"Poop!"

Apparently there’s a bath monster in our house now as well. A very unexpected monster, I must say, since ever since Nora grew out of the newborn phase, she has been a huge bath fan.

Last Saturday when my parents were babysitting, Nora pooped in the bath. This wasn’t a first. She had done it to Ken and I at least a few times; she did it to her Nana in DC in July; she had actually done it just a week earlier when my parents were giving her a bath. Like the vomit, the poop in the tub isn’t a family favorite, and so when Nora looked a bit like she was readying herself for poop the next night, Sunday, I told Ken I thought she was going to poop, we whisked her out of the tub and sat her promptly on her new toilet seat. I guess that wasn’t the smartest parental move, since now apparently there’s a monster called “poop” in that tub.

I had just gotten Nora a new training toilet seat last weekend. She has started to tell one of us every time she poops or pees and then takes us to change her diaper. This, to me, seemed like a sign that we should at least start trying to introduce the idea of the potty. And when I brought the new seat home, Nora was eager to jump on, clothed, and even grabbed toilet paper and wiped herself in all the correct places. (I guess my lack of privacy in the bathroom has taught her something at least…)

Back to the bath – every night since last Sunday – so a whole week now – Nora has cried at even the mention of it being bath-time. She used to take off running to be caught – part of an elaborate entertaining routine that used to encompass bath-time. Once forced into the water, she now whimpers, but ismostly ok while the water is running. She used to play and laugh and sing. And she was starting to do this adorable thing where she had Ken hold her while she floated on her back, super relaxed and happy. Now, the second the bath water stops flowing, she starts crying to get out and says, “Poop! Poop!” over and over. We try to tell her it’s ok, that if she poops it’s not a big deal, she can pee if she needs to (which she usually does). But nothing works and we end up just taking her out and having to calm her down before she’ll settle for bed. She clearly is afraid of pooping in the tub.

Tonight we tried giving her a bath in our bathroom, trying to divert attention away from any incidental memory she has of the poop and the training toilet. She wasn’t easily tricked. We kept asking her to sit down (she hasn’t sat in the tub for a week now) and telling her she was in the “special tub.” And I distracted her with the top of my mousse container and travel size shampoo bottles. She was so distracted that when she reached down to get the shampoo, her butt touched the water, and down she sat. And then she looked at us and said, “Uh oh, Nora.”

But then we had to suggest it was time to get out, she wanted to stay in and keep playing. So maybe the monster’s moving out?

The Sleep Monster

I read frequently about my friends’ woes with their sleeping, or non-sleeping babies. They post updates about lack of sleep on facebook, and on their blogs, they detail their sleep woes in private notes and simple conversations. Even though we know that we aren’t alone in the battle to get our babies to sleep, it still throws us for a loop and causes us to judge ourselves as parents when our babies won’t sleep the way we want them to.

A change for the worse in Nora’s sleep pattern sometimes makes me feel like I am doing something wrong as her parent. I judge my parenting skills by her ability to sleep 11 straight hours. And I know this is ridiculous. Her sleep says nothing about my ability to teach her the important things in life. It says nothing about her future moral self, work ethic or intelligence (at least I don’t think it does). But every time she has a slip in her sleep, part of me feels like I’m failing at something. I don’t judge other parents’ ability by their babies sleep. I don’t think, “Oh, her baby is waking up too much, what a bad parent.” I don’t think, “She is such a better mother than me since her baby sleeps well.” I chalk it all up to luck. Why can’t I do that with Nora too? Why does it feel like a failure for myself when I judge it as luck in everyone else?

This past week Nora’s good sleep habits fell by the wayside. She was sick and I was rocking her to bed so she wouldn’t cough herself into a vomiting fit. So then, of course, she wanted me to rock her every night. And it started taking 40 minutes to put her to sleep. We tried to “retrain” her to sleep on her own. She just pulled the usual Nora vomit trick. Ken and I decided that cleaning up vomit was less pleasant then losing some of our evening time together for the time being, so I rocked on.

When I was away Friday evening, Ken got her to sleep with no rocking. When we were both out Saturday, my mom got her to sleep with no rocking. A pattern emerged. She likes to manipulate her mother. Probably because I’m pretty easy to manipulate.

So Ken is in there putting her to sleep. I put on her pjs and brushed her hair and then I left. And she cried a bit, but Ken gets her quiet and reads her story and sings her song. He says she shakes her head yes when he asks her if she wants to go to bed. And then she goes, no crying (maybe a little) and no vomit. I miss her bedtime. I miss rocking her a little as she dazes out. I miss putting her in her crib and seeing her stick her thumb peacefully in her mouth. I sit on the couch feeling a bit like a failure. But I know I’ll be back in there soon enough, since nothing in the sleep department seems to last too long – good or bad.

I’ll see her at 5:30 am. When she wakes up too early. And until I am a bit more caffeinated, I’ll sit in the rocker, feeling like I’ve done something wrong to deserve such an early awakening. But when I go out into the living room with her, I’ll log onto facebook and read about someone else who has to be up that early too. And we can all suffer together with the help of the Internet.

