Bloghttp://www.wetbehindtheearsblog.com/blog/en-US2009-12-10T14:07:24ZSquarespace Site Server v5.8.5 (http://www.squarespace.com/)blow by blowhttp://www.wetbehindtheearsblog.com/blog/2009/11/15/blow-by-blow.htmlJuls2009-11-16T01:45:48ZDrew has been blowing on people like the Big Bad Wolf. I cannot remember if it started at the dinner table when I was making a big blustery deal out of blowing on some hot food so Drew wouldn’t summarily reject it altogether even after it had achieved temperature equilibrium. It might have started there. Or it may have started during peek-a-boo session with Drew and the blanket he loves to wrap around my face like a berka before ripping it away in delight.  (He blows on my face to fix the hair that gets messed up in the process—apparently because his highest ambition in life seems to be following in the footsteps of Ken Paves.)

The game, however it originated, is this: Drew blows at me and I act as if Derek Jeter has nailed me in the face with an aluminum bat. It’s pretty simple. And you can imagine how amusing this is to a toddler. Drew will blow at me from his car seat, from the other room, from anywhere. And Gordon too because that is even FUNNIER.

Drew thought he would expand his repertoire this week and blew at the grocery clerk on Tuesday. She just laughed, and as you probably guessed, did not slam her head back as if being punched in the face. You can’t blame her because the rules of Drew’s game are not readily apparent to the casual observer. After all, Drew also blows on flowers instead of sniffing them in a rather dyslexic use of the senses, so what he is trying to achieve with all this huffing and puffing is somewhat hazy. Drew blew at his preschool teacher Wednesday and she cooed and made the generic comment that all adults say to children with whom they are not related but whose parents are standing in the vicinity: “aren’t you cute!”

Later in the day, Drew blew at a little fellow toddler at the park. She stared at him like he had lobsters crawling out of his ears. I might need to educate him in the ways of women. Or just give him a breath mint. 
 

]]>Getting Malledhttp://www.wetbehindtheearsblog.com/blog/2009/2/24/getting-malled.htmlJuls2009-02-24T17:40:48Z“Cupka,” said Drew, holding out his clammy paw, reaching for his cup. (My son is apparently German, now). He sucked on his water. We were heading through the mall like nomads, treading the new territory of the Dropped Afternoon Nap.

We stopped at the Food Court where Drew ate blueberries and Goldfish I had packed. A little old lady flashed Drew a mangled grin, her head popping out of the red turtleneck that went on for miles around her.

We had just entered through Nieman Marcus, the only entrance at the mall with handicap buttons that open automatically for rich handicapped people, and for moms with strollers. On my way through to the mall, I actually picked up a Christian Louboutin pink satin sandal in all its $795 majesty. (I didn’t buy it, I literally picked it up off the table, turned it over to see the price, and put it back like it was Lenin’s nose that had fallen off). Nieman’s is like the cold, shiny surface of Pluto. And like Pluto, it was devoid of life that day--except those of us using the handicap doors.

Once in the mall, we walked along the broad skylight-lit corridor where everything smells like pretzels and warm glass, and made our way to the food court for a snack, and then on to Dillard’s to take the elevator down. (Drew loves elevators, and I’ve had some close calls with escalators.) We were heading for the indoor playground, the only oasis of entertainment I could think of to fill the time Drew used to spend sleeping.

A blond eight-year-old girl and her younger be-speckled sidekick were playing some type of blood sport, flailing and falling and rolling like boys. One of them knocked Drew down hard on his bottom. He began to fuss a little, mostly to sympathize with the look of horror on my face. The girl didn’t realize what had happened, but her friend the blond one did, and made it her goal for the rest of our time to make amends.

She pushed her friend, the short one with glasses, right on up to me where I sat on the long cushioned bench around the perimeter of the play area. The girl was grinning with terror. “Ask her!” hissed Blondie. Nothing came out. Her friend persisted, “She wants to know if we can play with your baby.” Right. I was really going to turn my son over to the Reservoir Dogs.

“You want to play with my baby?” I repeated dumbly.

“We want to play DAY CARE.”

“Um. Well. We’re just about to leave.”

