IKEA is for kids

I have a confession to make: Instead of going to church this past Sunday, I DVR’ed the Southland Hour and went on a pilgrimage to worship the Norse god of retail at its temple in Cincinnati.

That is to say, I went to IKEA and shopped my little heart out.

In my defense, the trip was my friend Raviya’s suggestion, and I hadn’t seen her since she got back from a six-week stint in Iraq. And I want to kind of sort of brag about how, when I picked her up in the Herald-Leader parking lot, I managed not to throw my arms around her and cry like a homesick camper. Barely.

Anyway, we had a great time. The crowds weren’t nearly so thick as they were opening weekend, so I noticed quite a few things I didn’t see the first time around. The biggest thing I saw was how unbelievably family-friendly the whole place was. It was hands-down the most kid-hospitable big box store I’ve ever been to. Very smart decision on their part, too: women control 85% of household spending, so a store that offers inexpensive, stylish goods and makes shopping with kids tolerable is going to do very, very well. Just how kid-friendly is IKEA? Let me count the ways:

–The best parking in the lot is for families with small children and expectant mothers, and thoughtfully located so that you and the kids don’t have to cross any roadways to get to the store.

–They have a free daycare called Småland so you can drop off your kids and go shop for a while. It’s open to potty-trained children between 37″ - 54″ tall, and there’s a time limit–I think it’s 45 minutes on the weekend and 90 minutes on the weekdays, but I’m not 100% sure. An employee told me that parents can use Småland once per day and that the daycare workers all know CPR and first aid, and must undergo heavy background checks. The child-teacher ratio is 10:1, which is pretty standard for 3-year-olds.

–The women’s bathrooms have changing tables, Diaper Champs, and free Huggies. I’m not sure what size, though. Looked like 3’s, maybe? There’s also a very low sink there for little kids to wash their hands. There isn’t a low potty (like the kind you see in daycares), but some of the bathrooms have stepping stools. One or two of the stalls have those wall-mounted high-chairs so you can strap a baby in and go to the toilet without worrying about your kidlet wallowing around on the bathroom floor.

–There are also family restrooms available for parents with opposite sex kids, and a baby care room with a toilet, low sink, and a big comfy arm chair with pillows for nursing.

–Sprinkled throughout the store are these things called “play towers”: waist-high triangular kiosks with little spinny, touchy, whirligig games and stuff on them. That way, the kids will hopefully leave the merchandise alone and not bug their parents about being bored. I cannot remember, but I think some of them might have had little TVs on them with cartoons.

–Right at the store entrance there is a bank of free wall lockers so you can stash your diaper bag and/or purse while you shop.

–The cafeteria has children’s meals for 99¢ or $1.99. The portions are generous and the meal includes a drink. You can also buy jarred Nature’s Goodness baby food in the cafeteria line for 79¢.

–There’s a children’s area in the cafeteria with tiny, brightly-colored tables and chairs, soft flooring, a huge flat-screen TV showing PBS-type cartoons, and more of the aforementioned whirligig toys set into the walls for when the kids are done.

–Right next to the children’s area, there’s an island where you can pick up chunky neon plastic plates and cutlery, booster seats, and napkins. And for the babies, there are high chairs, disposable bibs, a microwave, and two bottle warmers.

–One more thing about the cafeteria: It was Father’s Day when Raviya and I went, so they had opened up a separate section of the cafeteria with paper and art supplies on all the tables so kids could make a card for their dads. I just thought that was a nice touch–the cherry on the thoughtful, convenient sundae that is IKEA.

Their commitment to children goes farther than the shopper’s comfort, though: IKEA is committed to using materials that are responsibly harvested and free from hazardous materials, and they require that IKEA suppliers in other countries do not use child labor and provide humane working conditions for their employees. Furthermore, IKEA actively works with UNICEF and the WHO in different programs aimed at preventing child labor.

Now, put all that together: the convenience of shopping there, plus the outstanding corporate philosophy, and it’s easy to see why IKEA gets my shopping dollars every time I get half a chance to drive up there.

A moment of self doubt. More than usual, anyhow

A morose little thought just struck me. I was feeding Baby Girl a bottle this morning, and she was smiling adoringly at me as the early sun lit her hair afire. Even her eyelashes were neon. She cooed and patted my cheek, then snuggled down contentedly in my arms and tucked happily back into her bottle. She sighed and closed her eyes, drifting off to sleep as she suckled, perfectly warm, perfectly safe, perfectly secure.

Then I realized all once how much I mean to her, that I am truly the center of her whole world. She doesn’t care about my weight, or my crazy hair that badly needs a cut and color, or the bags under my eyes. She loves my body because it’s soft for cuddling. She loves my hair because she can bat at it and run her fingers wonderingly through it. She doesn’t see my dark circles because she’s only looking into my eyes and loving the attention and interaction she gets.

