Ivan came back from Grandma's today. My dad and he came to pick me up at the metro station. He gave me the biggest smile when he saw me. I sat in the back with him and we giggled.
At the house, he was distracted to come into the yard as some workers were felling trees across the street. But as soon as I said, "let's go in to say hi to Mariposa," he quickly came into the yard.
He walked into the house like he owned the place. Our little boss. Mariposa was really excited to see him and gave me thorough licks.
The first two things he did on the porch as soon as he stepped on it, were to put the white plastic cover over an open socket, and pointed to Mariposa's leash, which was dangling, to wrap it further up.
That was so funny. Nothing escapes him. He knows exactly where things go.
For dinner he got meatballs and beans. (What's up with him and beans. He loves them. I find that funny. At least he hasn't been farting beans.)
Both Andy and I remarked that in these few days that we didn't seen Ivan, that he changed. He looks different. His face and expression have changed. And he seems bigger, more mature, more babbly.
A little boy.
Where and when did my baby go?
(And yes, the Born Free sippy cup continues to be a success!)
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Ivan at Grandmas
Yesterday, Tuesday, my parents took Ivan for two days to look after him at their house. It makes it a bit easier on them. We don't mind.
But last night and today (morning and evening) it's been awfuly quiet and tidy around here.
Also, this morning, although my phone alarm was set for 6 a.m., we didn't hear it, but overslept. We woke up, refreshed, around 7:30 a.m.
We did the same thing a few months ago when my parents took Ivan. We slept until almost 8 a.m. and were late to work.
Oops.
It's funny how our minds, at least mine, work subconsciously. When Ivan's here, I must always be on some subconscious alert, because I hear his smallest stir or sound. When I know he's not here, that alert must get turned off because I can sleep through more annoying and loud things, such as alarm noises.
But last night and today (morning and evening) it's been awfuly quiet and tidy around here.
Also, this morning, although my phone alarm was set for 6 a.m., we didn't hear it, but overslept. We woke up, refreshed, around 7:30 a.m.
We did the same thing a few months ago when my parents took Ivan. We slept until almost 8 a.m. and were late to work.
Oops.
It's funny how our minds, at least mine, work subconsciously. When Ivan's here, I must always be on some subconscious alert, because I hear his smallest stir or sound. When I know he's not here, that alert must get turned off because I can sleep through more annoying and loud things, such as alarm noises.
Bottle v. Sippy Cup; the Born Free Resolution
After Ivan had spent most of Sunday’s playgroup playground time with a bottle dangling out of his mouth, I realized that every photo I have of him at a social event, he’s attached to the bottle. He does look awfully cute, clutching his bottle and exploring things……but he seems to be the only kid doing that. Granted, many kids his age are still addicted to pacifiers (two of the five in the playgroup), something he discarded on his own when he was about 9 months and I never brought it out again. However, I think the bottle had started to fill in the pacifier gap at some point….
So that observation, coupled with the fact that I’m totally freaked out about the looming prospect of lifetime of rotten teeth because he was on the bottle for too long, made me put my foot down.
I went out and bought a Born Free Sippy cup, which is apparently very close to the bottle, and a Nubby sippy cup with a straw (since he hasn’t tried mastering the straw yet.)
On Sunday evening, after the bath, I presented him with milk in both containers (he had gnawed on the water-filled Nubby sippy cup earlier in the afternoon and was content with it). A temper tantrum ensued. He wouldn’t have anything to do with either of us, but proceeded to cry his little eyes out while violently throwing the sippy cup on the floor over and over again.
The whole tantrum must have lasted 15, 20 minutes at the most. But it felt like an eternity, especially when he was giving us these looks of “how could you do this to me.”
As Andy jokedn “milk, milk everywhere but not a bottle to drink.”
Good thing Andy was there with me; otherwise, I would’ve given in and brought out the bottle.
While Ivan was crying, I had started second guessing myself. Am I doing the right thing? Will more bottle time really hurt him?
I heard my parents' disapproving voices in my head. I got angry at them and Andy, feeling they always undermine my resolutions, thinking back to the summer when I had almost fully converted him to a sippy cup. I remembered that random woman in the park I saw in the spring who told me that even 20+ years later, she regretted taking her son off the bottle too early. Because he’s a baby only once.
But the sippy cup transition had to happen sooner or later. And I realized that the longer we waited, the more difficult it would be.
After 15 minutes of crying, Ivan gave in, he must have been exhausted, and took the Born Free sippy cup. And that was the end of it. He climbed up on the bed with us and cuddled like he had done on previous nights.
He fell a sleep with the sippy cup without a problem. I have it back to him around 11 p.m. (I had inadvertently woken him up to take off the fleece pajamas he had me put on him). He took it again in the morning.
Monday night was the same story. No problem with the Born Free sippy cup. (Although I can’t really tell what’s the big difference between a Born Free sippy cup to and a nipple. They seem rather similar, but I won't bother pondering this one.)
On Tuesday, I got really sad at work. Is this really it? Have I succeeded? Another milestone achieved? Is the bottle saga over? Can I pack up the Avent bottles and nipples? It made me sad. My little baby is transforming into a boy with each passing day, making me yearn to stop the time and enjoy him as a baby as much as possible.
I had been so focused on prospect of rotten teeth and the stubbornness with which he clung to the bottle and the annoyance at my parents and Andy, that I never stopped to ponder the significance of taking the bottle away.
Now, it’s done. I think it’s done. I almost feel like bringing the bottle back out and giving it to him. But that wouldn’t be the right thing to do.
Just like the end of breastfeeding hit me hard, this is starting to hit me hard as well.
So that observation, coupled with the fact that I’m totally freaked out about the looming prospect of lifetime of rotten teeth because he was on the bottle for too long, made me put my foot down.