“I go to day care, after school,” she announced proudly. Why, then, are you here, terrorizing toddlers?

She persisted, “I know another baby named Drew.”

“Really?” My comebacks were ever so wickedly pointed.

I believe they could sense the mother bear in me ready to stand up on her hind legs. They backed off momentarily. Meanwhile, Drew had stolen the shoe of a baby his age and I attended to its proper return.

When Blondie and Bumbling made another attempt to play with Drew (this involved jumping around him like monkeys---I believe he was supposed to have been a puppy in their messed-up third grade jungle), I snuck Drew out of the play area. I needed a time out.

After we got home and Gordon had come home, he asked if his mother had called the house. I didn’t know, because I had been out. I checked my cell phone and sure enough she had called that too.

“Mom thinks the house next to us is running a meth lab.”

Excuse me? (Insert sound effect here: screeching halt of tires on asphalt).

“She saw a thing on the news. People who put trash bags up on their windows are a dead giveaway.” (We live in an “eclectic” neighborhood). Gordon began to rehash the conversation he had had with his mother—assuring her that we did not notice a lot of “activity” at their house at night and that the trash bags, though an assault on the eyes, were really just for insulation.

But the seed had been planted in my mind. I went directly to www.remax.com to look for new houses--an activity not unlike methamphetamines to my own weak psyche—and Gordon began playing chase with Drew.

I soon gave up and realized that whether it’s crazed prepubescent gal pals or shady neighbors, my sweet Drew will never be completely insulated from real life.

Unless. UNLESS WE MOVE TO NEIMAN MARCUS, AMONGST TRINA TURK, THEORY and PRADA. And we shall eat at The Zodiac every meal and sleep on the chaise lounges at night. And all will be right with the world, and my child shall always be impeccably dressed, forever and ever. Amen.

(Man, I need a cupka with something strong right about now…)

]]>Mr. Electric and Mehttp://www.wetbehindtheearsblog.com/blog/2009/2/4/mr-electric-and-me.htmlJuls2009-02-04T20:59:31ZYesterday we had an electrician out to fix a light bulb in our over-the-sink light fixture. We had such bad luck “fixing” the garbage disposal ourselves last week that we thought we’d save ourselves the hours of confusion and risk of electric shock and call a Trained Professional.

Me on the phone with Mr. Electric, “Hi. Our light isn’t working over the sink. We tried changing the light bulb but it doesn’t work.”

Mr. Electric, “You want us to come change the light bulb?”

Me: “No, it’s changed. It’s just not working.”

(A moment of silence during which the woman must have been smirking with haughty superiority.)

Mr. Electric: “We’ll be there between 10 and 12 on Monday.”

Excellent, I thought. Little did I know that when Monday arrived, the venerable Mr. Electric and I would be slightly at odds, like how you feel about the kid selling magazines door-to-door whom you are trying really, really hard to like but in the end just want to stuff a sock in his mouth and shove him down the stairs. First off, Billy—let’s just call him Billy, presumably Electric is his surname—arrived at 9:43 a.m., seventeen minutes before the said arrival time. Translation: me in my towel singing Broadway. After I heard his forceful knock at the front door, I scurried to dress and wipe the wet hair out of my face before he rang the doorbell and woke Drew up from his nap. This I accomplished, miracle of miracles. (I looked like a wet Chinese crested from the neck up, and a sad “before” story from Not To Wear from the neck down.)

I was charmed by how the electrician put a Mr. Electric mat down over top of my front porch mat. A mat for my mat! This was high class. He introduced himself— Billy, we’ll call him--and put on little blue hospital booties like the kind we wear in the infant nursery at church. He padded through my living room like it was a biohazardous wasteland and honed in on the wayward light bulb in the kitchen, as if able to sense electrical miscreants. Or maybe his report sheet said something like, “change light bulb in idiot’s kitchen”.

He then began to talk. A lot. He had an otherwise endearing feature of speech that made all of his “v’s” sound like “b’s”. As in, “I will tell you what your inboice will be but I hab to look first.” He brought out a three-ring notebook the size of a Shakespeare anthology, telling me his intentions were to walk me through all that made Mr. Electric a different kind of electric company. As if he were trying to sell me on his services. As if he wasn’t already standing in my kitchen, under a defunct kitchen light bulb, next to a woman just about begging him to fix it so she can pay him real, green money. He was earnest, though, so I feigned patience.

