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I've done many crazy things in the name of motherhood, but crawling across the living room floor on all fours barking like a dog with a baby rattle in my mouth might be the nuttiest.
Actually, I wasn't just barking. I was also shaking my head back and forth and sort of growling. Being consheentious, I wanted to get the part of Beagle just right.
The simultaneous goal, however, was to encourage Charlotte to creep, a milestone that at 9.5 months had failed to materialize.
I had pretty much given up on crawling and figured it didn't matter: After all, Elizabeth sat on her tuffet until she was 13 months old then stood up and walked across the room. She's since tested into our school district's gifted and talented program so I figured she didn't miss out on much.
So when all the other babies at Kindermusik zipped across the mats on all fours, I sat back and smiled.
"Charlotte has surveyed our flooring options which include brick and wood," I told another mother, "She's happy instead to relax and preserve her knees."
Not only was the baby thrilled with the arrangement--who wants to look down at the world after sitting up?--but so was I. With Charlotte immobile, I didn't have to worry about scrubbing the floor or packing up the Legos.
Imagine my surprise when my pediatrician raised a red flag--which I dismissed.
(This is my third baby, for crying out loud, let's not rush her! She'll creep when she's ready.)
Then my dear gal pal Michelle M., who is also a pediatric physical therapist, forced me to swallow a cold dose of hard reality.
"Crawling is imperative," she said in her kind doctor-y voice. "It promotes visual perception and strengthens the arms which enables kids to form the correct pinscher grasp used for writing later."
It turns out that crawling as a baby is linked to school success: Kids who don't color or write well in kindergarten generally never crawled.
(Creeping also does a bunch of other important things but I'm several days out from the conversation so I can't remember what exactly, but the gist is that kids must go through this phase to ensure their bodies and minds work properly.)
And what of Elizabeth?
"You got lucky," my friend said. "If Charlotte's not up on all fours and swaying back and forth by ten months, give me a call for clinical assessment."
Michelle's prescription: 30 to 40 minutes of belly time per wake period. This translates to 90 minutes per day.
Now, I will blatently ignore a middle-aged male pediatrician, but I will never, ever ignore the advice of a fellow hot momma with a Ph.D. (I will disclose I've spent thousands of dollars at Michelle's clinic where William worked to quit tiptoe walking--also a seemingly harmless quirk that causes big problems--and thus I know the value of early intervention.)
So, I dutifully spent an afternoon last week rearranging the furniture and laying down a huge foam mat: Crawler Camp would commence immediately.
Charlotte was not pleased.
Four minutes into our exercises and she planted her face into the foam, looking up at me with a pleading look that said "Can I please just have the camp water bottle and T-shirt and call it quits?"
"Listen, kid," I told her, "If you want to accurately pen your incredibly long English name when you're five, you're going to have to do this."
And so we've been at it now for a week. I've alerted all family members to the situation and now even the twins--the biggest enablers of us all--are forcing Charlotte to climb over the Mt. McKinley of pillows. Why just yesterday, the big kids even played Yoga Class with Charlotte, deftly demonstrating the various poses they'd learned in preschool.
Still, no success. And no real interest.
"See, Charlotte," I tell her, "If you can crawl, you can get whatever toy you want."
She rolls her big, brown eyes at me and whines like a dolphin both harpooned and marooned.
Hence my dog act.
If we have to put this sweet cherub through Crawler Camp, at least I'll try to make it fun for her.
No wonder I'm the one sporting rug burn on my knees.
EPILOGUE: Baby Charlotte began doing an Army crawl at 11 months. She first dragged herself to an electrical outlet then scooched over to the wastebasket to lick it. I abruptly canceled the meeting with the PT but now worries she is going to pull a lamp on her head... I should be more careful what I wish for...
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
My Mother's Table
My mother, for all her efforts to become a good cook, rarely serves up a meal without a side of apology.
"I'm worried this might be a little overdone," she'll say, plunking down plates of puckered chicken before us. "And I didn't quite get to these green beans in time but they should still be OK," she'll add, spooning out vegetables no decorated EMT could resuscitate.
Ketchup is often offered as triage.
So is salt, the "seasoning" of choice in her kitchen.
If things are really dire, she'll microwave a can of mushroom soup and slosh it over the top of whatever cut of meat needs help.
Her best strategy remains distraction, which is where the leprechauns come in.