I went out and bought a Born Free Sippy cup, which is apparently very close to the bottle, and a Nubby sippy cup with a straw (since he hasn’t tried mastering the straw yet.)
On Sunday evening, after the bath, I presented him with milk in both containers (he had gnawed on the water-filled Nubby sippy cup earlier in the afternoon and was content with it). A temper tantrum ensued. He wouldn’t have anything to do with either of us, but proceeded to cry his little eyes out while violently throwing the sippy cup on the floor over and over again.
The whole tantrum must have lasted 15, 20 minutes at the most. But it felt like an eternity, especially when he was giving us these looks of “how could you do this to me.”
As Andy jokedn “milk, milk everywhere but not a bottle to drink.”
Good thing Andy was there with me; otherwise, I would’ve given in and brought out the bottle.
While Ivan was crying, I had started second guessing myself. Am I doing the right thing? Will more bottle time really hurt him?
I heard my parents' disapproving voices in my head. I got angry at them and Andy, feeling they always undermine my resolutions, thinking back to the summer when I had almost fully converted him to a sippy cup. I remembered that random woman in the park I saw in the spring who told me that even 20+ years later, she regretted taking her son off the bottle too early. Because he’s a baby only once.
But the sippy cup transition had to happen sooner or later. And I realized that the longer we waited, the more difficult it would be.
After 15 minutes of crying, Ivan gave in, he must have been exhausted, and took the Born Free sippy cup. And that was the end of it. He climbed up on the bed with us and cuddled like he had done on previous nights.
He fell a sleep with the sippy cup without a problem. I have it back to him around 11 p.m. (I had inadvertently woken him up to take off the fleece pajamas he had me put on him). He took it again in the morning.
Monday night was the same story. No problem with the Born Free sippy cup. (Although I can’t really tell what’s the big difference between a Born Free sippy cup to and a nipple. They seem rather similar, but I won't bother pondering this one.)
On Tuesday, I got really sad at work. Is this really it? Have I succeeded? Another milestone achieved? Is the bottle saga over? Can I pack up the Avent bottles and nipples? It made me sad. My little baby is transforming into a boy with each passing day, making me yearn to stop the time and enjoy him as a baby as much as possible.
I had been so focused on prospect of rotten teeth and the stubbornness with which he clung to the bottle and the annoyance at my parents and Andy, that I never stopped to ponder the significance of taking the bottle away.
Now, it’s done. I think it’s done. I almost feel like bringing the bottle back out and giving it to him. But that wouldn’t be the right thing to do.
Just like the end of breastfeeding hit me hard, this is starting to hit me hard as well.
New foods: gnocchi, cheese
(This post also also supposed to be recorded on the 15th, but the lack of an internet connection prevented that)
For the last two weeks, gnocchi have been all the rage. (I probably shouldn’t say this too often and to too many people as I’m bound to jinx myself.) I cut them up into four pieces, put them on his tray, and he eats them (by hand, after he gets too tired of trying to stab them or smash them with his fork.)
He’s also moved onto string cheese. He’s been eating two string cheeses a day. For example, over the weekend, he was out on the porch playing, when all of a sudden there was this big commotion and rush at the fridge. I opened the fridge unsure what he wanted. He pointed at the cheese.
This bring up the Mariposa Mariposa issue: Now when he eats any food, but especially string cheese, he has to be extra careful around Mariposa, who tries to follow him and corner him to get the cheese.
I tell him, "You’ve got to watch out for Mariposa, you’ve got to turn your back to her while you’re eating," etc.
So what he does is he runs to me to hide behind in order to protect his food from Mariposa.
For the last two weeks, gnocchi have been all the rage. (I probably shouldn’t say this too often and to too many people as I’m bound to jinx myself.) I cut them up into four pieces, put them on his tray, and he eats them (by hand, after he gets too tired of trying to stab them or smash them with his fork.)
He’s also moved onto string cheese. He’s been eating two string cheeses a day. For example, over the weekend, he was out on the porch playing, when all of a sudden there was this big commotion and rush at the fridge. I opened the fridge unsure what he wanted. He pointed at the cheese.
This bring up the Mariposa Mariposa issue: Now when he eats any food, but especially string cheese, he has to be extra careful around Mariposa, who tries to follow him and corner him to get the cheese.
I tell him, "You’ve got to watch out for Mariposa, you’ve got to turn your back to her while you’re eating," etc.
So what he does is he runs to me to hide behind in order to protect his food from Mariposa.
Cute things Ivan did over the weekend
(This was supposed to be posted on Sept 15, but for some reason my internet connection didn't work that night)
Dadda?
-When I’m home alone with him and Andy’s out, he goes around the house saying “dada, dada,” and eventually ends up in picking his shoes, saying “dada” or ends up sitting on the floor in our closet pointing to Andy’s clothes and playing with his belt, saying “dada.”
I also got great photos of him putting on Andy’s shoes. He managed to step into both shoes, and then turn his palms upwards, in the “ne” position, which for him means “no, no more.”
Mariposa’s toys
To cut down on any potential friction between our human baby and canine baby, we’re trying to impose a strict policy of Ivan’s toys versus Mariposa’s toys. They are not allowed to touch each other’s stuff. In Mariposa’s case, it’s mainly so she doesn’t tear apart stuffed animals and chews up wooden blocks or eats up crayons—the gold one must have been rather tasty. So it’s only fair that Ivan can’t touch Mariposa’s toys either.
Well, this weekend, Ivan picked up MP’s purple rubber bone, which had been laying in a corner ignored by both for weeks, and when to give it to her. Since Mariposa was asleep on the sofa, I said, “let’s leave it here for Mariposa and she’ll play with it later.” So we laid the bone on the sofa next to Mariposa.