This should be a warming, empowering thought, but it isn’t because I can’t help but wonder what she’ll think of me a few years from now. The honeymoon is almost over with the Sprog. He has begun to turn a critical eye toward me, and I cringe at that. Every flaw I have comes back amplified by a thousand when I catch him looking at me thoughtfully.

I don’t lose sleep when I upset him because of a time-out or something, but I shrink in terror at the thought of disappointing him. How can I be someone’s role model when I screw up so much? Just about all I have going for me is my love for them. Reminds me of an old Oscar Wilde quote: “Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them; sometimes they forgive them.”

Thunder = drums. Of Doom.

It’s Friday night, but it doesn’t feel like Friday night. Man, you could have brought in the groceries with the bags under my eyes today. I suspect I was one of many exhausted parents, though, considering the fury of the thunderstorms we had Thursday night.

I didn’t actually get to sleep until 4 a.m. because the Sprog kept waking up and calling for me every time he heard a big clap of thunder. Not that I blame him, poor kid. I would have allowed him to sleep in my bed, but my husband has to work Saturday and the Sprog is a notoriously bad bunkmate. He kicks, rolls around, burrows into your armpit, grinds his teeth, and snores like a trucker. No thank you.

So I sat in the living room and knitted, and when he called for me, I went upstairs and loved on him. Eventually, though, it got to where I kinda sorta wanted to sleep. Silly me. It looked like it wasn’t going to happen, but then I Got An Idea. A terrible, awful okay, pretty darn good idea.

My husband always insists that the Sprog wear proper ear protection if he wants to watch Daddy play the drums, so we got a pair of Junior-sized soundproof headphones for him. You know the kind, serious-looking and big as a can of Spam on each side. When my husband is wearing the big boy version of those headphones, I can stand literally two feet away and scream at him, and he can’t hear it.

So I went downstairs and snagged the Sprog’s headphones, trotted back up to his room and presented them to him with the solemn promise that he would hear no more scary noises if he would just wear them. Did he want them? He nodded his head so fast he about got brain slosh. Clapped them on his ears, figured out how to lay on his back so they wouldn’t fall off, then smiled.

“Thanks, Mommy,” he sighed as he snuggled down deeper into the covers.

“No problem, sweetie,” I said.

“WHAT?” he yelled.

I pulled the headphones out an inch and said, “Love you, babe. Get some sleep.”

“Okay, Mom,” he said, his eyes already heavy. I turned the light back out, and within three minutes I heard him snoring over the baby monitor as the thunder growled away.

I am a freaking ROCK STAR.

All dogs go to heaven

Brothers and sisters I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.
~Rudyard Kipling

There are so many things I wanted to blog about today, but I’m pretty sure my dog is dying, and I just don’t have the heart for anything else right now. PJ has been acting weird all week, and it became apparent Friday night that something was wrong. By Sunday, we realized that he was in a lot of pain; hopefully we’ll know more after my husband takes him to the vet this morning (it was the soonest we could get an appointment). It’s probably age-related, since PJ just turned 12.

On Saturday when I let him out to use the bathroom, he looked at the stairs, looked at me, hung his head in shame, and then peed on the deck. I hate seeing him losing his dignity almost as much as I hate seeing him hurt. He has always been such a brave, manly little dog.

We got him from a breeder who wanted to get out of the business, so her solution was to euthanize the stock so nobody else would breed them and benefit from her hard work. Yeah, I know: really charming. I’m no huge fan of Jack Russells, but I couldn’t stand to let the little guy die. So that’s how we came to be the proud owners of a stout little stud who thinks of my husband as The Other Man.

He’s very protective of me, though. With both of my children, PJ would park himself at the foot of the rocking chair while they nursed/drank formula and would let loose with the most bone-chilling growls if anyone, even my husband, came near me. He wasn’t about to let anyone hurt his mama.

When I took the Sprog with me to D.C. two years ago for my brother’s wedding, my husband was obliged to stay home for a funeral. He said that PJ snubbed him the entire week in every way a dog possibly could. When my husband walked into a room, PJ turned tail and stalked out. He would not sleep on his doggie bed in the bedroom, instead preferring to sleep in the living room. And every time my husband opened the door to let him out, PJ would glare at him as he passed, as if to say, “I know you buried them in a shallow grave in the woods, so don’t even try to deny it. You’d just better pray I never find the bodies, pal.” Then a haughty sniff, and off he went.

So yeah, my dog’s kind of a snot. But I love that about him. And the Sprog loves PJ too—his first word was “dog”, after all. Which made it really hard when I found myself sitting down with the Sprog yesterday to explain to him what was going on.