“We do drug tests on all ob our employees,” he began, starting confidently. “We don’t hire felons, just maybe people with some parking biolations, but who don’t hab parking biolations?” I was glad to know I hadn’t allowed a felon into my house, just perhaps his getaway driver who had ignored a parking meter.

He turned the plastic page. “We only use new materials, nothing used. All new.” Again, glad Mr. Electric was on the up-and-up, not jacking parts from clients and circulating them around town.

“We guarantee our work so you won’t hab to call us out to fix it again, or keep habing the same problem.” Glad they were willing to stand by the bold promise to fix something if I pay them money. I mean, who DOES that?

“All ob our electricians are insured for one million dollars, so if something happens, you don’t get sued.” Fair enough. He continued, “All you gotta do is call 9-1-1 in case of an emergency.” Such responsibility left me daunted. Perhaps I really didn’t need the luxury of illumination over my dirty dishes.

Billy turned another page. “All ob our work is insured for two million dollars, so if something happens, you are cobered.” Mr. Electric apparently insures your stuff for more than their people.

And I kid you not, ten minutes later Billy was still trying to sell me on the advantages of calling Mr. Electric to come meet any of my electrical needs. Some marketing wonk thought their electricians needed to double as direct marketing salespeople whenever they made house calls. I trusted that Billy was better with electricity itself than all of the statesmanship surrounding it. I mean, who did they expect him to be? Benjamin Franklin? We finally got around to the problem at hand, which was the Rhodes Family’s inability to properly change a light bulb, but Billy wanted to discuss the dilemma at length.

“Now, I can look up at it, see what is the deal. Troubleshooting will be $138.50. Sometimes it’s cheaper to just replace the fixture. You want me to replace it?”

Um, nope, just see if I screwed the light bulb in tight enough.

I said, “Can you just look up there real quick and see if it will be a quick fix?” Then I flashed him my megawatt smile. (thank you, People magazine, for the term “megawatt smile.”)

“Yes ma’am, but it might be more to do that than just replace the fixture.”
“How much is replacing the fixture?”
“$115.00”
“But that doesn’t include the price of the hardware, just labor, right?”
“Right.” I computed the time and money of schlepping Drew over to Home Depot, picking out an identical light fixture for $80 (which I would probably have to order online because they wouldn’t have it in stock) and having Mr. Electric come out yet again three months later (once the fixture arrived after backorder) with their fancy doormats and blue booties to replace an entire light fixture when all it probably needed was a good whack with a monkey wrench. And I’d have to sit through another ra-ra notebook festivity.

“Let’s just look up there real quick and see if it’s a quick fix,” I said, restating my earlier wishes with a little wink, as if he and I were above all of this silly corporate hairsplitting about the true definition of “troubleshooting”.

“OK. I’ll see what I hab to do.”

I broke away to continue making up my grocery list in the living room. Ten minutes later, Billy summoned me back to ground zero.

“You hab a loose wire in the socket. No big deal. I’ll just charge you $115 and fix it for you. Pretend I didn’t hab to troubleshoot.”

Wow, what a guy!

Ten minutes after that, Drew woke up and I was attempting to get a miniature polo shirt over his 75th percentile-sized head when I learned from Billy that an overall home safety and maintenance check came standard with my $115.00 inboice. OK, I thought. Ever the Irish mamma, I was going to get my money’s worth.

Twenty minutes after THAT, it was about time for me to fix lunch and Drew was making frantic signals for his milk, which was in the kitchen next to the Mr. Electric Central Command that had sprouted there. Notebooks, tools, a ladder, and paper, paper, paper everywhere. Billy was reviewing a giant check-off sheet that said where our house had passed—or failed—Mr. Electric’s bar of safety. “I hab here your results. You failed with the smoke detectors—need them in ebery room ‘cause by the time you smell the smoke from the baby’s room it might be too late and you don’t want that.” Cheery thought. He continued, “I also recommend getting a power surge protector in case of a storm. A surge could take out all your appliances, like your TV, your refrigerator, your dishwasher, microwabe…” as he continued naming the vast litany of possible appliance failures, I felt like doing something really evil with the pen he was holding. “Just sign here to say that I hab gone ober this with you.”