Then I went into the kitchen for a second. When I came back out, there was another toy of hers laying on the sofa. Ivan must have found that other toy (the blue one that used to have three ropes to pull on) and given it to Mariposa, before he proceeded to occupy himself with something else.
Yet another clothing preference
This time it was a footie fleece pajamas I put in the "to give away" pile. (Although I have nothing against fleece jammies, they get kind of gross with all dog hair around the house, so it's better not to use them.) He had gotten in out of the pile the night before and had ask Andy put it on him on Saturday.
Then on Sunday, during our pre-bed play time, he found it again and asked me to put it on him. I put his arms through the sleeves and buttoned the top button. I let him go to sleep with it because he wouldn’t let me take it off. Finally, I had to go in later in the night to take it off because it was so hot in his room and he was so sweaty. I woke him up, but nothing a bit of milk couldn’t solve.
Dadda?
-When I’m home alone with him and Andy’s out, he goes around the house saying “dada, dada,” and eventually ends up in picking his shoes, saying “dada” or ends up sitting on the floor in our closet pointing to Andy’s clothes and playing with his belt, saying “dada.”
I also got great photos of him putting on Andy’s shoes. He managed to step into both shoes, and then turn his palms upwards, in the “ne” position, which for him means “no, no more.”
Mariposa’s toys
To cut down on any potential friction between our human baby and canine baby, we’re trying to impose a strict policy of Ivan’s toys versus Mariposa’s toys. They are not allowed to touch each other’s stuff. In Mariposa’s case, it’s mainly so she doesn’t tear apart stuffed animals and chews up wooden blocks or eats up crayons—the gold one must have been rather tasty. So it’s only fair that Ivan can’t touch Mariposa’s toys either.
Well, this weekend, Ivan picked up MP’s purple rubber bone, which had been laying in a corner ignored by both for weeks, and when to give it to her. Since Mariposa was asleep on the sofa, I said, “let’s leave it here for Mariposa and she’ll play with it later.” So we laid the bone on the sofa next to Mariposa.
Then I went into the kitchen for a second. When I came back out, there was another toy of hers laying on the sofa. Ivan must have found that other toy (the blue one that used to have three ropes to pull on) and given it to Mariposa, before he proceeded to occupy himself with something else.
Yet another clothing preference
This time it was a footie fleece pajamas I put in the "to give away" pile. (Although I have nothing against fleece jammies, they get kind of gross with all dog hair around the house, so it's better not to use them.) He had gotten in out of the pile the night before and had ask Andy put it on him on Saturday.
Then on Sunday, during our pre-bed play time, he found it again and asked me to put it on him. I put his arms through the sleeves and buttoned the top button. I let him go to sleep with it because he wouldn’t let me take it off. Finally, I had to go in later in the night to take it off because it was so hot in his room and he was so sweaty. I woke him up, but nothing a bit of milk couldn’t solve.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Very dirty; too much play, too overdressed
When I got home from work today, Ivan was so dirty and sweaty like I had never seen him before.
He had grime accummulated in all his creases (neck and elbows) but the nape of his neck and back were also covered in fine dirt. He must have been playing extra hard.
He was also drenched in sweat--his hair was all wet and he had sweat beads on his upper lip. I blame that on my dad. And it was hot and humid and rainy all day. Ivan was in the car in the carseat, in which he gets hotter than the rest of us because he's tightly enclosed and because less air circulates in the back of the car.
However, appropriately dressing Ivan has been one of those "low burner" annoyances I've had with my dad for months. He's always cold and hates airconditioning, preferring to swelter in humid, hot weather. Ivan, on the other hand, gets super hot and sweaty, more so than the rest of us. His head gets especially hot and sweaty.
The boy also runs around non-stop all day long from 5:30 a.m. until 7:00 p.m. save for the 1-2 hour nap.
And my dad was dressed in a short sleeved shirt with shorts. Ivan, on the other hand, was dressed in a onesie with a collar shirt over it and jeans shorts.
How does that make any sense?
My dad, of course, refused to hear my reasoning and refused to admit that maybe he's wrong and that Ivan was overdressed.
He had grime accummulated in all his creases (neck and elbows) but the nape of his neck and back were also covered in fine dirt. He must have been playing extra hard.
He was also drenched in sweat--his hair was all wet and he had sweat beads on his upper lip. I blame that on my dad. And it was hot and humid and rainy all day. Ivan was in the car in the carseat, in which he gets hotter than the rest of us because he's tightly enclosed and because less air circulates in the back of the car.
However, appropriately dressing Ivan has been one of those "low burner" annoyances I've had with my dad for months. He's always cold and hates airconditioning, preferring to swelter in humid, hot weather. Ivan, on the other hand, gets super hot and sweaty, more so than the rest of us. His head gets especially hot and sweaty.
The boy also runs around non-stop all day long from 5:30 a.m. until 7:00 p.m. save for the 1-2 hour nap.
And my dad was dressed in a short sleeved shirt with shorts. Ivan, on the other hand, was dressed in a onesie with a collar shirt over it and jeans shorts.
How does that make any sense?
My dad, of course, refused to hear my reasoning and refused to admit that maybe he's wrong and that Ivan was overdressed.
Early morning lack of sleep drama and the ensuing family bed cuddle
Two nights ago, Ivan woke up at 3:30 a.m. He was unconsolable and wide awake. He didn't want milk, he didn't want calm down and fall back to sleep. He didn't really want us to walk him around. He didn't want to lay in the bed with us but would quickly scurry off the bed to run around and play like it's 6 a.m.
Finally, after an hour of calming him, chasing him and trying to settle him down, we succeeded.
Andy hugged him and calmed him down. He laid between us in the bed and fell asleep.
That was the first time he slept between us.
It was sooo precious.
And Mariposa, of course, was at my feet.
A big bed cuddle.