How do you tell a 3-year-old about death? I hoped I’d be able to find the right words this time, and not perform another spectacular punt like I did on the way to school last month when he started grilling me about where babies came from. I answered him honestly right up until the point where he insisted, “Yes, Mommy, but how does the daddy put the little seed in the mommy?” And then I panicked and said, “Hey LOOK, another Prius!” And that was the end of that. *facepalm* I know. I know. I will remedy this soon. But anyway:

The talk last night went a lot better. I sat down with him and asked him if he had noticed that PJ was feeling sick lately. He nodded. I said that PJ was so sick that he might not get better. If he didn’t get better, I said, then PJ would die. I told him that when PJ died, he would go to sleep, but never wake up again.

The Sprog said, “Then we will take him to the hospital!” So I told him that doctors can’t make PJ better if he’s dead, but that it would be okay because PJ wouldn’t hurt so much anymore after he died. He sighed and picked at the dry skin on his lip.

“When PJ dies, I want to go outside and play so I don’t have to see,” he said.

I promised that he would not have to see that, but also said that it wouldn’t be scary—PJ would just look like he was going to sleep. He nodded, and I asked him if he had any questions.

“Yes, Mom. Can I have a graham cracker?” he said.

*snort* It’s hard to be profound around a preschooler. But we talked for a few more minutes about the prospect of PJ’s death, and the Sprog petted PJ and loved on him gently for a few minutes, just in case he didn’t live through the night.

PJ did live through the night, but he’s not doing any better. He’s currently curled up in his doggie bed next to me, his chin on my foot. He hasn’t eaten much today and has only used the bathroom once.

What’s that old saying? “I wouldn’t take a million bucks for my dog, but I wouldn’t give a plugged nickel for another one just like him.” PJ is clingy, smelly, not terribly smart, obedient only when it’s convenient, compulsively licks people, barks at everything, and he’s not even that cute. But he’s a patient, loyal, lion-hearted little dog if ever one lived, and my heart is just breaking right now. This just plain stinks.

UPDATE: The vet just examined PJ and said he has a massive infection and some kind of back injury. He said that if we make sure he takes all of his meds and keep him very comfortable, he might stick around for a while. I hope you won’t think I’m a total fool if I’m shedding a few happy tears for the little ankle biter.

 

 

Virginia, I hate to tell you this…

Don’t say I didn’t warn you: if you have elementary-age kids bopping around the room while you’re reading this entry, you might want to either read this later or wait til they’re off playing Legos.

Right then. Now, a snippet of a recent conversation I had at work (as best as I can remember it):

Me: Would you think I was a joyless freak if I said I’m not teaching my kids that Santa is real?

Nameless copy editor: No Santa at all?

Me: Well, the Sprog will still get presents from “Santa”, but he knows that they’re really from mommy and daddy.

Copy editor : Why? Religious reasons?

Me: Sort of, though I don’t think there’s anything wrong with Santa. I just can’t bring myself to tell him about it and know it’s not true. Think it’ll permanently scar him?

Copy editor: *raised eyebrow*

Me: Well, I mean, would it scar him any more than he normally would be with my screwed-up parenting?

Copy editor: Yeah, the Santa thing might not be what breaks him.

* * * * *

So there you have it: my husband and I are not going to teach our kids that Santa Claus is real. I’m aware that this is not going to be popular; when I told my parents about it, my dad looked at me like I had just owned up to stealing the last can of Who Hash.

But you know what? I’m not trying to kill the Sprog’s joy—he still gets presents from Santa, but he knows we’re the ones bankrolling the Christmas morning bounty. This can only be a good thing, since somewhere around, oh, October, he began breathlessly exclaiming, “Mommy, I want that for a Christmas present! Can I get presents, Mommy?” every time he saw a cool new toy.

That bothered me—not because I begrudge my kid a good Christmas gift, but because it was sad for me to see him so wrapped up in getting stuff. That’s not what Christmas is about.

When the Sprog asked what Christmas was a few weeks ago, I told him that it was a birthday party for baby Jesus, and that it was a special day to spend with family. I’ve been trying to emphasize the “giving” aspect of the season, too: he’s been saving his pennies to give to a children’s charity, and I’ve been selling him on how happy he will feel when other people open the presents he got them.

So far, my efforts seem to have have worked pretty well: he knows the story of the Nativity, is very pumped about collecting money for the charity, and is nearly incontinent in his desire to watch people open the presents he picked out.

And as for Santa and the “magic of the season”? There’s still plenty of both to spare. The Sprog and I have been conspiring about how we will make special Christmas cookies together and leave them out for Santa—and then we will totally fool Daddy into thinking Santa really came and ate them, only it was really us after all, ha ha ha.

I have seen it argued on some message boards that not believing in Santa will cripple the Sprog’s imagination and compel him to be a tax accountant when he grows up. But I’d argue that his imagination is getting a pretty darn good work-out when he’s pretending along with Santa-related stuff, even though he knows it’s just make-believe.