By the time I signed my name it wouldn’t have mattered if it were the most recent stimulus package from Congress, I wanted Billy and his booties and his loose wires gone! Gone far away! But wait, was my light fixture actually working? I asked Billy.

“You gotta ‘nother light bulb? This one is burned out.” WHAT? My heart about burst open. Was he telling me we had put in a burned out light bulb up there and that was the reason for the trouble?

He laughed, comprehending how ludicrous that scenario would be. “Nah, it got burned out by the loose wire, like I said. It will be Ok. Just need a new bulb.”

It turns out I didn’t have another light bulb. I dug all through the wall-o-junk in our laundry room that had objects like glue gun refill sticks, Brita refill filters, shoelaces and liter fluid, all the while Drew hot on my heels like a wolf. Fresh outta light bulbs.

“Maybe you have one from another light somewhere we can use?” By this time Drew was whining, reaching up with his little dimpled hands for mommy and the daily life-giving event we call lunch. I went and unscrewed the office light bulb and presented it to Billy like a rare medicine plant. “I hope it works,” I said.

Ten minutes after THAT, I had a working sink light. It glowed like a lighthouse amidst a chaotic whorl of wind and sea.

Billy began packing his many things, but stopped and asked, “Does your husband like motorcycles?” Oh my goodness, had I died and gone to the scary place?

“Um, well, my dad does,” I said over Drew’s protests, wondering why I had answered so calmly.

“We gotta charity event here in Fort Worth. Don’t know much about it—don’t like motorcycles myself—but if you wanna check it out, you can.” He handed me a flyer, went silent, and I thought he had just made his best sales pitch of the day.

I can’t remember what time Billy finally left my house after fixing my light fixture. I believe it was Tuesday, sometime. But as he turned on his heels and lifted the Mr. Electric mat off of the front porch, he looked up and said, “I gotta two week old at home. Don’t get much sleep.” My heart began to swell up a little, like a bee had stung it. That might explain a lot about today, I thought guiltily. I hoped he had not been sensing my frustration, but I’m pretty sure it was radioactive at that point.

“Kids are great,” I said sincerely. “So worth it.”

He left, and I was relieved. The day was back in my court, ready for my next move. I wondered for a fitful moment if something else would go wrong at my house, because in the Rhodes Family, things always happen in threes. Ah well, I thought.
No big deal. I have a backup plan in the works for such states of emergency I am unable to handle on my own. By the way, anybody got the number to the White House?

]]>Say My Namehttp://www.wetbehindtheearsblog.com/blog/2008/12/31/say-my-name.htmlJuls2008-12-31T21:23:45ZYesterday, Drew said “Jesus.”

It was in his story book and after I said it, he repeated slowly: “Deesuth”. Oh, it was delicious! I wanted to stop and plant kisses all over his head like a woodpecker. When Drew said it, the page was turned to the story of Jesus calming the sea in the little fishing boat with his disciples; and Jesus had just raised his hand against the gale.

The cartoon illustration had blue, vibrant, beautiful waves—you know, the kind that would be pelting a little fishing boat in the black of night. Jesus’ hair was thick and wavy and a lovely shade of chesnut that I always strive for at my hair appointments, and the floor of the boat (which was tilted upwards, of course, because it was being pitched about in a cartoon storm) was perfectly clean, like the disciples had just bought it at Ikea.

Drew loves this book of Bible stories. The first story is Adam and Eve and of course Eve also has the lovely chesnut hair and Adam has dimples. Drew loses interest about the apple and the snake and wants to move on to Noah and the rainbow. You would think all the animals in that illustration would hold his attention longer, but perhaps something in Noah’s flowing beard reminded him vaguely of a scary Santa Claus, which no fifteen month old wants to dwell on if he can help it. The only other story Drew takes much notice in besides Jesus Calming the Storm is the scene of Jesus in the manger. He likes Christmas, I suppose, just not Santa…

I don’t know where all this is going, only that it seems like the first time you say “Jesus” should be remembered and documented, for from now until eternity, that’s the name that will be spoken above any other name. It seems this was Drew’s initiation to the transcendental. And his mommy wanted a record of it. So there!