Except I got the raw deal, actually a more raw deal than I usually get with Mariposa. Mariposa, on a good night, sleeps at my feet, which means I can't really stretch my legs out, which makes me feel not so fresh and rested in the morning. On a bad night, she positions herself on my side of bed. If I can wake her up, I push her out of my space and slide in. But on nights, when she's immovable, I simply give up and got to the spare bedroom (where I have a bed all to myself and can stretch out as much as I like.) Andy finds my Mariposa bed woes funny.
But this early morning when Ivan slept between us, he also really slept with me on my side of the bed, his little face next to mine. And I didn't dare to move for the fear of waking him up. So in addition to not being able to stretch out vertically, I couldn't even stretch out horizontally and unwedge my clothes.
But it was all worth it...to have Mr. Meh with us.
Finally, after an hour of calming him, chasing him and trying to settle him down, we succeeded.
Andy hugged him and calmed him down. He laid between us in the bed and fell asleep.
That was the first time he slept between us.
It was sooo precious.
And Mariposa, of course, was at my feet.
A big bed cuddle.
Except I got the raw deal, actually a more raw deal than I usually get with Mariposa. Mariposa, on a good night, sleeps at my feet, which means I can't really stretch my legs out, which makes me feel not so fresh and rested in the morning. On a bad night, she positions herself on my side of bed. If I can wake her up, I push her out of my space and slide in. But on nights, when she's immovable, I simply give up and got to the spare bedroom (where I have a bed all to myself and can stretch out as much as I like.) Andy finds my Mariposa bed woes funny.
But this early morning when Ivan slept between us, he also really slept with me on my side of the bed, his little face next to mine. And I didn't dare to move for the fear of waking him up. So in addition to not being able to stretch out vertically, I couldn't even stretch out horizontally and unwedge my clothes.
But it was all worth it...to have Mr. Meh with us.
Getting naughty and bad
Ivan's started to get a bit naughty and bad. He doesn't listen, or actually he listens but then tests our limits anyway.
He's also become a bit more difficult to put to sleep in the last few days. He seems to be hitting the "age of not being tired." Although I can see he's rubbing his eyes, pulling on his hair, loosing his balance a bit, laying down to hug Medic and drink his milk, he violently protests when I pick him up to put him to bed.
He cries. Throws Medic and other toys out of the crib. Flings his milk bottle onto the floor. Turns the light switch on. Stands up in his crib and cries.
I hope it's a phase that will quickly pass.
But on the positive side, I couldn't find the milk bottle he flung from the crib, and by the time I was going to go back to his room to hand him a fresh bottle of milk, he had calmed down and had actually fallen asleep.
So, that was an unanticipated score one for mommy in the milk and the bottle versus sippy cup war.
He's also become a bit more difficult to put to sleep in the last few days. He seems to be hitting the "age of not being tired." Although I can see he's rubbing his eyes, pulling on his hair, loosing his balance a bit, laying down to hug Medic and drink his milk, he violently protests when I pick him up to put him to bed.
He cries. Throws Medic and other toys out of the crib. Flings his milk bottle onto the floor. Turns the light switch on. Stands up in his crib and cries.
I hope it's a phase that will quickly pass.
But on the positive side, I couldn't find the milk bottle he flung from the crib, and by the time I was going to go back to his room to hand him a fresh bottle of milk, he had calmed down and had actually fallen asleep.
So, that was an unanticipated score one for mommy in the milk and the bottle versus sippy cup war.
It's all in the name
We struggled to name Ivan Ivan. Why? I wanted a Croatian name (to use that adjective loosely) that sounds good in English (and is pronouncable). I also wanted a short name.
Most of my suggestions--names widely used in Croatia, Dalmatia, or just those I liked--were struck down by Andy for one reason or another.
One name I really liked was Igor. But Igor has ugly connotations here in the US because it was the name of the hunchback from Frankenstein. This was Andy's immediate reaction to the name. (Two names he vetoed were Bruno, as an Italian-American pizza shop worker, and Luka, because of the "my name is Lucca, I live on the second floor" Suzanne Vega song.)
Regarding Igor, I thought, "ha who will remember that old black-white movie? No one."
Well turns out, an animated movie about Igor who lives in the land of Malaria (a nice development touch there) is about to hit the theaters on September 19. Who knows how this Igor will fare.
Another reason why we had trouble picking the right name is because the number cool boy names is much smaller than girls names.
It's kind of like clothes. Women's fashions are so much more versatile, colorful and full of options and choice. Menswear, on the other hand, can be divided into basic "clothes" groups--shirts, T-shirts, suits, jackets and pants.
We finally settled on Ivan two days after he was born as we were signing hospital paperwork. We debated between Ivan and Sebastian--a name I liked but which completely broke all my name-stipulations. We settled on both as his first and middle name.
Most of my suggestions--names widely used in Croatia, Dalmatia, or just those I liked--were struck down by Andy for one reason or another.
One name I really liked was Igor. But Igor has ugly connotations here in the US because it was the name of the hunchback from Frankenstein. This was Andy's immediate reaction to the name. (Two names he vetoed were Bruno, as an Italian-American pizza shop worker, and Luka, because of the "my name is Lucca, I live on the second floor" Suzanne Vega song.)
Regarding Igor, I thought, "ha who will remember that old black-white movie? No one."
Well turns out, an animated movie about Igor who lives in the land of Malaria (a nice development touch there) is about to hit the theaters on September 19. Who knows how this Igor will fare.
Another reason why we had trouble picking the right name is because the number cool boy names is much smaller than girls names.
It's kind of like clothes. Women's fashions are so much more versatile, colorful and full of options and choice. Menswear, on the other hand, can be divided into basic "clothes" groups--shirts, T-shirts, suits, jackets and pants.
