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Mommy Talk
Friday November 20, 2009
Posted by: mlaehr at 6:28PM CST on November 20, 2009
When my nieces were 4 and 6 years old, the 6-year-old lost her first tooth. Sitting at the counter in my mother’s kitchen, she proudly showed her younger cousin what had happened. “That better not happen to me,” the younger one said. “My mom would be mad.” ...
My oldest has finally lost the top front tooth that had been sticking straight out of his mouth for at least two months. He looked like a cartoon character. I swear towards the end, that tooth was actually moving back and forth as he spoke. But as ridiculous as the tooth looked, and despite our frequent threats that the “big boy” tooth that was growing in behind it would be crooked, my 7-year-old refused to pull his tooth out. Not even the Tooth Fairy could convince him. He cried. He whined. He held an ice pack to his mouth. He used up at least three rolls of paper towel. But he refused to actually pluck the tooth out. One night, a little more than a week ago, he went to bed with the tooth practically dangling by a string. “Are you sure you don’t want Mom to just pull it?” I asked. “No!” he screamed. “It’s your fault it’s like this!” Earlier in the day I had persuaded him to let me try and get it out. I loosened it more and he was mad. I didn’t get it. Wasn’t I supposed to be loosening it for him? “But you pull too hard,” he said. Would you believe this is the fifth tooth he’s lost? Every single time it’s a big production. For days he’ll let a loose tooth dangle from his gums. When we suggest he get a paper towel and wiggle it or let us pluck it out, he throws a fit.
This last tooth actually fell out of his mouth while he was sleeping. Who knew a loose tooth could be so traumatic? My goodness.
I remember sitting in the bathroom mirror for hours the minute I felt a loose tooth. I wanted that quarter from the Tooth Fairy. Now she can’t even tempt my oldest with $5!
My 6-year-old is very matter-of-fact about the whole tooth losing situation. When he has a tooth that’s loose enough, he takes a paper towel and wiggles it until it comes out. Why on earth is it such a big deal for my oldest, I wondered? So I did what any modern day mom does when she has a burning child-rearing question: I googled it. Would you believe there are thousands of articles, blogs, tips and even books on how to deal with a child reluctant to lose their first tooth? Really? One article I read even suggested that if you don’t make losing a tooth a “good” experience for your child, they could end up dreading the dentist forever. Good gravy! Sometimes it takes seeing the absurd reaction of other parents out there to realize that you’re also reacting over-the-top to a situation. So I’m not looking forward to the next loose tooth, but I have vowed not to make just as big a stink about it as my son does. Maybe if I shrug it off as no big deal, he will too. ... My sister recently asked me what I do when the Tooth Fairy collects my children’s baby teeth. I’ve kept a few in an envelope in my dresser, but it’s not like I’m going to save them and have them bronzed someday.
“What did you do with the girls’?” I asked. She told me she has kept every single baby tooth her two now teenage daughters lost in a little jar. Yuck, right?! “What do you do with them?” I asked. “Take them out and look at them?” Thursday November 5, 2009
Posted by: Janine Anderson at 3:23PM CST on November 5, 2009
“Wear monkey boots!” If Henry sees his rain boots — brown, with monkey faces on the toes — he wants to wear them. “Wear monkey boots!” If the answer is no, there is crying. Lots and lots of crying. If yes, there is a giant grin, and two-handed waves at toes, and “Hi monkeys!” out of a 2-year-old’s mouth. I’m learning to pick my battles. Footwear is one that, for now, Henry is winning. The kid is obsessed with socks and shoes. Since early October, he’d come home from his grandparents’ house wearing new socks. Pumpkins, spiders, Snoopy, skulls. He loved every single one of them. And every morning, when it was time to get dressed, he’d request a pair. The white, blue and brown socks we had plenty of were no longer good enough. Now, Henry was all “pumpkin socks,” and “spider socks,” and “Snoopy socks.” If they were clean, I’d usually oblige. Then he’d start in on the shoes. Some days he’d want the white athletic shoes, other days his blue shoes. For about a week, all he would wear were his newest pair of shoes (which were too big, and which Scott put on him one day without knowing they were supposed to be saved for another six weeks or so). His favorite combination: The bright orange pumpkin socks, with the sparkly jack-o-lantern face, paired with the too-big blue and brown shoes with orange accents. Where on earth is he getting this from? I admit, I watch Project Runway, but it’s always after Henry’s in bed. This seems to be one of these fun, new areas where Henry’s personality is coming through. There’s joke-telling. The favorite is to point at something and say “That’s not (fill-in-the-blank)!” He’ll point at the table and say “That’s not kitty!” and crack up. He laughs so hard that he can’t hold his head up. I’ve heard friends with older children talk about how their sons and daughters showed parts of their personalities early on. One, adventurous, the other reserved. A girly-girl. A tomboy. Quiet. Exuberant. Silly. Serious. At 2, Henry’s personality is starting to come through in a concrete way. He doesn’t like it when things are broken. He loves to color and draw. If given the choice, he’d go fast. Outside is his preferred environment. For his first birthday, we spent part of the day at the Milwaukee Art Museum, at an exhibit with lots of moving parts, flashing lights and sounds. He was fascinated by all the things to look at, and we enjoyed exploring the installations. This year, we might take him to a petting farm, or Shedd Aquarium. This summer, we’ll take him camping. Watching him discover the world, and watching his emerging personality, is absolute joy. I have no idea where he’s getting some of the things he enjoys, but in many ways, that’s how I like it. Without understanding where it came from, I can just enjoy the ride. Even on the days when he can’t wear his monkey boots. Written by Janine Anderson. Anderson is mom to 2-year-old Henry. Contact her at (262) 631-1703 or janine.anderson@journaltimes.com. Mommy Talk is an online parenting blog written by Journal Times reporters Janine Anderson and Marci Laehr Tenuta. Find it online at: http://my.journaltimes.com/mommytalk. Friday October 30, 2009