My mother's table scapes are legendary. This is why, in part, her dinners remain extraordinary culinary events and a hot ticket any time during the holidays.
Sit down at one of her tables and you feel like you're in Disney World.
Depending upon the season, there are dozens of artfully arranged Easter bunnies, cupids, Santas, birthday hats, or ceramic rainbow sculptures lofted at differing heights atop boxes draped in antique lace and textured cloths. I've even seen her tastefully combine plastic flip flops, Styrofoam sun visors and multicolored bandannas in a centerpiece caterers at The Plaza would commend.
But that's just the beginning.
The placecards--and there are always placecards--are not simply small signs denoting your seat. Often, they hold clues about the life of the guest, which is essential, she believes, to the ice-breaker phase of a dinner.
At her events, you might be seated next to "World-Class Litigator," or "Museum Docent" or "Airplane Connoisseur." Even small guests get provocative cards like "Amusement Park Designer."
Sometimes, guests are given a part they're supposed to play.
One Christmas, my mother did a Texas theme and we were all given nicknames: We enjoyed the company of "Tall Richard," "Kitty Jo," "Jim Bob," "Big John," and "Little Jewel."
These monikers were extended to our stockings, which also were marked with the aforementioned names and hung on the backs of our dining room chairs.
There is silver, too, lots and lots of silver sprinkled between crystal goblets and linen napkins adorned with thematic napkin rings.
My six-year-old daughter Elizabeth always checks the silver sugar bowl to see if Memaw is serving white or brown sugar. She likes to clink the tiny tea spoon aside the bowl with a pinkie raised. While some grandmothers would flinch at the mere thought of young children nearing their pretties, my mother encourages use so that kids can learn early on to appreciate them.
"They're antiques," she'll say. "They've been through generations of kids and have held up just fine."
This is often a launching point for stories of people past and present.
You see, the real entree at my mother's table is not the roast but the conversation.
She knows something about everyone and makes connections for and between her guests, engaging them in ways few others could. My mother is fundamentally curious and asks curious questions. She mixes in ideas big and small, massaging the dialogue like a baker massages dough until the dinner becomes a party and the party evolves into a night to remember.
"Good God," she'll say after an evening, "Your father and I were up late again! The Smyths were at the dinner table until 2 a.m.!"
Of course they were.
My mother's meals are more nourishing than those served by five-star chefs in world-renowned restaurants. That's because she never fails to make her guests feel special, funny, smart, comforted and, well, full--even if you were noshing on that weird green Jell-o salad she serves in spring.
My mother's birthday was June 1 and for the occasion, I bought a clutch of ceramic pink flamingos. I set my table with pink polka dot plates then sprinkled dyed pink feathers throughout my table scape.
The food was a downright disater: The menu included stringy Hawaiian chicken and a birthday cake topped with crystallized icing so sweet it made dentists up in Oklahoma shiver.
"Ohh, this is delightful!" my mother cooed as she ate a forkful. "So, William, I hear that your tables were turned upside down in kindergarten today. What was that all about?"
"I'm worried this might be a little overdone," she'll say, plunking down plates of puckered chicken before us. "And I didn't quite get to these green beans in time but they should still be OK," she'll add, spooning out vegetables no decorated EMT could resuscitate.
Ketchup is often offered as triage.
So is salt, the "seasoning" of choice in her kitchen.
If things are really dire, she'll microwave a can of mushroom soup and slosh it over the top of whatever cut of meat needs help.
Her best strategy remains distraction, which is where the leprechauns come in.
My mother's table scapes are legendary. This is why, in part, her dinners remain extraordinary culinary events and a hot ticket any time during the holidays.
Sit down at one of her tables and you feel like you're in Disney World.
Depending upon the season, there are dozens of artfully arranged Easter bunnies, cupids, Santas, birthday hats, or ceramic rainbow sculptures lofted at differing heights atop boxes draped in antique lace and textured cloths. I've even seen her tastefully combine plastic flip flops, Styrofoam sun visors and multicolored bandannas in a centerpiece caterers at The Plaza would commend.
But that's just the beginning.
The placecards--and there are always placecards--are not simply small signs denoting your seat. Often, they hold clues about the life of the guest, which is essential, she believes, to the ice-breaker phase of a dinner.