We finally settled on Ivan two days after he was born as we were signing hospital paperwork. We debated between Ivan and Sebastian--a name I liked but which completely broke all my name-stipulations. We settled on both as his first and middle name.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Mr. Glee
Ivan used to be called Mr. Sunshine (and Mr. Meh), but lately we've decided that calling him Mr. Glee would be more appropriate.
He gets so excited about everything and everything he does is accompanied by this high-pitched sound of "oh, oh, oh."
I really must record him doing that because it's so cute and prescious.
(And yet, I've been so lazy to manage a video camera.)
He gets so excited about everything and everything he does is accompanied by this high-pitched sound of "oh, oh, oh."
I really must record him doing that because it's so cute and prescious.
(And yet, I've been so lazy to manage a video camera.)
New word-puc (and other bathroom humor)
My dad called me at work today quite exicted to tell me that Ivan learned a new word: "puc." What does that mean? It's a polite way/baby way to say "a fart" in Croatian.
Lately, Ivan's been farting (passing gas) once a day or so, really letting it rip. It's really loud but it doesn't smell. And every time he farts, he starts laughing those serious belly laughs. It's really funny. And it's even funnier that he thinks that farts are funny, so I can't help but laugh with him.
Every time he farts, I ask him/tell him, "Ucinio si puc," which roughly translates into "you've made a fart."
Apparently, my parents do the same. So today, after the fart and the laugh that ensued, my dad asked Ivan if he made a "puc" to which Ivan replied "puc." In other words, he's learned a new word.
This farting business is reminding me that he's turning into such a boy.
A few weeks ago, he scuttled off the sofa before I managed to put a diaper on him. So by the time I got a new diaper and got a hold of him, he was standing near the radio in the living room, pressing the buttons (turning the radio off and on). He peed.
And then he started laughing, making this deep "oh, ohoh ohhohh" noise. Such a boy, I thought. The beginning of a boy fascination with bathroom humor and behavior.
Laughing at a puc is along the same bathroom lines.
That reaction to peeing must have been the first time that he was aware that he peed. He's peed before standing in the bathtub, but since he is immersed in water, he must not realize it. (He had also peed a few weeks earlier when I was trying to catch him to put a diaper on him, but I don't recall him being aware of it and having a reaction to peeing like this last time.)
Lately, Ivan's been farting (passing gas) once a day or so, really letting it rip. It's really loud but it doesn't smell. And every time he farts, he starts laughing those serious belly laughs. It's really funny. And it's even funnier that he thinks that farts are funny, so I can't help but laugh with him.
Every time he farts, I ask him/tell him, "Ucinio si puc," which roughly translates into "you've made a fart."
Apparently, my parents do the same. So today, after the fart and the laugh that ensued, my dad asked Ivan if he made a "puc" to which Ivan replied "puc." In other words, he's learned a new word.
This farting business is reminding me that he's turning into such a boy.
A few weeks ago, he scuttled off the sofa before I managed to put a diaper on him. So by the time I got a new diaper and got a hold of him, he was standing near the radio in the living room, pressing the buttons (turning the radio off and on). He peed.
And then he started laughing, making this deep "oh, ohoh ohhohh" noise. Such a boy, I thought. The beginning of a boy fascination with bathroom humor and behavior.
Laughing at a puc is along the same bathroom lines.
That reaction to peeing must have been the first time that he was aware that he peed. He's peed before standing in the bathtub, but since he is immersed in water, he must not realize it. (He had also peed a few weeks earlier when I was trying to catch him to put a diaper on him, but I don't recall him being aware of it and having a reaction to peeing like this last time.)
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Milk Bottle Exchange
These last few weeks, when Ivan wakes up in the morning for his first morning bottle of milk between 5-5:30 a.m., he doesn't just lay in his crib crying and waiting for me to bring him milk.
No, he's gotten more proactive about it.
He actually stands up in the crib with the door open (he can reach the door) and waits for me with his empty bottle of milk--which I know, we shouldn't let him sleep with the bottle, all that pacifier-like sucking on milk is sure to give him awful cavities down the line.
He hands me the empty bottle, as if to say "waitress, more milk, now!"
I go downstairs, fetch fresh milk (if I'm up to it, I warm it up; otherwise, it's served refrigerator cold), bring it back upstairs.
He waits for me near the door, standing up in the crib.
I hand him the milk, he takes it so greedily, leans backwards and I help to lay him down on his back.
My little milk addict.
The problem is this first morning milk routine used to by us about one more hour of sleep because Ivan used to fall back asleep. But not any more. As soon as he guzzles down the milk in some 15-20 minutes, he's up again, standing in the crib, opening the door, waiting to be let out to start his day of play (of running leaps from one room to the other at 5:30 a.m.)
No, he's gotten more proactive about it.
He actually stands up in the crib with the door open (he can reach the door) and waits for me with his empty bottle of milk--which I know, we shouldn't let him sleep with the bottle, all that pacifier-like sucking on milk is sure to give him awful cavities down the line.
He hands me the empty bottle, as if to say "waitress, more milk, now!"
I go downstairs, fetch fresh milk (if I'm up to it, I warm it up; otherwise, it's served refrigerator cold), bring it back upstairs.
He waits for me near the door, standing up in the crib.
I hand him the milk, he takes it so greedily, leans backwards and I help to lay him down on his back.
My little milk addict.
The problem is this first morning milk routine used to by us about one more hour of sleep because Ivan used to fall back asleep. But not any more. As soon as he guzzles down the milk in some 15-20 minutes, he's up again, standing in the crib, opening the door, waiting to be let out to start his day of play (of running leaps from one room to the other at 5:30 a.m.)
Videogame Ivan: Level I, Level II, Level III
In the last few days, Ivan's level of activity and intensity has drastically increased.
It's a bit like a video game.
Level I was when he started walking slowly and carefully.
Level II was the summer when he gained confidence in his step and started running around.
