Archive for the 'Poo-Poo' Category

Scooting, Crawling, Talking – 5 to 7 Months

Seven months old last week, my little Bobby Bear (actuarially, he’s now trending to 1 instead of 0).  Yes, already.  Happy, giggly, lovey, squirmy, vocal, bouncy, curious, tickly, strong, blue-eyed, beautiful baby boy.  He’s grown so ridiculously fast since my last posts from a 5-month old, toothless infant cooing happily like a rooster in his crib;

to a 6-month old, 17 1/2 pound, 27 inch little boogie boy (he just loves a good dance party and thinks Mommy is pretty darn funny when she does some raving in the kitchen) with 2 bottom teeth and army crawling decisively around in circles on the basement carpet;

to a chatterbox of an energetic 7-month old who prefers standing to sitting (in fact, he just pulled himself up on the couch today by crawling up a pillow) and being held on Mommy’s hip to jumping solo.  When he’s happy, which is most of the time, Tickly Bobby will charm you with his flirtatious, coy, dimply little grin.  When he’s upset (about, say, being put down for two minutes while Mommy prepares his bowl of homemade purees), the universe will know.  From the moment he exited the womb, we’ve never been concerned about Screamy Bobby‘s vocal chords (just ask the lady in Target who accosted me for letting my child scream for a few minutes while I made my way to the checkout line, as she was certain something was wrong and he needed to be comforted, and implied with her caustic remarks about my nonchalance that I was a terrible mother for not doing so).  Thankfully, it doesn’t take much but a hug to make the shrieking stop.

At 7 months, Bobby is flourishing.  He’s already said his first word “Hi” and possibly a few others (I’m convinced I can hear “Mama” through his wails as he follows me pleadingly across a room; “Jack” when the boys splash in the bathtub together; and a girlfriend mentioned she was sure he said “Dada” and “Doggie” while she babysat him last weekend).  He responds to his name and also his brother’s name (if we call “Jack”, Bobby will search the room until he sees his idol).  Although not the sleeper his brother was at the same age, he still gives me a solid 10-11 hours at night and wakes up in his crib content to coo (or, in Bobby’s case, moan like a satiated camel) for long stretches of time (usually long enough for a shower) with his little blue bear and doggy before we peek in and brighten our day with his morning smiles.  He’s still nursing full time, which I adore and plan to continue as long as he doesn’t bite me, lift my shirt on his own, or shout the word “mine”.  He still barfs perpetually, but poops infrequently.  He switches between breast and breast milk in a bottle without flinching and my freezer stash remains intact.  Bobby also eats everything I give him.  I’ve managed to make all of his food, save some baby yogurt and one jar of Gerber meat just to introduce him to it, and he’s now a master at spoon feeding and rice cracker mess-making.

Like most 7-month olds, Bobby puts everything he touches into his mouth.  He also diverts his attention from toy-to-toy quite rapidly unless it’s something extraordinarily delicious like the ears of his brother’s favorite brown dog, or his Lamaze moose.  He passes his toys from hand to hand and pounds them on the table when he’s sitting up.  He’s also more compact and more mobile than his brother was, which frightens me into thinking he might be walking within the next two months.   After Jack started walking at 9 1/2 months and was running by 1, Kent and I swore we would discourage our second child’s mobility.  But Bobby just does it anyway, darnit!  He was rolling at 2 months, scooting forward at 5 months, crawling (essentially…he still prefers his chest on the ground even though he is fully capable of lifting it) and sitting on his own at 6 months, crawling over obstacles (like, Daddy) and pulling himself up to standing at 7 months.  It’s amazing to watch his determination and the way he curls his toes to dig into the carpet so ferociously.  I’m grateful for the Ergo to get my baby cuddle time, because Bobby is the strongest, squirmiest little thing who does not enjoy sitting still.

What’s amazing to me is how much different Bobby is from his brother.  When I look at Jack I often feel like I am gazing in a mirror and I’m smitten with the fruits of my own reflection.  When I hold Bobby to my chest and he stares up at me with those piercing blue eyes, I continuously fall in love with a pint-sized copy of my husband.  I adore them both equally, yet so differently.

All He Needs is the NY Times Crossword

After his first poop in the toilet on Friday night and two more successful endeavors the following day, we encouraged Jack’s conscious waste management by posting a sticker board on the fridge and cracking open his package of Disney-themed briefs.  He spent the majority of the weekend running rampant through the house and backyard wearing nothing but his underwear; and was disgruntled at having to put a regular diaper on when we ran out of the cotton counterpart.  Save a few accidents as he gets used to controlling his bowels and notifying us of movement, I would say we’re off to a successful start.  Jack has gone from total disinterest, to full participation seemingly overnight. 

In One End, Out The Other

What used to constitute an epic Friday night and what now consistutes an epic Friday night require very, VERY different bases of measurement.  Regardless, by my current code book of standards, this evening was monumental for our household.  First, during a run through Target, the store that inherits a significant portion of my semi-monthly income, I picked up a package of Buzz Lightyear and Lightning McQueen underwear and informed Jack that he could wear his big boy briefs as soon as he starts going poo poo in the toilet.  He has known for quite some time where his poop is “supposed” to go, but feigned the most stoic of interest in execution…until this week.  We’ve gotten many-a-tinkle into (and around) his special potty, but #2s remained an elusive, diaper-only experience.  Perhaps the more he observes his pals in daycare squatting on the throne, the more he determines he’s ready.  Or perhaps this evening’s Disney-themed Jockey investment was just the catalyst we needed.  Regardless, when Kent noticed Jack sneaking humbly around the corner of the basement couch, he invited him to try the toilet and Jack, shockingly, agreed.  His first lil’ turd…so proud! 