Moments Like These

Our nighttime routine was normal. Bath, diaper, pjs, put "baby" in crib, read one or two stories (tonight one, plus one page), sing songs. But when we got to the song parts, Nora was fidgety, so I grabbed her tight and held her close, like I used to do when she fit in one arm. And then I sang, with my eyes closed part of the time, as usual, I guess to make sure she knew her eyes should close pretty soon too. But this time, when I opened my eyes, all I saw were bright eyes and a giant grin around a red thumb. And I couldn't help but smile back. And then she giggled. And I giggled. And pretty soon we were in full-on laughter. Over nothing. And we couldn't stop. Any eye contact caused more hilarity. So I closed my eyes and tried to act serious. I finished the verse, opened my eyes, kissed her goodnight and placed her in the crib. And here I am writing it down since it is moments like these that I hope I never forget.

Sesame Street Is Invading My Brain

I used to be cool. Well, not really, but I used to be able to at least fool the students into thinking I was. I knew what they were into and what they watched, the music they listened to and the jokes they thought were funny. I could bring the cool things up when they least expected it and win them over to my side.

Today I realized that all has changed. I no longer reference cool, hip, "in" shows or songs. I no longer make jokes that relate to the newest fad or most popular movie character. No, I compare things to Sesame Street. I am so lame.

Today one of my students was making a joke about living in a trashcan. I threw her a look and she said, laughingly, that she lived in a green can. And I said, embarrassingly, "like Oscar the Grouch." I wanted to die of embarrassment, though the student kindly laughed.

This caused me to flash back a few days when I was talking to a student about his thesis statement for his essay. He asked if he should use third person and talk about himself in the thesis instead of saying "I." I said, "No. You shouldn't talk like Elmo." And everyone knew exactly what I was talking about, and again they laughed as good students should, but I know they must now be thinking that I am so lame. So lame.

Because this one's so cute too...

From the Sidelines

Before I sent Nora back to daycare I worried about her napping and eating. I worried about missing her too much and about her getting sick. I didn’t worry about her being social, since she always seemed to be a people baby – as evidenced from her game with the hat shown below.

On Tuesday when I picked Nora up after school she ran over to me as usual and started blurting out so many words at once, trying to tell me all she had done that day. As I smiled at her enthusiastic talking, Miss Liz told me that Nora hardly talks all day, that she cuddles and sucks her thumb for much of the time. “She laughs,” she said. But she isn’t the social butterfly I had thought her to be. Miss Liz said that she and Miss Laura had decided that Nora will either be a rebellious teenager or one who makes such astute observations that you wonder where she learned it. I vote for number two.

I left daycare that day upset. I want Nora to have fun, to interact, to show all her beautiful words and songs she sings while she’s home. I took her quiet thumb-sucking as a sign of unhappiness.

My mother reminded me that when I was two and a half and spent my days at Aunt Mary’s with other kids, I had to be bribed to play. I didn’t suck my thumb, but I picked apart my stockings for comfort, refusing to interact with even my cousins or friends I had known for a while (if you can know anyone for a while at 2?). I would report to my mom when she asked me if I deserved my prize that indeed I did not. I didn’t want to play.
I actually remember some of this (scary and cool that Nora may remember soon…), and I don’t remember that I did any of this because I was unhappy.

And then at school I thought about some of my best students who are quiet. One in particular came to mind. She listens intently all class and then usually stops and chats with me on her way out, making very intelligent observations that I wish she would add to the discussion in front of everyone, but that’s not her style. And it wasn’t mine either. I’m sure my high school teachers would be shocked that I stand in front of a group and speak all day. I probably didn’t utter one word until forced in most of my classes. And I think Ken was the same way.

But, like Nora I did have my moments. In kindergarten I was the doll in the play – the center of attention, and I screamed out my lines and belted out my songs to make sure everyone heard what I had to say.

And today, when I got to daycare, Nora ran over and hugged me as usual. But then she ran away, through the tunnel they had open on the floor. She looked at her friend Emily and laughed when she came out the other side. And then she ran up the plastic slide and did her little stomp dance around the room. She was having fun. She didn’t want to run out the door.

So I guess I have to remember that quiet isn’t always bad. That she’s clearly learning (see the ABC video below) that she’s happy all day and sometimes silly. That cuddling isn’t a sign that she misses me all day, but that she loves many people. And that she will have her moments when she steps on the stage and moments when she wants to watch from the sidelines. And it will all be ok.

A Note About the Next Post

The post below this one is actually from a model school project I am having my students do. They are making a visual argument about the true America and are going to have to use the website voicethread.com to create a narrated visual argument. So before I assigned the project to them tomorrow I thought I better try out the technology. And of course I did my voicethread about Nora. I hope the students are as excited as I am about the project!

To watch the voicethread below, click the play button on top of the photo.

And thanks to Michelle for taking awesome pictures!