]]>Stage Mitehttp://www.wetbehindtheearsblog.com/blog/2008/12/17/stage-mite.htmlJuls2008-12-17T21:00:21ZThere was a moment today when a sharp shard of Drew’s burgeoning independence flew up and sliced my heart. (In a good way.)

Drew has a toy that plays a variety of songs depending on the button you push, and one of them is The Itsy Bitsy Spider, a Rhodes Family Favorite. Today I was reading a magazine and heard the song begin, but out of the corner of my eye I saw Drew’s little sausage arms moving up and over his head, down around his belly and clasped back together in front. My fifteen-month old son was doing the hand motions.

But the blessed moment, the thing that just warmed and melted me like candle wax, was the look on Drew’s face: sheer self-contentment, with a smidge of self-consciousness, as if—dare I say it—as if he was performing and loving every minute of it. He was not facing me, though. In his mind’s eye, apparently, a vast audience of pre-verbal crumb-crunchers stretched out before him, hanging on his every twitch. And all was right with the world.

(Oh boy. I’ve got mini-me on my hands…)

But I’d seen this coming. Another recent development in Drew’s appreciation for the Fine Arts sprouted last month while I was singing Broadway on the top of my lungs in the car. Drew was in the back seat, strapped in like a hostage, quiet and bug-eyed, listening to every note I suppose. The song ended, the light turned green, and then I heard it, faintly-- the pat-pat-pat of fat baby hands clapping. I sang another song just to be sure. And behold, Drew had all at once become a member of the applauding public. In that moment, there was something in me that startled; the way infants do who have just been born. This something I didn’t know existed and had perhaps just sprung into existence; a longing I had never named but was all at once realized: that is, to have the appreciation of my offspring. It was a marvelous thing--not un-like eating a family size pack of peanut M&M’s.

So, it appears my child has a flair for the dramatic. And I will be sure to let you know when Drew has begun his exploration of interpretive dance, because it looks like that might develop before he can say a proper “Mama!”

]]>Fleeinghttp://www.wetbehindtheearsblog.com/blog/2008/8/28/fleeing.htmlJuls2008-08-28T19:49:11Z
This embarrasses me. My son is better than that. He is cared for; his mother is competent. But I am in denial. Maybe it wasn’t a flea. Maybe it was just a little black dot—a cataract playing tricks on my vision, a disturbance in the Matrix, a bit of traveling stubble from Gordon’s five o’clock shadow…with a jump shot. It couldn’t be fleas anyway because we do not have pets.

I took Drew to the doctor a few days later because his sleep had been disturbed and he continues to tug at his ears indiscriminately. The last time I took him in, he just had fluid in his ears, no infection. The time before that: double ear infection. And that was the diagnosis again this day. “By the way,” I say casually, holding up Drew’s little brie-cheese arm, “Is this a rash? Or bites of some kind?”  

“These look like ant bites,” the doctor said, pointing out the clustered nature of the bites on Drew’s hand. “See, breakfast, lunch and dinner.” Oh the relief. Better an ant farm than flea infestation.  But on Tuesday, I saw a few more flying black dots, one of which actually crawled up the side of Drew’s head, forcing me to question my beard stubble theory.

Since I enjoy Orkin commercials, that’s who I called, except the exterminator did not arrive wearing a helmet, which was slightly disappointing because then I could ask why they wear them in the commercials. Does that not make you wonder, why an exterminator needs a construction helmet to spray juice in corners?

When the Orkin man-child arrived at my house, I wondered if perhaps he was committing a truancy violation. But he was very polite and competent, and explained that his trusty canned toxins would be good for spiders, roaches, fleas, ants and crickets. Thanks, dude. I can tell you know a house that’s just begging for vermin when you see one. I wanted to let him know that our kitchen has just been remodeled and so we’ve been living under a thicker layer of grime than usual. I also wanted him to know I didn’t think we had fleas—we might—but that we definitely have spiders, which seems more respectable.