Now, we've transitioned into Level III. He's non stop, unstoppable and daring. In retrospect, I guess the transition into this new level started when he started climbing onto furniture.
It's a bit like a video game.
Level I was when he started walking slowly and carefully.
Level II was the summer when he gained confidence in his step and started running around.
Now, we've transitioned into Level III. He's non stop, unstoppable and daring. In retrospect, I guess the transition into this new level started when he started climbing onto furniture.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Books & Bed Routine & Milk
I vividly remember last January complaining at a party about the fact that I can't get Ivan to sit still to read him a book. He just wasn't interested. Apparently, even back then, when he was 11 months old, his peers were being read to, or so some moms claimed.
What "being read to" actually meant I didn't konw nor I still do. Back then Ivan was completely not interested in books, especially during bed time.
Since he's started walking at 14 months, it's just gotten worse. I can barely dry him off before he scuttles of the bed to run around back and forth between the rooms. Until two or so weeks ago when he started calming down on his own a bit and started to cuddle, I couldn't get him to slow down. Every time I'd try to hold him, he'd wiggle out to get back to running. Attempting to read a book to him, something I'd try on and off on numerous occasions, was completely out of question.
Apparently these other moms I had consulted would cuddle with their sons while he drank his milk (bottle or sippy cup not important) and read to him. When he was done with milk, mom would put him to bed. All components of this scenario have been a mission impossible for me: to get him to be still and cuddle, to read a book, to get him to finish his milk and put him to bed without the bottle.
But over the last few months, really over the summer, I've noticed that Ivan has started to take an interest in books. If I put him in the pack-and-play (which I dismantled a few weeks ago) or in his cribs with a few books, I notice that he'll flip through them. He also sometimes starts looking at books on his own and flipping through them. But still not during pre-bed time.
However, if the last week has been any indication, it seems that he's beginning to calm down a bit during pre-bed time and that he's no longer interested in sprinting back and forth from room to room. Instead, he's getting more interested in cuddling or sitting in my lap while drinking milk.
Tonight, he spent the whole time on the bed with me cuddling and giggling with me. I even read him a book by Sandra Boyton about going to bed. He even finished his milk. Then I managed to brush his teeth and put him to bed without the bottle. Well, I put him to bed and gave him Medic to cuddle. I also added some water to the bottle and left the bottle in the crib. As I was leaving the room, he was too busy talking to Medic to cry for milk. I haven't checked on him since and haven't heard him cry all night so I'm not sure whether he drank the water or left the bottle as is.
In any case, I consider this a slight feat on all fronts.
I hope I'm onto something here and that this change will last--the cuddling, calming down, reading, drinking milk in my lap and going to bed milk-less.
What "being read to" actually meant I didn't konw nor I still do. Back then Ivan was completely not interested in books, especially during bed time.
Since he's started walking at 14 months, it's just gotten worse. I can barely dry him off before he scuttles of the bed to run around back and forth between the rooms. Until two or so weeks ago when he started calming down on his own a bit and started to cuddle, I couldn't get him to slow down. Every time I'd try to hold him, he'd wiggle out to get back to running. Attempting to read a book to him, something I'd try on and off on numerous occasions, was completely out of question.
Apparently these other moms I had consulted would cuddle with their sons while he drank his milk (bottle or sippy cup not important) and read to him. When he was done with milk, mom would put him to bed. All components of this scenario have been a mission impossible for me: to get him to be still and cuddle, to read a book, to get him to finish his milk and put him to bed without the bottle.
But over the last few months, really over the summer, I've noticed that Ivan has started to take an interest in books. If I put him in the pack-and-play (which I dismantled a few weeks ago) or in his cribs with a few books, I notice that he'll flip through them. He also sometimes starts looking at books on his own and flipping through them. But still not during pre-bed time.
However, if the last week has been any indication, it seems that he's beginning to calm down a bit during pre-bed time and that he's no longer interested in sprinting back and forth from room to room. Instead, he's getting more interested in cuddling or sitting in my lap while drinking milk.
Tonight, he spent the whole time on the bed with me cuddling and giggling with me. I even read him a book by Sandra Boyton about going to bed. He even finished his milk. Then I managed to brush his teeth and put him to bed without the bottle. Well, I put him to bed and gave him Medic to cuddle. I also added some water to the bottle and left the bottle in the crib. As I was leaving the room, he was too busy talking to Medic to cry for milk. I haven't checked on him since and haven't heard him cry all night so I'm not sure whether he drank the water or left the bottle as is.
In any case, I consider this a slight feat on all fronts.
I hope I'm onto something here and that this change will last--the cuddling, calming down, reading, drinking milk in my lap and going to bed milk-less.
Chicco backpack carrier rules
This past weekend, we went hiking. All four of us--Andy, Ivan, Mariposa and myself--like one big family.
We put Ivan in the Chicco carrier I purchased a few weeks back especially for this purpose, after a long search for this back pack product.
And although it was Andy, not myself who actually used it, I think it was great. At least he seemed to like it.
I had been waiting for us to be able to go in the trail together. Since Ivan's been born, hiking along the trail had really become an Andy/Mariposa activity because we couldn't join them. ALthough earlier in the summer, Andy went alone with the two of them and carried Ivan in his arms all the way. (I'm not sure what we was thinking there and how his arms made it.)
Hopefully, we'll make it a weekend activity now like it used to be before Ivan was born.
We put Ivan in the Chicco carrier I purchased a few weeks back especially for this purpose, after a long search for this back pack product.
And although it was Andy, not myself who actually used it, I think it was great. At least he seemed to like it.
I had been waiting for us to be able to go in the trail together. Since Ivan's been born, hiking along the trail had really become an Andy/Mariposa activity because we couldn't join them. ALthough earlier in the summer, Andy went alone with the two of them and carried Ivan in his arms all the way. (I'm not sure what we was thinking there and how his arms made it.)