Of course, this isn’t just about religion and charity: By not teaching the Sprog that Santa is real, we avoid the temptation to threaten that Santa won’t bring him presents if he misbehaves. I’ve seen many a parent depend on this little crutch, and though it’s frankly tempting, I’d rather not. If I tell him to behave, he’d better do it because I said so, not because Santa’s hand is hovering over the Smite button.

Besides, I think we can all agree that I’m being merciful by sparing the kids the agony of visiting Santa at the mall:

(For more freak-out schadenfreude goodness, check out the Scared of Santa gallery.)

Too cool for school

Friday was the Sprog’s first day of preschool, a day we’d both been looking forward to for some time. And if I was a little anxious, well, I didn’t let on and dampen his excitement.

We’d looked hard and found what seemed like the perfect school last spring, so I figured he’d be fine. My biggest worry was working with the other parents. Growing up, I had tended to view PTAs and other school committees in a somewhat less-than-complimentary way: petty dictatorships ruled by catty women in Mom jeans, characterized by stupid struggles over who was in charge of the decorating committee. But at the Sprog’s new school, the parents are all just cool people and I feel comfortable around them. Bonus!

But I guess the million dollar question is, was the Sprog happy with it? He loved it when we went for an exploratory visit last year and during the orientation day last Monday, but how would he do when Mommy or Daddy wasn’t there?

I shouldn’t have worried. He walked in and immediately got involved with an activity while I learned the ropes of checking him in. Then I took him to the toilet before I left, since he tends to have accidents when he gets too caught up in playing.

“Sweetie, are you going to have a good day today?” I asked as I stood outside the stall. “Mommy will be back soon, but you can have a good time playing until I get back, right?”

The child looked over his shoulder at me. “Mommy, I need you to be gone in a few minutes.”

Ouch. Sharper than a serpent’s tooth, indeed.

But I’m glad he was more inclined to be independent than clingy. He’s a brave, secure little guy and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Although he did come running after me for an extra goodbye hug and kiss on my way out—and then right back to playing with his new friends. I think we both needed that.

The enormity of the situation…

“That’s no moon…It’s a space station!”
—Obi Wan Kenobi, Star Wars

I’d like to say I’m one of those women who are still tiny and sylph-like even when they’re only a few weeks from giving birth. I’d like to say that, but I’d be lying through my teeth. Because I’m huge. Even my maternity clothes are starting to get tight in the belly, so I’ve requested that my husband get 2XL t-shirts when he goes in for pheresis at the Blood Center. And rolling over in bed at this point requires me to get a good start, or I’ll run out of momentum and end up stuck on my back with my legs waving in the air like an unfortunate turtle.

Even the Sprog has noticed, as evidenced by this recent exchange:

He was sitting on my knees and playing horsey as I held his hands and bounced him around. After a while, yelling “Giddyup!” kind of lost its shine, so I decided to liven things up.

“Okay, now you’re Han Solo, and you’re flying the Millennium Falcon away from the evil Empire!”

He squealed with glee and made spaceship noises as I zoomed him back and forth on my knees (he also graciously said I could be Princess Leia). Then a few minutes later, he said, “Mommy, now I am Luke Skywalker, and I will shoot the Death Star!”

“Alright,” I said gamely. “Who am I?”

He leaned forward, gently patted my giant preggo belly, and said, “Mommy, you’re the Death Star.”

 

Jesus is not a G.I. Joe

I just read an article on CNN.com about Wal-Mart’s plan to stock Bible-based action figures for children to play with. According to the article, the toys include “a 3-inch figure of Daniel in the lion’s den, a 12-inch talking Jesus doll and 13-inch Samson action figure”.

You know, I think it’s just fine for parents to want their kids to focus more on spiritual themes instead of The Incredible Hulk or whatever, but I think it’s possible Wal-Mart has not thought their cunning plan through.

To whit, have you seen what little kids do with action figures? My son has a bunch of Spiderman and Superman guys, and though there are bouts of heroism where Spiderman bravely rescues Superman from the evil Land Beyond Couch Cushion, he also likes to make them pee and fart at each other. A lot.

Kids love action figures and dolls because they can employ them as proxies to act out their own interests and fantasies. The problem is, a Jesus action figure is not a blank slate—people expect him and other Biblical characters to fulfill certain roles, to have certain personality traits. But little kids don’t know that, not really. They haven’t had time to internalize it in the same way parents have.

So I’m afraid what you’re going to end up with is one of three scenarios:

1) Little Rod and Todd dutifully playing out Daniel in the lions’ den/Jesus walking on water/Samson bringing down the temple. And no doubt, there’s some juicy stuff in the Bible…but for the kid playing out the scenario, there’s little room for interpretation in there. Doesn’t sound like much fun, honestly.

