All Things Dylan, All Things Crazy

Sometimes (okay, ALL the time) an extended weekend is much needed and this past 4th of July fit the bill. In between fireworks, a family reunion, a fancy-schmancy dinner, and a day at the beach, we were all over the place. But it was the kind of busy that comes easy because it’s voluntary, rewarding, and FUN. And I’m all about the fun, all about the sunshine. 

Last night my husband and I fell into bed like two overcooked lobsters and tried to come up with our favorite parts of the weekend but it was too good to narrow down. Considering the long nights that overlapped Dylan’s typical bedtime, he remained well-behaved and in good spirits throughout. My little big boy has changed so much since he was born that it’s nice to spend a bulk of time with him and observe details that may normally slip past unnoticed. And if Dylan is anything like me, he’s going to grow up asking a gazillion questions about what he was like as a baby kid. So while the pan of memory is still hot, here’s to Dizbaby developments: 

The name "Dylan" means: Son of the sea. Can ya tell?

• Much to my dismay, my son is a misogynist. He violently rejects female attention and refuses to engage with the opposite sex; unless you’re a kid, because… 

• My son is also an ageist. He’s down for kids under 10, but if you’re in the female over 10 demographic, either get out of his way or he’ll make you, because…

Hi! We're Dylan's Parents..!

• He’s MEAN! I cannot stress enough just how mean this 1 year old is. He’ll cry, he’ll shoot the evil eye, he’ll push, smack, scream, leave your high-five hanging because…

• Dylan knows what he wants, knows what he likes, and won’t fall for your tricks. Sure, he might love avocados, kisses, and dancing, but will take direction from no one. He’s his own boss [ugh] and too clever to be fooled. But he’s much more than a little tyrant, he’s also (and equally) extremely sweet and courteous. He will approach you with a “Hi!”, give you a kiss, hug-hug-hug, and lift his sippy-cup to in the name of “cheers.” And uhm..

• It’s confusing. The contrast between his pleasant disposition and serial-killer attitude is a cluster of madness. Nice to meetcha, toddlerhood. 

• And he’s SHY! I’m constantly asked if Dylan can talk...of course he can! Is it not obvious? No, it’s really not. Apparently my chatter-box-Charlie is a mute in the presence of large groups. His favorite, “Can Dylan Say…” game becomes a round of “Mommy is a braggy liar” with anti-climactic silence followed by, “I swear he can talk.” But his shyness extends beyond small talk intros...

• Warning, TMI! My kid wont go number 2 anywhere but home. He’ll hold his uhm…you know, all day long if he has to. This means that there’s a lot of catching up to do once home. But hey- when duty calls.... 

So yes, my legs may be covered in a series of 4th of July mosquito bites and a sunburn that screams idiot alert, but whatever! It’s all good. And even if my son is turning out to be a bit of a high-maintenance weirdo who doesn’t trust women, yet will fly to the arms of any male stranger, it was nice spending three days with my little (HAH) pooper. My only complaint? I want to do it all over again. Translation: Expect a festivity filled photo dump. 

How Adults Are Born - Ick

My childhood may be long gone but my inner child lives; not as much as I’d like her to, but she’s still there. She’s easily excitable, believes in magic, wonders why/why/why, and at her best- will forgive fully, apologize sincerely, and judge nothing. She’ll also unintentionally embarrass those around her (it's too fun to act a fool have fun). You see, I don’t wanna grow up! I want to be forever young [in spirit] and enjoy experiences the way children do. So when I eventually did “grow up,” I was delighted that my newfound freedom enabled chili-cheese fries with each meal, T.V. until midnight, and making my bed when I freaking felt like it. Doing what I want sans restrictions? Every kids’ dream. 

But as much as I want to goof-off, run rampantly, make-believe, and eat junk food all-day-all-night, I can’t shake the truth: I’m responsible, I’m a mom. Being a rule maker/enforcer/straight up bossy is part of the whole child rearing shebang and is proving to be a powerful antidote to my anarchist nature. I thought having a kid would allow me to be more of a kid but the opposite is happening: I’m actually becoming more of an adult. Ick, what a drag. 

