the stuff. I rushed her straight to the bath tub, and she screamed in my ear. Stacia has recently developed a fear of bath tubs, and not wanting to make it worse I tried to ease her into a bath, going at what ever pace was comfortable to her. Two hours later, Stacia was still crying and both of us were very wet after Sam jumped in the tub to "help" and then helped some more by randomly flipping on the shower head
Stacia couldn’t wait to get out of the bathroom and darted out of the room as I helped sam (and my still fully clothed self) get toweled off.
"I'm sorry I didn't help, daddy" Sam muttered from under the towell.
*skitch skitch skitch*
"Nonono, buddy, thank you for coming to help. It's not your fault that Stace is scared"
*skitch skitch skitch*
"But I got you wet and angry"
*skitch skitch skitch*
"Sam, daddy still loves you even at his wettest and angriest. It's not really your fault, it's just one of those-" *skitch skitch skitch* "-days...what is that noise?"
*skitch skitch skitch* is the sound that a one-year-old's foot makes running through mostly dried apple juice.
*skitch skitch skitch* is also the sound of a one-year-old crawling through mostly dried apple juice.
*skitch skitch skitch* is also the sound of a one-year-old rolling through mostly dried apple juice.
After bathing my bathaphobic daughter a second traumatic time, and scrubbing a baby chair, kitchen floor, carpet, and couch, and after a lot more self talk, I finally sat down to compose this note.
As I have been writing, I have been thrown up on, and there are also small hand prints that smell vaguely like jelly beans on my shorts. This, I tell myself, is ok because everything can be washed. I tell myself it's a good day because there was some lovely rain and a small thunder storm. I tell myself it's a good day because we are that much closer to bed time. I tell myself that it was a good day because we all survived and found some comic novelty in the day's events. I tell myself...
I've been talking to myself a lot today. Some people say that's normal. Some people say it's a sign of fading sanity.
No comments:
Post a Comment