At her events, you might be seated next to "World-Class Litigator," or "Museum Docent" or "Airplane Connoisseur." Even small guests get provocative cards like "Amusement Park Designer."
Sometimes, guests are given a part they're supposed to play.
One Christmas, my mother did a Texas theme and we were all given nicknames: We enjoyed the company of "Tall Richard," "Kitty Jo," "Jim Bob," "Big John," and "Little Jewel."
These monikers were extended to our stockings, which also were marked with the aforementioned names and hung on the backs of our dining room chairs.
There is silver, too, lots and lots of silver sprinkled between crystal goblets and linen napkins adorned with thematic napkin rings.
My six-year-old daughter Elizabeth always checks the silver sugar bowl to see if Memaw is serving white or brown sugar. She likes to clink the tiny tea spoon aside the bowl with a pinkie raised. While some grandmothers would flinch at the mere thought of young children nearing their pretties, my mother encourages use so that kids can learn early on to appreciate them.
"They're antiques," she'll say. "They've been through generations of kids and have held up just fine."
This is often a launching point for stories of people past and present.
You see, the real entree at my mother's table is not the roast but the conversation.
She knows something about everyone and makes connections for and between her guests, engaging them in ways few others could. My mother is fundamentally curious and asks curious questions. She mixes in ideas big and small, massaging the dialogue like a baker massages dough until the dinner becomes a party and the party evolves into a night to remember.
"Good God," she'll say after an evening, "Your father and I were up late again! The Smyths were at the dinner table until 2 a.m.!"
Of course they were.
My mother's meals are more nourishing than those served by five-star chefs in world-renowned restaurants. That's because she never fails to make her guests feel special, funny, smart, comforted and, well, full--even if you were noshing on that weird green Jell-o salad she serves in spring.
My mother's birthday was June 1 and for the occasion, I bought a clutch of ceramic pink flamingos. I set my table with pink polka dot plates then sprinkled dyed pink feathers throughout my table scape.
The food was a downright disater: The menu included stringy Hawaiian chicken and a birthday cake topped with crystallized icing so sweet it made dentists up in Oklahoma shiver.
"Ohh, this is delightful!" my mother cooed as she ate a forkful. "So, William, I hear that your tables were turned upside down in kindergarten today. What was that all about?"
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Elizabeth's Journal
It is hard to imagine anything more exciting to a six-year-old than losing a front tooth, which is why when the blessed event occurred the Tooth Fairy left a message in pink glitter glue, a smattering of pink fairy dust on the floor and a five dollar bill carefully folded in the tooth pillow.
But today Elizabeth topped herself: She spontaneously lost another bottom tooth without any of the usual wiggling--only two days after losing a front tooth!
"Look what came out," she screeched, rushing down the stairs with the evidence cupped in her right hand.
For the record, she's lost five teeth. This means she now shares strained baby food with her eight-month-old sister Charlotte.
Elizabeth proceeded to make the necessary phone calls: Mewmaw and Papa, Grandma Nan, Aunt Jamie.
"You must come see my smile, Memaw," Elizabeth crowed into the phone while lounging on the couch. "I am adorable."
Then, she documented the event in her Dollar Store notebook.
Below is the entry as copied directly from the page.
(Of course I read it! But that's another blog post entirely...)
Day 4
I lost my tooth egan! Wow, I cant bulev it!
I lost my tooth!
I lost my tooth!
I can't bulev my self!
Such an entry would make even the Tooth Fairy chortle.
But today Elizabeth topped herself: She spontaneously lost another bottom tooth without any of the usual wiggling--only two days after losing a front tooth!
"Look what came out," she screeched, rushing down the stairs with the evidence cupped in her right hand.
For the record, she's lost five teeth. This means she now shares strained baby food with her eight-month-old sister Charlotte.
Elizabeth proceeded to make the necessary phone calls: Mewmaw and Papa, Grandma Nan, Aunt Jamie.
"You must come see my smile, Memaw," Elizabeth crowed into the phone while lounging on the couch. "I am adorable."
Then, she documented the event in her Dollar Store notebook.
Below is the entry as copied directly from the page.
(Of course I read it! But that's another blog post entirely...)
Day 4
I lost my tooth egan! Wow, I cant bulev it!
I lost my tooth!
I lost my tooth!
I can't bulev my self!
Such an entry would make even the Tooth Fairy chortle.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Boy Love
"No one will play with me at recess."