I had to take Drew out of the house when he finished, to let the toxins dry on all of the rugs and carpet that Drew loves to crawl on. I kept asking how safe the stuff was for a baby to be around, but Orkin Teen’s best answer was that “it dries.”

At the end of the treatment, the exterminator told me he saw most of the fleas in Drew’s room (so, they are fleas?), particularly on his plush rocking horse, horror of horrors. He gave me instructions to vacuum all the rugs and carpet after three hours and to dispose of the vacuum filter.

Case closed. My child is officially a ragamuffin, straight out of Dickens.

Forced to leave my flea-infested house, where the cries of the dying were hopefully rising up like smoke, I took Drew to Home Depot to return some leftover kitchen hardware. Then on to the Container Store to buy some overpriced plastic bins for his outgrown clothes. When I got back in the car after the Container Store, I made it about a quarter of a mile down the road and to a red light when I looked down and, to my great shock and fascination, four ants were loitering on my left thigh! One seemed to have been crushed, perhaps in a fold of my shorts when I leaned in to adjust an air vent. I made a shrill primal noise and brushed them away. I had ants in my pants!

Later, after the car was safely in Park, I inspected the floorboards of the car, where another five or so ants were doop-de-dooing around like they owned the place. All along, I had been putting my son inside a rolling ant party limo. He was like a fresh sacrifice, all strapped down and wide eyed.

The doctor had been right! What was worse, we both had been right.

(If my other mom friends no longer feel comfortable coming over to play, we will understand. Please don’t tell other people who don’t read this blog, though, because the problem(s) surely will be fixed soon and then where will my reputation be?)

I lit a candle and took a bath later that night in order to learn how to breathe again, and to read. I found a flea floating in the water. My mind began to wander over the day and over life in general, resting on the thought that’s been perched on the top of my head for the last few weeks: Drew turns one next month. I got out of the tub and blew the candle out, and it smelled sweet and charcoaly, like birthday cake.

Let’s all pray there’s enough of Drew left to celebrate…

]]>Playdatinghttp://www.wetbehindtheearsblog.com/blog/2008/7/28/playdating.htmlJuls2008-07-28T21:06:14Z
Just then in my moment of supreme self-doubt, I happened to glance to my right, down a pebbled pave way bordering the side of the very white house, and noticed another portico hanging over two richly-carved double doors. With a glowing doorbell. Well. This was more like it. I supposed the other door was meant to throw off the vacuum salesmen.

The house inside was, unsurprisingly, white. Everyone inside was on the floor in the living room, under the shadow of a grand piano that stood stark against wall-to-wall windows that overlooked a bluff. Yes, we in Fort Worth do have bluffs. On the coffee table, a plate of artisan cheese (thank you, Dean and Deluca, for that term) and fruit sat untouched. On one of the coffee tables, I should say; the living room was big enough for two. A level slightly above us served as the formal dining space; down below were two seating areas anchored in the center by the piano. Another level led up to the entryway and down another hall where I supposed beautiful white bedrooms were situated one after another like clean teeth. The house was evidently built for hosting cocktails for about twenty intelligent, childless, people. The irony was, amidst all this white and clean lines, about ten babies and toddlers wobbled around like amoebas in a sterile Petri dish, threatening the adultish sanctity of the place.

I joined the circle on the floor sheepishly, like a sorority sister late for her initiation. But I was greeted warmly, and Drew found a block to chew on. After a few moments, I perceived the radiating sensation of hot perspiration gathering behind my knees and running down the back of my hamstrings--very unpleasant when you’ve just applied self-tanner. I concluded that the wall-to-wall windows were only mere suggestions to the heat of the Texas sun that it might want to stay away; and that we could all potentially burst into flames at any moment.

At that moment, one of the women was gushing about her new gourmet baby food-making book. “They have this wonderful tilapia and asparagus dish” is all I heard before the Guilt Tingles started dancing in my chest. I looked around the circle; the mothers in attendance were all very warm and kind and sophisticated and stylish, and were nodding approvingly, like they too were eager to run out and learn the nuances of seasoning fruit-de-mer for baby. These women belonged to the house--like accessories--fulfilling its gracious prophecy, so to speak. I was starting to feel a little frayed, a little fat, a little fake-tanned.