My high hopes for playing one of the “five little monkeys jumping on the bed” alongside my son has been replaced with motherly concerns for the bumping of heads. The back-to-back chocolate bar binges are further and farther in between and I have zero desire to stay up later than need be because quite frankly, I’m exhausted. Skipping dinner? Not a chance. Waking up whenever? Ain’t happening. I once believed I would be the cool mom who'd let her kid do whatever because said kid would appreciate boundaries and would actually want to be sensible. Obviously if you stand on a toy car enough, you WILL fall on the tile floor; it has wheels, Dylan. Yeah uhm, not so obvious and not so appreciated, apparently. And though I still take every chance I get [within reason] to be childlike with Dylan, "within reason" is proof enough that my childhood really is long gone. 

This whole “parenting” gig has taught me that with each sticky-handed, freedom-seeking, shelf-climbing, nocturnal child that comes to be, an adult is born. And according to my [at times] boring but rewarding routine, my fatigued but well-nourished body, I’m really okay with being forever young on a part-time basis because have you seen my son? He’s pretty neat. Take a good look, I’m a no-nonsense mom...now.

Food Fights – The Struggle is Real

Even though I’ve [pretty much] come to terms with the fact (yes, it’s a fact) that toddlers are unintentionally evil, the struggle is real. For the past couple of weeks, my fatty-little-big-boy has decided that he no longer needs to eat meals, he just needs to taste them. It’s his new “thing.” It makes breakfast, lunch, and dinner an epic fail every time. Dylan has been historically fat, eating twice, sometimes triple of what a kid his age would should be eating, so I thought perhaps the food itself has become the problem. Oh, he’s learning what he likes! Oh, he’s sick of eggs; he doesn’t like cheese. Oh, this rice is hot! 

 

But there’s just no way; Dylan’s food rejection is far too frequent to be picky eating. Besides, picky? HAH! Dylan is practically a garbage disposal; three weeks ago he would’ve eaten a piece of paper with an “Mmm” if I let him. But sure, he's picky. If by "picky" you mean he only pulls the chew & spit behavior with mom and dad. So what gives? I cross-checked the possibilities: too many snacks in between meals? Too much water? New-found flavor/texture discrimination? Highchair contention? Let’s get mommy to lose her shit syndrome? Who knows!? The bottom line is the kid needs to eat. Why? Cue the Mom Anthem: BECAUSE I SAID SO. 

My house looks fairly normal from the outside. One would never guess that there’s a war taking place behind those walls. You’d never anticipate dinner being flung at your face when you open the front door. I might even hand you the problem child with a stern, “GOOD LUCK” before locking myself away in the bathroom until the food dust settles. But don’t worry, I’m not just escaping the wrath of a baby gone bad, I’m googling search terms and coming up with obvious clever ways to get this situation under control. Because when all else fails, there’s nothing like 23 different websites all telling you the same thing: toddlers are evil rebels without a cause.

Stupid Shoes

It’s almost too easy to move through the rift-raft of routine without realizing what it is you’ve passed. In the same way my drive to work is filled with gas stations and monuments I don’t notice anymore, I find myself moving through life’s motions without looking up to see what’s changed. But then the inevitable strikes; it doesn’t have to be significant, just well timed, and suddenly I’m dazed and dumbfounded, wondering when my 8lb baby became tall enough to ring the doorbell. And though it feels like it happened overnight, it was sneaky, it was gradual, and it just ain’t right. 

I picked Dylan up from daycare yesterday and noticed that instead of wearing his blue, gray, or Elmo shoes, he was wearing the black ones that were way too big for his little fat feet when we bought them a month ago. And because I know that Dylan loves to hide and divide his shoes (damn toddlers), I laughed as I imagined my husband on an unsuccessful shoe hunt earlier that morning that ended with a, “WHATEVER, they’re good enough” moment. 