Posted by: mlaehr at 4:07PM CST on October 30, 2009
I have been known to tell my children, “Put it on your Christmas list,” in July. They’re kids. They want everything. Every new toy they see advertised on TV. Every cool thing a friend, neighbor, classmate or cousin has. They want a dog, a laptop computer, a Blackberry and a Darth Vader mask with a built-in voice changer. When they’ve made their requests over Rice Krispies on a hot August morning or a chilly February afternoon, I’d always say “Put it on your Christmas list.” It was the ultimate solution. I wasn’t saying no to the $2,000 laptop or the expensive plastic Star Wars toy that would be broken within a week. I wasn’t even saying I would buy it some day. I was simply telling them that they could ask for the object of their momentary affection from Santa. And they were satisfied with that. More recently, this has become a problem. I’ve discovered that the memories and attention spans of 6 and 7-year-old boys are quite remarkable compared to 4 and 5-year-old boys. THEY REMEMBER. When the big toy store catalog came a few weeks ago, they pulled out fresh sheets of paper and a couple of markers. They RESEARCHED the toys they have been asking for for several months now online. They wrote down the name of the toy, then reported the cost and what web site they found it on to me. I swear. My boys even discussed which toys to put on their “Santa” list, because those items were expensive and they weren’t likely to receive them from Mom and Dad. Can you believe it? Don’t get me wrong, my kids love Halloween. They, again, spent weeks after the start of school looking for really good Star Wars costumes online. When they discovered that none of those outrageously cool and pricey get-ups were available in local stores, they settled for Transformer costumes - which are actually kind of awesome. We went to the pumpkin farm, drank apple cider, carved pumpkins - including one we grew in our garden this year - and have put away some of the summer toys and bikes that have littered the yard for the past few months. Earlier this week the boys helped my husband rake leaves and clean out the vegetable garden. It smells like fall (wet earth and cinnamon). It sounds like fall (crunch, crunch). It feels like fall (crisp winds and chilly nights). So why is Christmas intruding on one of my favorite seasons already!? That’s what I was thinking, in a huff, the other day when my sons presented me with their wish lists. I made a big stink about putting the lists on the kitchen desk in the spot where I keep important papers. But I really wanted to throw them away. Isn’t that awful? My kids spent so much time on those long, long, long lists, and I didn’t even want to look at them. But I did. They won’t get half the things on them, but I’m sure they won’t be disappointed come December 25. Heck, they might not even remember. Then again ... Wednesday October 14, 2009
Posted by: Janine Anderson at 3:04PM CST on October 14, 2009
For the past few years I’ve written about infant mortality. Racine’s rate is dismal. The city’s overall rate is worse than the state’s. There’s no good reason for that. When you break the numbers down by race, it breaks my heart. Black babies born in Racine are far, far more likely to die than white babies. Prematurity and low birth weight are the leading causes of death. Whenever I write a story about this, I’m amazed at the comments people make. Recently, people questioned why the Wisconsin Partnership Program would target money toward programs aimed at reducing the black infant mortality rate. Well, it’s because black babies die at a disproportionate rate. In 2007, the last year for which statistics are available, Racine’s black infant mortality rate was 23.47 deaths per 1,000 live births. The corresponding white rate was 2.43 deaths per 1,000 live births. Reducing the black infant mortality rate doesn’t mean raising the rate for anyone else. It simply means finding ways to make it so fewer of the black babies born here die before their first birthdays. Don’t let this turn into a community-wide blame game. Infant mortality doesn’t have just one cause. It’s about prenatal care, medical care between pregnancies, economic stability, social stability, family stability, safe sleeping, pediatric care, breastfeeding, parental stress levels and community support. Programs to reduce black infant mortality rates — whether they are support groups that advocate breastfeeding, home visitation programs for women who have trouble getting medical care, overall improvements in the quality of care at local medical facilities, mentoring programs for pregnant women — won’t just improve the lives of black women and black babies. A culture that supports babies and pregnant women will help every baby and every pregnant woman. The bad news: There is no one thing that will keep babies in Racine from dying. Improving the health of babies in the city will take efforts on many fronts. The good news: There is no one thing that will keep babies in Racine from dying. That means there’s something each and every one of us can do to help. Open a door for a pregnant woman, or one with a small child. It could help her feel wanted in this community. Offer help — a meal, babysitting, a phone call — to anyone you know with a young baby. It could help reduce family stress. Make funny faces at the baby fussing in the grocery store check-out line. There’s nothing that mom can do Support breastfeeding. Make women who choose to nurse their babies feel comfortable about doing so; a 2004 study by the National Institute for Environmental Health Sciences found a 20 percent lower risk of dying before the first birthday for babies who were breastfed — whether the baby was black or white.