Hopefully, we'll make it a weekend activity now like it used to be before Ivan was born.
Food wrap up: blueberries are so pase
It seems that we've moved beyond blueberries onto string cheese and crackers. It's really more string cheese than anything else. I think it's the act of being able to hold it and eat it himself.
He also refuses to sit in his high chair for longer than a few seconds. He stands up on it and then tries to climb out if it by stepping onto the tray.
Occasionally, he'll sit in one of our chairs. Or really just use it as a stool to climb onto the table.
This leaves him with eating on the go. This would be fine, if it weren't for Mariposa. She already hovers under his high chair and the table waiting for morsels of food to magically appear on the floor (and more often than not they do. Especially when Ivan decided to play with his food and throw it around.)
But a walking toddler with cheese and crackers in his hands, right at her snout level, well, that's a treat. So I tell Ivan, that he needs to be careful that Mariposa doesn't get his food. He's learned to turn his back to her and tell her "ne," even sometimes slapping her on her snout, which we try to prevent. He's also learned to hide behind my legs while he eats his food. It's really funny.
Also, true to his toddlerhood self, he's become a rather finnicky eater who tries to exert his food likes and dislikes on every occasion. So last week when Andy walked into the bathroom holding a piece of chicken while I was giving Ivan a bath, and Ivan seemed intrigued by what dadda was doing, Andy had him try the meat. He liked it. So he had another bite, and another bite. He ate the whole piece.
In the meantime I brought goulash up to the bathroom, which he refused to eat earlier in the day. And yes, he proceeded to eat it, morsel by morsel.
He ate all of this meat while standing in the bathtub. Yes, I considered taking him out of the tub, drying him off, diapering him and dressing him, but that probably would've broken the momentum of eating meat.
So we let it be. We were humored by the whole event.
He also refuses to sit in his high chair for longer than a few seconds. He stands up on it and then tries to climb out if it by stepping onto the tray.
Occasionally, he'll sit in one of our chairs. Or really just use it as a stool to climb onto the table.
This leaves him with eating on the go. This would be fine, if it weren't for Mariposa. She already hovers under his high chair and the table waiting for morsels of food to magically appear on the floor (and more often than not they do. Especially when Ivan decided to play with his food and throw it around.)
But a walking toddler with cheese and crackers in his hands, right at her snout level, well, that's a treat. So I tell Ivan, that he needs to be careful that Mariposa doesn't get his food. He's learned to turn his back to her and tell her "ne," even sometimes slapping her on her snout, which we try to prevent. He's also learned to hide behind my legs while he eats his food. It's really funny.
Also, true to his toddlerhood self, he's become a rather finnicky eater who tries to exert his food likes and dislikes on every occasion. So last week when Andy walked into the bathroom holding a piece of chicken while I was giving Ivan a bath, and Ivan seemed intrigued by what dadda was doing, Andy had him try the meat. He liked it. So he had another bite, and another bite. He ate the whole piece.
In the meantime I brought goulash up to the bathroom, which he refused to eat earlier in the day. And yes, he proceeded to eat it, morsel by morsel.
He ate all of this meat while standing in the bathtub. Yes, I considered taking him out of the tub, drying him off, diapering him and dressing him, but that probably would've broken the momentum of eating meat.
So we let it be. We were humored by the whole event.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Milk, night terrors or something else
There are times when I can't tell what's the right thing to do. Like just now. Ivan woke up screaming unconsolably, like he occasionally does. I know that a bottle of milk will instantaneously calm him down. But is that the right thing to do?
The pediatrician and all those baby books recommend to let the child cry it out and learn to soothe himself on his own. The longer the parent intervenes the longer the whole cycle gets prolonged. But letting the baby cry it out, while he's convulsing in pain and is violently shaking to break free from my embrace (which is another no, no as well--don't pick the child up because he'll learn to rely on you for soothing and falling back asleep) is beyond gut wrenching.
And then I feel like a bad, no horrendous, heartless, mean mom. Especially after Ivan's been crying for a while--probably less than 5 minutes, which to us seem like an eternity.
And then Andy--who's heard my spiel a hundred times and in all rational moments agrees with me--goes to picks up Ivan, embraces him, carries him back and forth, calms him and soothes him, while I'm standing defeated (on my way to giving in even before Andy gets to Ivan) on top of the stairs with a jug of milk in my hand on my way to refill the bottle.
I tried water in the bottle already, but got the bottle thrown in rejection out of the crib. This time I mix it: half milk and half water. It's my secret plan to slowly wean him off the milk toward the water. So if the bottle is so important at least his teeth won't be rotten out by the age of four. The fear of rotten teeth that the pediatrician installed in me.
And then after Ivan's calmed with the bottle, Andy says on his way back to bed: "there is no reason for the baby to suffer like that." Like I don't know that.
So I remain torn, week after week of this occasional nightly occurrence. Which one is it--give in and give a bottle or savagely let him cry it out?
The fact that I feel underminded by Andy and my parents on every "bottle" turn doesn't help. I try to remain strong and see this battle through--wean him of the bottle and off falling a sleep with milk--but they succumb right way.
Maybe succumb is not the right word, they just don't see it as a big problem as a big deal.
For my parents, in their time this probably wasn't an issue.
And Andy, unlike me, has not spent countless hours reading about this, talking to other moms, being chewed out by the pediatrician.
P.S. My parents did put me to bed with a bottle. A ritual I was addicted to until I was quite old and vividly remember both needing to fall asleep and being ridiculed by their friend, a mom of two boys my age. But instead of milk, my mom gave me camomile tea. So at least no rotting teeth there. But when I asked her, when did I drink milk, she couldn't recall. Who knows, I probably stopped drinking milk quite early, because I do remember disliking milk even back in my childhood, just I don't like it today.
