Sunday, January 29, 2012

Boy, the Other White Meat

When I was in kindergarten there were twin black girls in my class, Tamika and Shamika. I couldn't tell them apart so I called them both 'Mika. They told me I couldn't call them that, only the black girls could call them that. And that was my introduction to race relations. Ever since then I've wanted to be in the inner circle with black girls. If a black girl so much as raises her eyebrows in interest toward me I will make jokes and do circus tricks until I win her approval. It's true, just ask my college friends Loreal and Alanya, who lucky for me, looked past that and were still friends with me.

It could be my experience with the 'Mikas, or maybe white guilt, or maybe the way they have a culture uniquely their own, but I really think it's the connections they have with one another. It's like an exclusive club I can never be a part of, a sorority that I keep trying to rush. Most of our close black friends have moved away (was it something I said??) so I'm concerned that The Boy won't have any black/brown/taupe friends nearby.

Cut to: this week we went to a funeral in Lawrenceville for our friend Greg's dad. All our regular sitters had conflicts so I found an accredited day care near the funeral home that accepts drop ins and we took The Boy there. To a place we'd never seen, to stay with people we'd never met, at a business we knew nothing about...because that's what diligent parents we are.

The door was locked so we rang the bell and waited. When the door finally opened we met the director, who was nicely dressed and friendly. Oh, and she was black. Just behind her was a teacher, also black. She invited us in, where we saw two more adults, also black. And then I noticed 42 little brown eyes looking up at us, attached to 21 little brown and tan faces. We found a black day care! The nice director ushered us in past the pre-school kids sitting at their little table eating lunch and into the baby room. One, two, three, four, five babies were already there. Four were the color of milk chocolate and one was caramel colored.

The Boy is white. I mean really white. When people want to paint their trim bright white they go to Lowe's and request a can of Boy Magness. I'm sure we'll keep Banana Boat in business with all the SPF we'll need over our pasty boy's lifetime. The teacher in the baby class came to greet us and had a thick Slavic accent. He went easily to her and I was thrilled with the exposure to diversity, too bad he'll never remember it. She put him down in an excersaucer and he was playing as we left.

Part of me was uncertain, leaving my child in a strange new place. He goes to school one day a week and he goes to the church nursery, so I don't have a problem leaving him but this was new.  As we got in the car I turned to the Husband....
Me: He's going to be fine, right?
H: Yes. What's the worst that could happen?
Me: Horror stories of cases of child abuse, neglect, kidnappings, and natural disasters at day cares crossed my mind but what I said was I hope he's happy there.
H: He cries for an hour at home sometimes, so if he cries for an hour here it won't be any different. Plus, you got your wish. He's getting some diversity.
Me: Yes, I'm glad about that. You think that woman was Russian?
H: Something Slavic for sure. He's might be in a Papuska when we get back. And...you'll have something to blog about.

We went to the funeral and came back to get him and hour and a half later. All the black babies were in their cribs and The Boy was the only one being held. He was having a bottle, which meant he must've been crying. We thanked all the nice employees and loaded up in the car. They said he was sweet and hoped he would get to come back again soon. Back in the car:
H: He must've been crying. Are you worried?
Me: I'm not worried because he was unhappy. I'm worried because he was the only white kid there AND he was being a high maintenance elitist. We haven't raised him that way!


Friday, January 27, 2012

It's All Fun and Games Until Somebody Gets Dwarfism.

The Boy is tiny. Like tiny tiny. He's 7 months and wearing 3 months clothes. The Husband even asked the pediatrician if he was going to be a dwarf (she said no). He doesn't care much for eating, which is completely foreign to us since we are the kind of people who get our money's worth at a buffet, whether the food's good or not. We like to eat.

I make most of his baby food, less because we're purist health nuts and more because we're cheap. Anyway, I just puree fruits or veggies in the good old Magic Bullet, so we've started adding butter to see if that'll help plump him up. Don't worry, sometimes we use olive oil (EVOO if you speak Rachel Ray). We'll see if it's working next time he goes to the doctor.

I think it's my fault he's so little. Not because I couldn't produce enough breast milk to feed a hamster, but because of karma. I have always LOVED little people. Dwarfs, midgets, borderline midgets, you name it I'm fascinated by them. Emmanuel Lewis and Gary Coleman were my favorite actors when I was little a kid. I nearly peed my pants when TLC premiered Little Chocolatiers, a reality show about little people who own a chocolate shop. Now I don't want to exploit little people in any way, but if they sign up for their own reality show and put it out there for the world to see I'm going to tune in. I'm encouraged and inspired by the fact that everything they do is harder than it is for me. Each chore takes an extra step, or an extra step stool, to complete.

One little person that I LOVED was named Little Ty. That wasn't his real name, I've changed it so HIPAA and his mom won't be upset in the event that anyone ever reads this. Little Ty  was in school in the county that I once interned in. He was 10 and tiny. Tiny! He was probably less than 3 feet tall. The first time I saw him he was sitting in a teacher's lap in the library with kids gathered all around like a ventriloquist doll.  That certainly piqued my interest but I didn't think it was appropriate for me to go approach him just for my own curiosity (how professional!). So I went about my intern business but I didn't forget about him.

Then one day I was helping with a field day at his school when I felt something tugging at my kneecap and I heard a tiny, tiny voice say "Hey! Hey!" I looked down, and to my amazement, was little Ty. I smiled and leaned down to see what he wanted. "They won't let me in the prize box!" he said, as he pointed to the group of kids around the prize box. "You would fit in the prize box" I thought, but didn't say. Again, professional. So I helped him get a prize from the cardboard box of erasers and stickers, and I was hooked. He was the sweetest, smallest, gentlest human I'd ever seen. And so tiny!