Monday October 5, 2009
Posted by: Mike Moore at 12:36PM CST on October 5, 2009
Like a good suitcase, those X and Y chromosomes were supposed to be jam-packed with only the best stuff. I had hoped to outfit Sean with all kinds of admirable qualities he could use on his trip through life. My honesty. My ability to hit a 4-wood (and only a 4-wood) consistently. My chick-magnet eyelashes. The checklist of traits I hoped to keep out of his genetic suitcase was just as long. My receding hairline. My selective listening. My temper. Oh, dear Lord, please don’t let him inherit my temper. I’ll even give on the hairline thing. As chief revisionist historian of the Moore family, my mom swears I wasn’t that bad as a boy. Right. Strange how my putter wrapped itself around that tree at Rainbow Springs Golf Club. When our son began flailing and screaming several months ago, I knew exactly who was responsible. I’m prepared to plead guilty, Your Honor, and throw myself on the mercy of the court. Wait, check that. I’d like to postpone the sentencing for a little while, if that’s OK. It’s still possible that it’s not my genes at all. Maybe we should blame the "terrible twos." From what we’ve read, the frustration of being unable to communicate what they want is simply too much to take for some kids that age. There’s also a frustrating realization that they’re not the coddled babies anymore. Could be it’s just a control thing, and he’d be this kind of terror no matter whose genes he got. His rage is directed daily at his oppressors — my wife and me — mostly during his mealtime captivity. Couldn’t be me, then. My fuse blows only rarely, like Sunday afternoons from September through December. And it’s never directed at people, only faulty television screens that mistakenly show the Packers with fewer points than their opponents. Still, this seems like too much of a coincidence to be anything but genetic payback. Watching from somewhere in heaven, my dad is laughing heartily as Sean arches his back and shrieks with enough anguish to make his arms shiver. It’s not your fault, kiddo. Worst-case scenario, I’ll help you to tame that beast inside. Mask it with that goofy sense of humor I endowed you with, or just make up for it with that kind streak you got from your mom. Even better, you have the ability to change that behavior. Watching you play, I know you’re good at observing and analyzing how things work. Just like your mechanically inclined dad. What’s that, Your Honor? Shoot, now I’ll have to plead guilty to perjury, too. Mike Moore can be reached at mmoore@journaltimes.com or at (262) 631-1724. Sunday September 20, 2009
Posted by: mburke at 8:09PM CST on September 20, 2009
By Michael Burke It really didn’t sink in until I was vacuuming my daughters’ room, poking under and around their bunk beds. Monday August 31, 2009
Posted by: bthoreson at 6:14PM CST on August 31, 2009
The rubber duckie was dead to him. The plastic tugboat, the blue hippo and the scooper thing shaped like a shell had all outlived their usefulness. They had served their time in the bath valiantly, but Sean was no longer amused. So we found some new tub toys to keep him busy while being scrubbed. The bag o’ letters and numbers became an instant hit. Get them wet and they stick to the tub walls. That’s the intended use, anyway. He preferred to hand them to us, one by one. It’s a serious test of coordination to wield a washcloth while grabbing a wet foam "L", especially when you’re not given time to put it down before you’re expected to grab the "S," "T," "3" and "7". As someone whose brain is allergic to multitasking, the only way I could retain my sanity was to name out loud each letter or number as he handed it over. For months, I cycled through that disjointed alphabet. The boy was always quiet during this show, which was a victory. Near bedtime, noise usually meant crankiness. But I wished we had waited till he was older to buy a toy like that, till he could learn something from it. By the time he could understand what he was playing with, I figured, he’d have thrown the letters on the bonfire pile with the blue hippo. Then one day, as I mustered the enthusiasm for my 837th bath-time monologue, Sean picked up a blue 9 from among the pile and stared at it for a second. "NINE!" he said for most of West Racine to hear. What was that? Must’ve been daydreaming. That sounded a lot like ... "NINE!" I lavished him with praise, the whole time convinced it was a coincidence. This was, after all, the same toddler who exclaims "Dada!" when he sees pictures of me — or pictures of authors inside book jackets or even candidates’ faces on campaign literature. Time to expose the cruel hoax. I held up a Q. "What’s this, Sean?" "COO!" Close enough. You pass. In the past several weeks, he has mastered most of the letters and numbers. Bath time is more of a two-way refresher quiz than a monologue now. That’s what Sean learned. What I learned is kids are a long-term investment. Whatever we as parents plant in their heads today won’t necessarily germinate today or this month or even this year. Someday, that will mean following the advice of those sternly worded public-service announcements and repeatedly hammering home messages about staying away from drugs, sex or Vikings fans. For now, it’s just encouraging to know we can pour some water and watch the seeds of knowledge grow. I recommend warm, soapy water. By Mike Moore |
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