“Dylan looks like such a big boy in his new shoes!” His teacher said as I walked toward my dancing son, who would rather show off his social skills than rush to greet me. “Yeah, he does look like a big boy,” I replied. And when we finally got back to the house, walked the dogs, had a snack, and got settled in, I reached for Dylan’s foot and pinched the toes of his shoe out of curiosity. Oh, actually, they fit perfect. He’s a size 5 now. But without a minute to digest or celebrate my son’s inevitable ever-growing pace, my attention shifted and I began cooking dinner. 

Hours later, my husband picked up a pair of ridiculously adorable navy blue shoes that his sister got for Dylan some time ago, and had been sitting on my nightstand ever since. “I can’t wait for these to fit Dylan,” my husband said. And as unpredictable as an earthquake, my whole mind shook with the realization that my fun-sized baby has become a full-sized toddler that is quickly becoming a king-sized boy. And even though those navy blues are merely a size 6, to me, they’re some big shoes to fill. But it will happen, gradually, when I’m just as unprepared as I was at size 5. It’s inevitable, it’s life, I cant outrun time by putting him in smaller shoes (though I would love that). All I can do is remember to look up enough to enjoy the ride.

Why My Son Will Never Know My Mother

Having a baby forever changes a person, duh. But it’s not just the parents who suffer undergo identity transformations, grandparents do too. When I see my mom with Dylan I think, who is this lady? Because growing up we had a little thing called “rules”, and there were a lot of them. In fact, there was an entire room in the house that my sisters and I weren’t allowed in because it was “too nice” for us grimy peasants children. Shoes on the couch? Psh! Unless you wanted to risk a double amputation, forget about it. Those were the days when talking back guaranteed a smack to the face and you feared the wrath of mom’s disappointment. “Don’t even think about it” were words to live by and eyes in the back of her head was a real phenomenon. And yet Dylan will never meet the legend I know to be my mother because that’s his Oma; they’re two different people. 

Now-a-days, my mom dotes on Dylan and makes excuses for his unruly behavior. Sure, he’s only a 1 year old and that in itself comes with a lot of passes but HOLD UP - he’s allowed in the dining room? I STILL don’t dare! But my mom isn’t the only tyrant gone mellow yellow. Last week when my mother-in-law took my husband and I to dinner, I realized that I too will never meet the legend that is my husband’s mom. Throughout our 9 year relationship I’ve heard countless stories of the strict household he grew up in. From what he’s told me, it sounds like both of our moms were militantly possessed with superior skills in mind control and could hit you with the “one glare” that’d stop you in your tracks (or knock you out). 

So as we sat in the booth of a steakhouse we had no business being in with an exhausted toddler whose bedtime was 2 hours past due, I watched the disaster adventure unfold. There was crying, fussing, squirming, relentless begging, pleading, “up, up, up?” And as I practically died of embarrassment in between the trips outside, my mother-in-law urged me to let it go. “Just enjoy your dinner Mija, let him cry.” But what about all these nice people that came out for good food and a fun Friday? Shouldn’t I consider their experience? “They can leave if they don’t like it, he’s a baby.” Whoa dude- either my husband is super dramatic about his childhood or this is not his mother. 

After dinner we went back to the house and she went on to tell me that I need to lighten up and let the baby be a baby; that this is the age of exploration and everything for him is a new experience; that Dylan isn’t trying to misbehave, he’s just being a baby. LOL! Though I agree with the bulk of what she said, there’s also a gray area known as a nice restaurant and a brat baby. And yet Grandma was such a good sport! At one point during dinner, a frustrated Dylan picked up his food and flung it across the booth at grandma’s face. She hardly flinched. As my husband apologized and gave me the glare that I translated to, “WATCH YOUR KID, IDIOT,” she shrugged and pulled the “he’s a baby” card. 

Hmph…surely this cannot be the same lady who was feared by my husband’s best friends, one of which voluntarily cut his metal-esque hair to appease her; and there’s NO WAY this is the same lady that scoffed at a stick hanging out my husband’s leg at 11 years old, saying, “I told you not to climb that tree. Deal with it.” Somewhere in between parenting and grandparenting, a personality abduction takes place. And you know what? It’s a beautiful thing. Mom said no? Call 1-800-GRANDMA.