It was a statement of fact, bravely put forth by my small boy.
The huge hazel eyes searched mine.
My own eyes stung as I commanded every cell in my body to stay steady.
I did my best to soothe and strategize. Later, I inquired of the kindergarten teacher: What did she see? After all, I was under the impression that William is--and has long been--well liked by just about everyone. He's kind, intelligent and quietly funny. He blends well with many different types of kids and enjoys them all. His teacher confirmed this and explained that he always plays with classmates at recess.
Yet despite being busy, Will still felt lonely.
I knew exactly why: He needed a Best Friend.
Just as all little boys should have a dog, they need a Best Friend. All boys should have a special companion who can appreciate the fine art of mushing gross uneaten food into a carton of chocolate milk. They need a person who can repeat a fart joke with a cackle then cheer them on as they execute a flying two-footed leap off a swing when their moms aren't looking.
And while William has a built-in buddy with a twin sister who loves him like a turtle loves its shell, he doesn't have a best buddy--yet.
I had been hopeful there would be a match when he started preschool at age 3. While there was plenty of fun to be had, there was noone special who stuck; the second year of pre-k left us with many good memories but no real contenders for Best Friend.
I hoped that kindergarten--and a boy-heavy class of 19--would offer up an opportunity. But with six weeks left in the school year, I wasn't seeing a match yet.
In the meantime, we continued to play with lots of different children and kept up ties with our preschool pals. I invited 40 kids to the twins' sixth birthday party but shelved my hidden hope for a Best Friend for Will this school year.
Then just today, I heard the cackle I'd been hoping for.
It rose up from my backyard like the first Texas bluebonnet of spring--bright, tall and full.
Charlie Schwartzman--a friend from preschool--was running in hot pursuit of Will. Together they tore around our biggest oak tree, Will in the lead while weilding a Nerf gun. My boy was was laughing like a heyena, open mouthed, tongue wagging.
Even after Charlie tackled his pal and, apparently, licked his ear, Will was grinning.
After the Schwartzmans left, Will pulled me aside.
"Mom," he said, "Charlie said he likes me best. He likes me. The. Best."
Charlie, I think it might be mutual.
It was a statement of fact, bravely put forth by my small boy.
The huge hazel eyes searched mine.
My own eyes stung as I commanded every cell in my body to stay steady.
I did my best to soothe and strategize. Later, I inquired of the kindergarten teacher: What did she see? After all, I was under the impression that William is--and has long been--well liked by just about everyone. He's kind, intelligent and quietly funny. He blends well with many different types of kids and enjoys them all. His teacher confirmed this and explained that he always plays with classmates at recess.
Yet despite being busy, Will still felt lonely.
I knew exactly why: He needed a Best Friend.
Just as all little boys should have a dog, they need a Best Friend. All boys should have a special companion who can appreciate the fine art of mushing gross uneaten food into a carton of chocolate milk. They need a person who can repeat a fart joke with a cackle then cheer them on as they execute a flying two-footed leap off a swing when their moms aren't looking.
And while William has a built-in buddy with a twin sister who loves him like a turtle loves its shell, he doesn't have a best buddy--yet.
I had been hopeful there would be a match when he started preschool at age 3. While there was plenty of fun to be had, there was noone special who stuck; the second year of pre-k left us with many good memories but no real contenders for Best Friend.
I hoped that kindergarten--and a boy-heavy class of 19--would offer up an opportunity. But with six weeks left in the school year, I wasn't seeing a match yet.
In the meantime, we continued to play with lots of different children and kept up ties with our preschool pals. I invited 40 kids to the twins' sixth birthday party but shelved my hidden hope for a Best Friend for Will this school year.
Then just today, I heard the cackle I'd been hoping for.
It rose up from my backyard like the first Texas bluebonnet of spring--bright, tall and full.
Charlie Schwartzman--a friend from preschool--was running in hot pursuit of Will. Together they tore around our biggest oak tree, Will in the lead while weilding a Nerf gun. My boy was was laughing like a heyena, open mouthed, tongue wagging.
Even after Charlie tackled his pal and, apparently, licked his ear, Will was grinning.
After the Schwartzmans left, Will pulled me aside.
"Mom," he said, "Charlie said he likes me best. He likes me. The. Best."
Charlie, I think it might be mutual.
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