Second, I was inspired to give Bobby his first taste of solid grains [the term "solid" being relative, of course] this evening.  While many parents wait until 6 months to kick off the cereal, both of my boys exhibited noticeable interest in eating much earlier.  With a week left until his 4-month birthday, and several days of practice in his hand-me-down Bumbo seat behind him, Jack and I partnered to test Bobby’s beginner prowess with a spoon.  He was a natural, of course, grabbing at my fingers and pulling the spoon back towards his mouth; manipulating his tongue outwards and contemplating the harmonious taste of the soft mash of whole grains and breast milk. 

Jack, who has started to exhibit more noticeable signs of jealousy lately, spent the first few moments ignoring his own meal and claiming he wanted Bobby’s cereal.  To appease him, I asked if he wanted to help teach Bobby how to use a spoon, like only big brothers can do, which he did with focus and gentleness. 

Amazing how much joy one can derive from moments of such fundamental development.  Tonight, a night just  like any other, turned out to be extraordinary.

Potty Jokes

At dinner yesterday evening Jack had a case of the sillies and told Kent and me that his chicken was poop and then began laughing hysterically.  I covered my mouth to stifle my own giggle and then scolded Jack (very lightly) not to talk about poop at the dinner table, that it’s not polite.  This evening Jack informed me that his carrots had poop on them. 

And so we commence the next 60 years of my life as a mother of boys…

Mothers’ Day

If you forget the fact that I was operating on about four well-interrupted hours of sleep and Jack was in the midst of day three of his trials for the vomit olympics, Mothers’ Day was splendid.  I still managed to sneak in a long walk around the neighborhood with the family under the perfect layer of sunshine, a late afternoon nap with Jack curled in beside me on the basement recliner, and a peaceful, 4-mile jog sans kids at dusk.  In the morning, while Bobby slumbered in his swing, Kent tended to a sick-coated Jack, and I scrubbed the puke-laden carpet, I giggled to myself that this would be a Hallmark holiday for the memory books.  The thought was further sealed by Bobby blowing out two diapers (and subsequently, two adorable outfits). 

It never fails to amaze me how children so small can produce such powerful, demon-like excretions. 

I digress.

Jack’s Toilet

It’s amusing the variance between my reaction and Jack’s to his first tinkle in his special potty.  Last night after his bath, Jack was running naked down the hallway to find his Dad who was tinkering away on his guitar.  I noticed that Jack was walking a little bit awkwardly, so I beckoned him back to the bedroom and asked if he had to go poo-poo.  I suggested he take a seat upon his little plastic throne, which I strategically placed in front of his ABC video.  There he rested for a few minutes before popping up to point out something interesting on the screen.  Sure enough, there was a small puddle of diluted yellow in the basin of his toilet.  I got all excited and gave Jack the biggest of hugs, squealing repeatedly, “Jack!  You just pee-peed in the toilet!  I’m so proud of you!” 

His reaction was basically the equivalent of “whatever Mom.”  I’m certain we have a long journey ahead of us, but at least he’s interested in the concept of a toilet.

The Terrible…Ones?

Jack, in general, is the most affectionate, hilarious little man.  He gives running hugs and giggles all day long.  But he is also very, VERY willful.  He is not afraid to express himself, loudly, when he is displeased.  At his 1-year doctor’s appointment that I scheduled at the same time as his routine morning nap (in hindsight, not my best move), shortly after being weighed and measured (23 lbs, 9 oz; 32 inches – still tall and skinny), Jack took a little poop in his diaper that I figured I should change before the doctor entered the room.  We all know how much Jack loves being held, fully supine, against his will.  I’ve mastered the art of distraction, so most of Jack’s diaper changes now go without a hitch, but when he’s overdue for slumber it’s another story.  Jack went into a full on, hold-his-breath-then-release-a-wail-at-hurricane-speed-while-flexing-every-muscle-in-his-body-into-a-solid-board tantrum that shook the walls all the way to the waiting room…just as the pediatrician opened the door for his check up.  As I struggled to hold his kicking feet together so they wouldn’t land directly in the diaper I had strategically unwrapped with one hand as Jack writhed in anger, I gave the doctor a half-smile and said, “As you can see, he’s not much for diaper changes; he hates not having full control of his body.”

She was surprised and told me that he was very young to be having tantrums, which I suggested were nothing new in our household. I recalled his first outright fit of annoyance at 7 months when I told Jack he was not allowed to stick his fingers in the electrical socket and physically blocked him from doing so by putting my hands across the wall unit.  The tears began to flow and he lay with his head against the ground and his arms fully outstretched for a good ten seconds until he spotted a toy that made him forget what he was angry about.  And the latest of his vocal outbursts is the high-pitched, top-of-the-lungs scream when he gets frustrated.  This happens a few times a day if I pry a spoon from his kung fu grip to prevent him from wandering the kitchen with it in his mouth, or if he pushes his toy train into a corner and can’t lift the toy to correct its position.  I try my hardest to ignore it because I don’t want him to assume screaming is the way to get my attention; but given his limited “ball”, “duck”, “yum”, “dog” vocabulary, it’s not like he can say “Hey Mommy, can you help me out with this toy here, it seems to be wedged behind the laundry room door?”

The pediatrician just smiled and said, “We’ll just call Jack ‘Opinionated'”, which is the artistic truth.  You’d never know it today, but apparently I was the same way.  A handful.


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