But at that moment I made eye contact with another woman—the owner of the lovely home—and realized with jubilation that she, too, was an out-of-the-jar mom. We shared our dark secret in the silence of that suspended moment. When moms of similar guilt complexes make a connection, it’s like the meeting of two notes in harmony that no one else hears but the women themselves. We get each other, even if the only thing we share is our failings as mothers. Hey, was it possible? Maybe I belonged at this house, too.




]]>Drew's Preceding Hairlinehttp://www.wetbehindtheearsblog.com/blog/2008/7/1/drews-preceding-hairline.htmlJuls2008-07-01T21:09:14ZI was at the pediatrician’s today waiting for the doctor to look at Drew who has conspicuously been playing with his left ear for two days, and just being all-round first-rate Fuss Ball. I surveyed the waiting room where several other moms and snotty-nosed babies were waiting, like so many munchkins, for their turn to see the Wizard--the Wonderful Wizard of Shnoz. There was an eleven-week old, a four month old, and a five month old. All bald, like Right Said Fred. Every last one of them.

All the baldness got me thinking. Had we missed something? Drew is neither bald nor hairy—he is somewhere in the middle. He waits in the purgatory of hair, if only his mother would pray in the rest of it. (Or pray it away, since bald is apparently the new black.)

Most babies we are friends with are also bald. I too was a bald baby—till I was two—and that was back when hair was in and bald was out. But things have changed; now babies prefer aerodynamics to fabulous 80’s seagulls. It fits with the prevailing culture of cutting excess, going green and being Buddhist. Throw an orange robe around their little pudgy bodies and call them Oprah.

At the beginning, Drew’s hair started coming in a straight line proceeding from the back top of his head forward like a Mohawk laying flat. It then filled in down the back of his head, except for a patch where he has slept it bald. The sides have yet to grown in. Now, the long strands growing straight down the center are almost touching his eyelashes when combed straight, so I have been forced to give him little 40-something lawyer comb-overs. Who knew Drew would already be getting a taste of middle age? He has reverse male-pattern baldness: a preceding hairline.

I don’t know that he really cares, but he might sooner than I thought. Hair is strangely important these days, and increasingly among the very young. I saw a seven-year-old kid the other day with highlights, for gracious’ sakes, and a boy at that. We are all becoming more and more aware of ourselves now that reality TV has held up a mirror to us common folk. Even men are more enlightened, especially about women’s hair issues. I got a complement last week in my fourth grade Sunday school class from a dad who really loved my hair color. And the man was heterosexual. (Cue Louis Armstrong: What a wonderful world!)

So I wonder, when will Drew first see himself in the mirror? I mean, really see and evaluate. He will of course find that he has more important grooming issues to attend to before getting the new George Cooney Caesar cut and lowlights. The drool, for instance. The unsavory eye crusties. The mucus in general.

But I really hope he is as blissfully unaware of his appearance as long as possible. It’s one area in which we could all be a little more ignorant.

]]>Past Timehttp://www.wetbehindtheearsblog.com/blog/2008/6/17/past-time.htmlJuls2008-06-17T18:29:47ZDrew has discovered two new favorite past times. It’s as if he has already reached retirement and would like nothing better than to put on a bucket hat and live the rest of his days in Tampa with the new obsessions: paper to tear, and Mommy, the clown, saying “NO!” to all his stuffed animals.

He discovered his love for the ripped page Friday night when Gordon was opening his new poker set we gave him for Father’s Day. It was evening, past Drew’s bedtime, and he was a general Fuss-Ball, so how shocked we were, when, ringing out into the nighttime air, a sparkling trill of baby laughter burst forth. Gordon froze mid-rip. He was holding the cardboard box in both hands, a jaggedy tear unfinished down the middle. Drew was poised, grinning. Riiiip! Down with the rest of it. And you should have heard the euphony.