2) Parents wincing while they nervously watch their kids make the Virgin Mary and Samson do bloody battle with ninjas. VAMPIRE NINJAS WITH BAZOOKAS. omg that is so cool.

3) Parents freaking out their kids by swooping down upon them and saying, “Put that down, kids! Jesus is NOT ALLOWED to get married to the Virgin Mary and live in the Malibu Barbie Dream House! You treat that action figure with some reverence!”

All of which is to say, I think this is not such a great idea. I don’t object to religiously-themed toys in general; just action figures based on specific Bible characters.  But there’s plenty of other great stuff out there. The Sprog is particularly fond of the VeggieTales merchandise, which is cool because I don’t mind so much when Laura the Carrot decides that some smack-talking French peas are going down. Because that’s how little kids play, and I don’t want to mess with that.

The nursery magic

“…Once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”
–The Velveteen Rabbit

I have nothing all that earth-shattering to say today. But I think you all should go read this post over at Finslippy:

RIP, Minty Bear

Alice’s family just came back from vacation, only to discover that they had left her 4-year-old son’s beloved Minty Bear in the hotel room. The way she handled it, and the sweet way she wrote about her little boy’s reaction, is chief among the reasons she’s one of my favorite bloggers. That, and because she’s as much of a spazz as I am, and her son has food issues too. Absolutely worth a read.

But this post, it made me think about all the improbable things children become attached to. My pastor’s daughter used to derive comfort from snuggling a tri-fold cloth diaper, which she called “Didie”. My friend’s son used to love on a plastic light saber.

And my son? He has a beat-up stuffed dog who is, originally enough, called “Special Dog”. Special Dog looks like he was left on the floor and trampled at a heavy metal concert, but the Sprog doesn’t care. After I first read him The Velveteen Rabbit a few weeks ago, he insisted to me that Special Dog was Real too, just like the bunny. And you know what? I believe him—after all, I once had a Special Bear, too.

Does your child have a treasured stuffed animal or security object?

Food fight!

In case you all haven’t been there yet, check out our own Sharon Thompson’s fabulous new foodie blog, Flavors of Kentucky. Like the other Flavors of Kentucky site she’s been running, the blog already features a bunch of yummy-looking recipes, plus some content that I imagine will fit better in blog format than a traditional recipe site. So go check it out!

Heck those recipes look so good, my son might even deign to try one if I fixed it up just right. Maybe if I hid it under some macaroni and cheese? Nah, who am I kidding. He’d rather gnaw his own fingers off like a coyote in a trap than eat a food that’s not on his pre-approved list—a list that is not growing appreciably larger with time, as we had hoped it would.

See, the Sprog is what some might call a “picky eater”. Others might call it being “finicky”. I call it a “humongous pain in the butt.” We’ve tried to get him to eat new foods before, but he absolutely refuses to try them. And just for emphasis: It’s not that he wouldn’t like them; it’s that he won’t try them. We don’t serve him gruel with mystery meat chunks, a la Oliver Twist. I’m talking about baked beans, cantaloupe, blueberry waffles, bananas. He has even refused cake and ice cream on his last two birthday parties. While all the other kids were ratcheting themselves into sugar nirvana on chocolate Spider-Man cake and Neapolitan ice cream, my son was pleading for microwaved chicken nuggets. Seriously.

We’ve continued to suggest new foods to him, to no avail. And in the meantime, we’ve read all the parenting books, surfed the internet for articles, asked the pediatrician. And we have still accomplished precisely squat in terms of getting the Sprog to eat actual food. No, I take that back: I did get him to start taking a chewable vitamin every morning, but that took two weeks of unrelenting, PTSD-inducing battle.

We’ve tried:

• letting him eat what he wants (within certain parameters, i.e., it must be at least a moderately healthful food) and trusting that he’ll grow out of being picky. So far, this has been a resounding failure.

• explaining that he must feed his body good food so he can grow up to be big and strong. He doesn’t believe us.

• outright bribery. Also to no effect, since not having to eat the horror of mashed potatoes is his biggest priority in life. Nothing else has been shown to supersede that. Nothing. And trying to hold something important over his head as a reward for eating only means a big heaping helping of trauma and drama.

• telling him that he will go without that meal if he refuses to eat. No problem for him. He’ll happily skip a meal and wait us out until the next one if it means not having to eat whatever strange food we’ve set in front of him, such as meatloaf slathered in ketchup.

• reheating the unloved leftovers. Once before, we tried telling him that he must eat a particular food (beef stroganoff), and told him that he would receive nothing else to eat until he at least tried it. He went on a two-day hunger strike rather than put one single bite of it in his mouth (he had plenty of soy milk and vitamins). The ultimate scream-inducing irony: he now loves beef stroganoff. I knew he would, if he’d just put a bite into his mouth and try it.