He wanted to do the 3 legged race, which I was in charge of. Never one to stand in the way of a child's dreams, I tied his leg to his height-gifted 10 year old friend's leg. His head only came up to her thigh. How was this going to work? He would have to take 5 steps to her every one. It became my mission to see this to fruition. Thinking quickly, I wrapped his arms around her leg and told him to hold on tight. She began running and he was along for the ride! Imagine a 10 year old running with an infant strapped to her leg. That's what it looked like, only the infant was another tiny 10 year old! The Rocky music started playing in my head as this special ed duo ran from one plastic cone to another. In a movie it would have been in slow motion, zooming in on the grin on both their faces. They didn't win, but they didn't care. From that moment, I was hooked. I folded a burlap sack over 19 times so that he could get in and do the sack race. I abandoned my post at the 3 legged race to go around to each station with Little Ty, including face painting and the office chair relay in the gym. I was mesmerized by my new friend, and ignored the fact that he didn't need my help and couldn't care less that I was even there. In hindsight, it was probably annoying that I followed him around. What a day!

Little Ty didn't need my services. He was getting several services through the school already, and his parents were more than appropriate and supportive. But each time I went to that school I went by his classroom to try to see him. Once they were watching Where The Red Fern Grows and Little Ty shouted out "I'mma get me a coon dog!" He could ride a coon dog if he wanted. I lived off the thought of him riding a coon dog through the woods for days. Days, I tell ya!

It wasn't fair or appropriate for me to have a favorite, or to change my schedule to check in on him, or to spend mass amounts of time in his classroom because he was so dang funny and magnetic. In fact, when you put it that way it sounds a little bit stalker-ish. If you  had met him you'd know how fun he was and you would have done the same thing. Sometimes I can still hear his tiny little voice. My friend still works in that school system and she told me not long ago that Little Ty is in high school now. She knows because she was there one day and he ambush karate chopped the back of her knee. What's not to love?

So you can see now why my son is tiny. He doesn't have dwarfism, but we're just on the edge of worrying about his growth. I know it's payback for me stalking other little people, I just hope one day there's an intern out there that will help The Boy in the 3 legged race.






Tuesday, January 24, 2012

The Boy's 2012 Calendar

We made a calendar for his grandparents for Christmas. Here are some of the pics we included for each month.
January

February

March

April
                                                                   
                                                                 May (My Favorite)

June

July
                                                                        
                                                                            August

September
                                                                       
                                                                        October
                                                                   
                                                                       November
                                                                      
                                                                        December



Johnny Jumpoopoo

The Boy is 6 months old and loves to jump in his Johnny Jump Up seat. Tonight I was doing some work on my computer in the bedroom and The Husband was in the living room with The Boy, who was jumping. I heard the husband yell "Hon! Come here. I need your help!" I went into the living room and I immediately smelled something foul. Like a can of opened english peas mixed with curry that got left in a dumpster foul.

Me: What is it?
Husband: He shat. Everywhere.

It was then that I saw that The Boy was in his Jump Up, but The Husband was holding it way up in the air. The Boy was grinning.

Me: What are you doing?
H: He shat everywhere. He blew out his diaper and then he jumped in it.
The Boy looked at me, grinning, suspended in the air.
Me: What do you need me to do?
H: Get him so I can clean up the floor.
(I reach to pick him up)
H: But it's all over him. And the seat.
(I pick him up, holding him as far away from me as possible. The seat is filled with poop. His diaper is filled with poop. He laughs because he likes being held in the air. I try to get him to put his weight in his feet so I don't have to touch his diaper but he slips.)
H: ....And on his socks.
(That's what he slipped on. I notice the poop running down his leg just after I tracked it on the floor. Thank God for hardwoods.)
Me: This is disgusting.

The Husband gags. The Boy grins. It's as if he knows what he's done and he knows he's won. I carry the laughing boy to his room to change him but I don't risk putting him on the changing table or his crib.  I grabbed  a towel with my toes and spread it on the floor, got a new diaper and wipes, and lay him on the floor, all while holding him at arm's length. He thinks this is hilarious and laughs through the whole process. The Husband followed me into his room to get the Lysol.

H: He shat his socks.
Me: Take them off. (Husband takes them off. They are covered in poop.)
H: What do you want me to do with them?
Me: Is it terrible if I want to throw them away? (I see the trash can lid closing as I finish my sentence. They are gone. I think to myself that this is why other countries hate the U.S. yet I don't retrieve them.)

The Boy laughs and rolls over, smearing poop all over his stomach.  I take off his diaper and use 45 wipes to clean him up. He grins. How can I be mad at him? I take off his poopie shirt and his diaper, roll them up in the poopie towel and put them in the diaper pail, gagging. New diaper, new outfit, gave him back to Husband. I picked up the diaper pail, gagged again, and went to wash the clothes and the pail.

H: You know what was the worst part?
Me: What?
H: I saw it happening but I was on the phone with Bank of America and couldn't do anything about it.
Me: What?!
H: I saw it all, but I just had to watch him jump in his poop until I could get off the phone. 
Me: Gross! What do you think about people who say that you don't mind cleaning it up when it's your own kid?
H: They're #$&*( LIARS!
Obviously proud, The Boy laughs. I decided I needed to start a blog.