The pediatrician and all those baby books recommend to let the child cry it out and learn to soothe himself on his own. The longer the parent intervenes the longer the whole cycle gets prolonged. But letting the baby cry it out, while he's convulsing in pain and is violently shaking to break free from my embrace (which is another no, no as well--don't pick the child up because he'll learn to rely on you for soothing and falling back asleep) is beyond gut wrenching.
And then I feel like a bad, no horrendous, heartless, mean mom. Especially after Ivan's been crying for a while--probably less than 5 minutes, which to us seem like an eternity.
And then Andy--who's heard my spiel a hundred times and in all rational moments agrees with me--goes to picks up Ivan, embraces him, carries him back and forth, calms him and soothes him, while I'm standing defeated (on my way to giving in even before Andy gets to Ivan) on top of the stairs with a jug of milk in my hand on my way to refill the bottle.
I tried water in the bottle already, but got the bottle thrown in rejection out of the crib. This time I mix it: half milk and half water. It's my secret plan to slowly wean him off the milk toward the water. So if the bottle is so important at least his teeth won't be rotten out by the age of four. The fear of rotten teeth that the pediatrician installed in me.
And then after Ivan's calmed with the bottle, Andy says on his way back to bed: "there is no reason for the baby to suffer like that." Like I don't know that.
So I remain torn, week after week of this occasional nightly occurrence. Which one is it--give in and give a bottle or savagely let him cry it out?
The fact that I feel underminded by Andy and my parents on every "bottle" turn doesn't help. I try to remain strong and see this battle through--wean him of the bottle and off falling a sleep with milk--but they succumb right way.
Maybe succumb is not the right word, they just don't see it as a big problem as a big deal.
For my parents, in their time this probably wasn't an issue.
And Andy, unlike me, has not spent countless hours reading about this, talking to other moms, being chewed out by the pediatrician.
P.S. My parents did put me to bed with a bottle. A ritual I was addicted to until I was quite old and vividly remember both needing to fall asleep and being ridiculed by their friend, a mom of two boys my age. But instead of milk, my mom gave me camomile tea. So at least no rotting teeth there. But when I asked her, when did I drink milk, she couldn't recall. Who knows, I probably stopped drinking milk quite early, because I do remember disliking milk even back in my childhood, just I don't like it today.
18-Month Appointment: height, weight, milk
Last Wedneday, I took Ivan for his 18 month appointment. And the verdict is: 24 lbs 5.2 oz fat and 31 1/2 inches tall, which again puts him in the 25th percentile category---right on the mark for weight and a smidgeon under the mark for height.
And stupid me, I expected him to have grown himself into the 50th percentile category.
Actually I was thrilled that the appointment itself was a few weeks after his actual 18th month birthday. It was on the 27th, while he turned 18 months on the 9th. I was crossing my fingers that during this two week delay, he'd fatten up his little fingers and beat the system a bit: that at 18 months and 20 days he'd measure in the 50th percetile category for the 18 month olds. But, alas, it was not meant to be.
When the doctor asked her usual litany of questions--what's he eating (everything, except when he's picky), how many words he's saying (between 15-20), which milk he's drinking (full fat), is he off the bottle and onto the sippy cup, I found myself fudging the truth a bit.
I dreaded for weeks before the appointment and even Andy made a point about it. "Good luck telling the doctor that he's still drinking milk from the bottle," he said. We had already gotten scolded at the 15 month appointment, which Andy attended with me.
I told her, I had succeeded in weaning him off the bottle (I omitted the qualifying word "almost") back in July, but then he cut seven teeth in one week and cold milk in a bottle was the only thing that got him through the day and night. I also forgot to say that now he's more attached to the bottle than he had been before.
Of course, as I was talking to the doctor and trying to conduct an adult conversation, Ivan got cranky and started a temper tantrum. He was tired and needed his milk. He was trying to wiggle out of my lap to rummage through the diaper bag to look for milk. I didn't let him and instead leaned into the bag to prevent him from pulling everything out. Why? Because I had a bottle, an empty bottle that is as I had forgotten milk in the car, but nevertheless a bottle.
And I was petrified that the doctor was going to find out.
And stupid me, I expected him to have grown himself into the 50th percentile category.
Actually I was thrilled that the appointment itself was a few weeks after his actual 18th month birthday. It was on the 27th, while he turned 18 months on the 9th. I was crossing my fingers that during this two week delay, he'd fatten up his little fingers and beat the system a bit: that at 18 months and 20 days he'd measure in the 50th percetile category for the 18 month olds. But, alas, it was not meant to be.
When the doctor asked her usual litany of questions--what's he eating (everything, except when he's picky), how many words he's saying (between 15-20), which milk he's drinking (full fat), is he off the bottle and onto the sippy cup, I found myself fudging the truth a bit.
I dreaded for weeks before the appointment and even Andy made a point about it. "Good luck telling the doctor that he's still drinking milk from the bottle," he said. We had already gotten scolded at the 15 month appointment, which Andy attended with me.
I told her, I had succeeded in weaning him off the bottle (I omitted the qualifying word "almost") back in July, but then he cut seven teeth in one week and cold milk in a bottle was the only thing that got him through the day and night. I also forgot to say that now he's more attached to the bottle than he had been before.
Of course, as I was talking to the doctor and trying to conduct an adult conversation, Ivan got cranky and started a temper tantrum. He was tired and needed his milk. He was trying to wiggle out of my lap to rummage through the diaper bag to look for milk. I didn't let him and instead leaned into the bag to prevent him from pulling everything out. Why? Because I had a bottle, an empty bottle that is as I had forgotten milk in the car, but nevertheless a bottle.
And I was petrified that the doctor was going to find out.
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