We’ve had some minor success in the last week with trying to get him to eat new things, but it’s all one step forward, two steps back. And I’m really tired of fixing one meal for my husband and I, and a different meal for him; it will only get more complicated after his little sister arrives. Beyond that, I want him to get more fruits and veggies in his diet, and I want to establish that habit early, before he turns into this kid.

And in answer to the questions that will inevitably arise:

Am I a bad cook? It’s a fair question, but the answer, in all modesty, is no. I am a darn good cook, and the only complaint I ever got from my husband was the Indian peanut sauce on chicken and rice that I invented shortly after our marriage. Seven years later, even I can admit it was kind of nasty.

Are we indulgent parents? Also, no. We ask the Sprog to follow a few simple rules, and he’s a sweet-natured kid who loves to please adults by obeying. Except for when food is involved.

Is this a power issue? Most likely. He knows it drives us crazy if he doesn’t eat, but that ship has sailed. No taking it back and making him think I’m unconcerned.

So anyway… I am all out of ideas. Any tips from parents who have been there, done that, would be highly appreciated. And in the meantime, I have a great coupon for macaroni and cheese that I’d better use before it expires. *sigh*

Edited to add: Haha! We got the Sprog to eat a blueberry waffle for breakfast. Granted, it took a little wheedling, since he was all, “I don’t want to try it! I don’t like waffles!” Also, we had to put peanut butter and jelly on it. BUT HE ATE IT. And he admitted that blueberry waffles were very good. Let us hope this is a gateway to bigger and better things. It is perhaps a commentary on the sad state of my life that this is likely to be my biggest accomplishment of the day.

Apparently, I have very nice eyebrows

A few nights ago, while tucking the Sprog into bed, this exchange:

ME: Okay, we’re all done with bedtime stories; now it’s time to say our prayers.

SPROG: I don’t want to!

ME: You don’t have to, but I think it’s very important.

SPROG: Why?

ME: Well, we should thank God for all the nice things he’s given us. Like he gave you a loving family, and a healthy body, and a brain to think with, and a heart to love with…

SPROG: Yeah! Yeah! AND GOD GAVE YOU YOUR EYEBROWS TOO, RIGHT???

ME: . . .

SPROG: Right?

ME: Well, yes, he did.

SPROG: *satisfied nod* Okay, Mommy. Let’s pray.

(For the record, we taught him the wussed out version of the old “Now I lay me down to sleep” prayer—the one that goes “The angels watch me through the night/until I wake at morning light.” My parents taught me the Jonathan Edwards Freakout version that goes “If I should die before I wake/I pray the Lord my soul to take.” They could not have known, but I lay awake countless nights wondering how many different ways I could die in my sleep. Vampires, maybe? And this is way too long for a parenthetical phrase, so I’ll end it, oh, here—>)

Mommy’s little Jedi knight

Friday was the 30th anniversary for the theatre premiere of Star Wars: A New Hope, so it got me to thinking about the impact it’s had on me and, later, on my family.

On IMDB, the first user comment calls it “A kid’s fantasy. An Adult’s memory”. And that just about sums it up for me. I was born two years after the first one came out, so I cannot ever remember a time when I did not know what Star Wars was. And I loved it—the heroism, the romance and pageantry of it all. Plus, I wanted to marry Han Solo. Shh.

I didn’t grow up to marry Han Solo, needless to say, but I did find a certain sweet drummer who had a Boba Fett action figure (still in the package) hanging on the wall of his dorm room and a Lego X-Wing set on top of his microwave. I think it’s fair to say it was love at first sight.

I hadn’t intended to let the Sprog watch it just yet, because I thought Darth Vader was too scary. Plus, that whole thing with Stormtroopers blowing people away with blasters (though they couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn, usually).

But last September, my husband wasn’t feeling well, so he was watching Star Wars while laying on the couch. I ran out to the library, and when I came back, both my boys were cuddled up on the couch, mesmerized by the Millennium Falcon shooting it out with the evil Empire. We turned off the DVD shortly thereafter, when I expressed concerns that it might be too violent and scary for him. But the reprieve was short-lived.

The very next day, the Sprog started feeling sick too, so I put in his favorite Elmo DVD. He commenced with the grumping and whining as soon as he saw the menu screen (you know how kids are when they’re sick), so I asked him if there was something else he’d rather watch.

“Star Wars, Mama,” he said distinctly. “I want Star Wars.”

So I queued up the DVD and he sat down on his baby potty. As soon as the main title with the trumpet fanfare bamfed onto the screen, he stood up, threw his arms up into the air and yelled “YAAAAY! YAAAAAAY! HOOOORAAAAAY!!! STAAAAR WAAAAARS!!!” Which, you know, is as it should be.