After we had ripped the cardboard box into tiny bits of U-Haul confetti, we found other things to destroy. The wrapping paper, the card envelope, a random parenting magazine (can’t dispose of too many of those, in my opinion), perhaps a Kleenex or two. Drew just howled and howled-- like those rather creepy teddy bears from The GAP that laugh like babies when you push their tummy. Anyone? Anyone? Anyway, Drew was beside himself. And really, I just knew he had it in him, you know? If babies have such a robust wailing ability, their laughter should be of Olympian scale.

The downside is that Drew is now always reaching for paper towels, shopping lists, Crate and Barrel magazines, and all other manner of rippable medium. Add that to Julie’s list of Things She Regrets Introducing to Drew, like cell phone buttons and remote controls.

As for Past Time Number Two, we just stumbled upon this yesterday. Have you ever been sitting in the nursery with your baby, and it’s just the two of you, and you are both looking at each other, mutually bored? For some reason, babies see it as your responsibility to provide the in-flight entertainment, as if they bought this ticket and you better deliver.

I don’t know how this came to be, but after a few minutes a plot was thickening between me and Drew’s little blue octopus in which the octopus was trying to suck my face off and I was desperately pulling and tugging at it, finally unclamping its plush nubby tentacles and staring down into its rosy-threaded cheeks. Drew would wait with bated breath. And then I would scold it, “No, No, No! Bad Octopus!” Oh, Drew just had a conniption. And then somehow that pesky octopus would break loose and attack Mommy’s face all over again and them I would once again carry out my obviously inadequate discipline, which was the height of comedy (in Drew’s opinion).

When Gordon got home I told him about the octopus, and then when I got home later from the gym (yes, I included that detail so you would feel guilty), I found Gordon scolding a teddy bear in front of Drew. I’m not ashamed to admit I felt a little deflated to see that Drew thought Daddy was equally funny. I mean, Daddy hadn’t even contextualized the scolding with a believable plot. That teddy bear was just minding its own business and suddenly he’s getting whaled on. “You just need to tell it no and Drew laughs,” Gordon said when I complained he should try to be a little more creative.

Ah well. I shouldn’t make it my past time to be the Funniest Parent. I'm already the Food Parent and Gordon ought to have something, after all. Regardless, it feels good to know your child enjoys the pleasure of your company, even if you must come bearing cardboard and a one-man-show.

We parents don't need much.



 

]]>Using the Belthttp://www.wetbehindtheearsblog.com/blog/2008/6/11/using-the-belt.htmlJuls2008-06-11T18:36:58ZToday I was unloading the dishwasher whilst singing show tunes. This is usually the case with me, on any given day; put a blindfold on and pick a minute and you’ll probably catch me belting out Wicked. I’m actually amazed Drew didn’t come out wearing sequins.

So I’d just finished unloading the silverware and was moving on to the top rack, singing When I Meet the Wizard, when Drew looks up at me and produced a familiar sound. It wasn’t a yell exactly or a cry. It was, well, a belt. Not on key or beautiful—of course, since he’s imitating me—but a definite attempt to rival Clay Aiken. I was so proud.

Drew is beginning to learn my mother-tongue: singing your own sound track throughout the day. Oh, these dishes are dirty! These dishes are dirty! They are nastier than your nasty wasty pants! OO!

Or my favorite song, an ode to Drew:

You are a Stinks!
You are a Stinks McGee!
You are the stinkiest little stinkface that I know!
You smell!
And you’re an S-T-I-N-K-S ‘cause you S-T-I-N-K
But I will L-O-V-E  Y-O-U for E-V-E-R!

Perhaps his all-time favorite is the following, which he will coo and cackle for whenever I ask, “Do you want to sing about your cheeks?” is as follows:

Cheeks, Cheeks, Cheeks McGee!
The cheekiest little cheeker that I ever did see!
Could you spare some cheeks for me?
Little Mister Cheeks McGee! OOO!

Anyway, I’m not sure if his first belt today was an effort born for the love of the craft, or if it was just the only way he could make himself heard above mommy’s one-man show.   I can hear the therapist now: Drew was driven into showbusiness because it was  the only way he could get mommy's attention.

Oh cruel world!

(Normal tones, Julie. Normal tones.)

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