He had watched most of it the day before, so we snuggled up on the couch and watched the thrilling conclusion together; I provided a little simplified narration so he’d have some clue of what was going on.

Near the end, when the X-wings are getting nearer and nearer to the target on the Death Star, I told him, “The spaceships have to shoot the Death Star before the bad guys get them. See Luke? He’s trying to shoot the Death Star. Uh oh! Is Darth Vader going to get him? Hurry up, Luke!”

The Sprog’s eyes were as big as an Ewok’s, and he sat, entranced, as one by one, the Empire TIE fighters picked off the X-wings. I admit, I found myself getting a little caught up in the suspense, too. Finally, when Luke was almost there, the Sprog couldn’t take it anymore. He stood up on the couch and yelled, “SHOOT THE DEATH STAR, LUKE! SHOOT THE DEATH STAR!”

The rest, as they say, is history. He requested (though was not generally allowed) to watch it every single day for months. I finally let him watch The Return of the Jedi in desperation because I was this close to torching A New Hope with hairspray and a Bic lighter if I had to watch it one more time. I did fast-forward through the parts with the Rancor and Emperor Palpatine, though. Still too scary.

But within days, the Star Wars universe was irrevocably sown into his imagination. Cardboard paper towel tubes became lightsabers, with which he would bravely battle Darth Vader. A big cardboard box became the Millennium Falcon, and he would steer it all over the universe rescuing princesses and shooting up the evil Empire. When he asked for (and received) a baby doll to love on, he named it Luke Skywalker. When we were toilet training him, casually mentioning that Jedi Knights always poop in the potty–not in their diapers–got swift results.

He doesn’t ask to watch it as much now (thank goodness), but he still loves Star Wars. Two of his most treasured possessions are the little toy lightsabers we got him for Christmas. And in the meantime, he’s moved on to other fads and obsessions, the way kids will. But Star Wars has a special place in his heart still. And when we do watch it, and I see his little eyes lighting up at the swashbuckling action, the conflict between good and evil, the jaw-dropping special effects, I couldn’t be happier about that.

Discuss: Any Star Wars fans here? Got kids who love it? Speak up and tell me about it! I’m especially interested to hear about the first time you ever saw it, but I’m not picky–any Star Wars anecdotes will do just fine.

UK basketball and cloth diapering

Okay, fine. This actually has nothing to do with UK basketball, but never let it be said that I’m above shameless trolling for page hits.

But, onward and upward: my husband and I have recently decided to use cloth diapers with this new baby (translation: I decided and then convinced him with an avalanche of pamphlets printed on 100% post-consumer recycled paper).

We know the way will not be easy; there will be

• annoyance: I will actually have to do laundry. Quite often, even. Boo hiss.

• sartorial misadventures: I hope they make Hammer pants for babies, because cloth diapers are not known for their trim fit (except for maybe Fuzzi Bunz).

• possible fatal injury: hopefully our heads won’t swell up and explode from the smug knowledge that we’re saving the world one dirty diaper at a time, blah blah blah shut up and go drink a wheatgrass smoothie already Heather.

But while we’re on that topic, let me make one thing clear: this post is not intended to make anyone feel guilty about their diapering choices. Heaven knows it’s hard enough to deal with the stress of a new baby without having to worry about laundering the kiddo’s dirty diapers. But I’ve done a lot of research on this, and it’s something we feel we need to do.

I’m not going to lay out all the facts and figures (better bloggers than I have already done so, and far more thoroughly than I ever could), but here’s a few highlights:

In favor of cloth diapers:

• If you get the right kind of diapers and use them properly, they won’t leak with even the nastiest blow-outs (according to Lexington’s own uber-mama Guinever)

• Also according to Guinever, they’re really not that hard to launder.

• General health concerns: babies in disposables tend to have more diaper rash, the chemicals used in manufacturing the diapers (especially dioxin) are potentially dangerous, and the scrotal temperature rise associated with using disposables may negatively impact a boy’s future fertility.

• Waste products get processed through the water and sewer lines, instead of being dumped into a landfill and possibly contaminating the groundwater.

• The landfill issue: Cloth diapers biodegrade in about six months. Disposable diapers take at least 500 years to do the same thing; that’s a problem since disposable diapers are the third-most common item thrown away by people in America, and make up 4% of all landfill content, and 30% of all non-biodegradable waste. That’s a lot of garbage, considering each child in disposables generates over two tons of wet/dirty diapers in the first two and half years of its life.

• You’ll save money buying cloth diapers and washing them at home (you’ll have to, since there’s no diaper service in Lexington), and the savings is even higher if you use the diapers on more than one child. But even if you only use them on one kid, people sell gently used cloth diapers on eBay at an excellent profit. Oh, quit cringing, they look just about brand new if they’ve been cared for. And what do you think babies do all over those cute second-hand rompers you buy on eBay?. (Correction: the sale of used cloth diapers has recently been banned by eBay, but you can buy and sell any kind of cloth diaper on the Mother-Ease site.)

In favor of disposables:

• They’re more convenient, especially when traveling or if the kid has just had immunizations. However, there are reasonably easy ways around this if you’re committed to cloth diapering. And putting untreated polio virus in a landfill is kind of gross anyway.

• Daycares often have policies forbidding cloth diapers. Which is silly, because good hygiene practices by daycare workers have a lot more to do with preventing the spread of disease than what kind of diapers the kids are wearing.

• Um, that’s about it.

We’re still exploring all our options and trying to figure out the best way to go about all this; it’s a brave new world for us and I’m not ashamed to admit that I have a lot of research still to go on this. But first I think I need to go shopping for some baby Hammer pants. And possibly the matching sunglasses.

Do any of you all use cloth diapers? What kind do you like best, and do you have any tips for beginners?

Meeting the sibling

It can be a tricky thing, introducing a young child to the concept of being an older sibling. But here’s a heads up on a cool little class that could help.

Tomorrow at the Beaumont Branch Public Library, at 3080 Fieldstone Way, the librarians will host a special workshop for new or soon-to-be big brothers and big sisters. It’s free, and goes from 3:30 to 4:30 p.m. Children will listen to stories that help them deal with concerns they might have, and then they’ll make a special present for the new baby. The workshop is meant for children ages 3 to 6, and reservations are required. For more information call (859) 231-5570 or visit the Lexington Public Library Web site.

I’ve signed the Sprog up for the class, because the first time I told him there was a baby in Mommy’s tummy, he looked at me like I had just served him a plate of fresh warts. He’s all kinds of excited about it now, but it can’t hurt to make sure everyone’s totally cool with the impending embiggening of the family. Hope to see you there!

Three is a magic number

Today is the Sprog’s third birthday. My baby. Three years old. DOES NOT COMPUTE.

This morning alone, as I trailed after and watched, he chose an outfit and got himself dressed, went to the bathroom by himself, put the lid down afterward (score!), washed his hands while singing the alphabet in its entirety, and then turned to me and asked me to hand him the towel. Which I did. And then I hopped on my Jazzy scooter and motored back to the retirement home for a relaxing round of canasta with Gladys. Good gravy, I feel old.

So, he’s 3 now. And where there is birthday, there is sure to be party. Problem is, I’m not so good at keeping the party small. Of course, this is only my third try at throwing a child’s birthday party, and I’m getting better at it, but it’s still bigger than I really wanted.

The Sprog’s first birthday party was huge, with about 40 people in attendance and enough chocolate cake to choke a horse. But hey, first birthdays are special, right? Last year the party was smaller, but the enormous gaggle of kids crowding the house nearly resulted in someone getting a black eye, courtesy of a wandering elbow. This year I had resolved to have 1) fewer guests, and 2) no contact injuries. I wanted it to be small and simple, which in a big Scots/Italian family means maybe 20 guests and no visits from the police over noise ordinance violations.

Despite my resolutions, a “quick trip” to the party store for supplies ended in me spending way, way more money than I had intended. But party supplies are steep, yo. By the time I got the Spider-Man invitations, thank-you notes, (generic but color-coordinated) plates and cups, a plastic table cloth, and cardboard Spidey masks for all the kids, almost $60 ended up blurting itself out of my wallet at check-out time.

Would have been $57, but while I was deliberating over plates, Young Devious managed to snag a package of pricey Spider-Man balloons off the shelf, rip open the plastic and partially inflate a balloon, all within the space of 20 seconds. I would say putting your slobber all over the balloons necessitates mandatory purchase. I would also like to say that Young Devious would be an awesome name for a rapper.

Good grief. $60 for disposable junk for a party. This cannot happen again. I feel like one of those nutso parents who rents petting zoos and hires the Cheetah Girls to sing Happy Birthday or whatever. Yes, I really do feel that way, because my crazy brand of thriftiness knows no bounds. I just can’t help it — when I see Coach handbags or Hummers, I see mortgage payments and dental appointments. I see sad, starving little orphans who are begging me with their big eyes to get more than 12 miles per gallon. This makes me a big hit at parties, let me tell you.

But surely there’s a happy medium between My Super Sweet 16 and letting the Sprog out of the basement for an extra helping of gruel in honor of the occasion. I just haven’t figured out where, is all.

What do you all consider appropriate expenditure/pomp and circumstance for a child’s birthday party? Got any tips to make things a little less pricey without sacrificing the fun? Come on, share! We must help others to keep fighting the good fight, even though I have already fallen prey to the evil temptation of the Spidey Splurge. Which totally sounds like something Douglas MacArthur would have said, had he ever thrown a 3-year-old’s birthday party.