Have You Seen This Giraffe?

In the back of my mind I knew there would come a day when the unthinkable would occur. In anticipation of this dreaded day I had made preparations. Apparently, I had not done enough. The unthinkable took place last Monday. We lost a lovie, a precious, a near and dear to us. Put your hankies away. Nobody died. No, this was far worse.
For those who run with the five and under set I'm sure you're all too familiar with what a lovie is. It's a item of esteemed affection of a child. Hubby and I both had them as children. Both, coincidentally, were yellow blankets. I still have mine in all its tattered glory. When I was pregnant with Firstborn I began crocheting him a yellow blanket as well. It's a simple affair as I was, and still am a simple crocheter. Last spring I even made him a second "Yellow". A backup if you will. After having suffered the loss of my dearly beloved Panda as a toddler, I was all too familiar with this type heartache. I wanted to make sure our Firstborn never had to endure this. But the dreaded day did not involve Yellow.
We attended my niece's birthday party this past fall where the party favors were quite generous. Firstborn walked away with not only photo mementos, but a goody bag, and a handsome stuffed giraffe. From that day forward "Draff", as he has come to be known, has not left my son's side. Draff attends every function he does. And I mean every function, from potty breaks to church services.
I vividly remember the Great Jam Incident of '08. Firstborn was diligently sharing his breakfast of toast and jam with his dearest friend when things got a bit sticky. I deemed it necessary not only for Firstborn to have a bath, but Draff as well. Things went as planned during my son's bath, but a near riot insued when he saw Draff being dropped into the washing machine. He stomped, kicked, screamed, pulled all the magnets off of the fridge, and tried valiently to find a way to climb up and save Draff from what he was sure to be his very death. He pulled his stuffed chair into the laundry room and waited. He sat dutifully awaiting for his friend to emerge from his watery grave only to be tossed next into the dryer. Still, he sat. Never have I seen a more relieved look on my son's face then when I removed Draff from the dryer and handed him over.
Last Monday Firstborn, Yellow, Draff, and I loaded up the Mommy Mobile and headed to the mall to walk. We had been cooped up for much too long and were in search of some much needed exercise. After our 45 minute walk it was time to load back up and head home. This is where things began to get ugly. I quickly realized as I was packing everything into the car that Draff was not one of my items. I backtracked mentally. Where had he last been seen? I didn't actually remember seeing him in the mall, but I did remember him being next to the diaper bag at home. It's that period of time between leaving home and getting ready to head back home that was a complete blank. Drat this baby brain. I couldn't remember anything anymore. I convinced myself that most likely Draff was sitting on the kitchen counter patiently waiting for Firstborn to retrieve him.
I frantically organized a search party once home. Within the hour Hubby and I had ruled out Draff being anywhere in the house or Mommy Mobile. This was not good. I was beyond panic as I knew nap time was fast approaching. My mind was racing with thoughts of Amber Alerts: Draff: orange and white spotted, twelve inches in height, last seen wearing long eyelashes and a kind smile. While I was getting that out to the public, Hubby could be gluing recent "Have you seen me?" photos onto milk cartons. A team effort would be needed to print up fliers and get in touch with Nancy Grace. But I was certain we could pull it off.
Nap time was long and painful that afternoon. It took almost an hour to get Firstborn asleep. However, once he was Hubby and I worked quickly. I got on the horn. First I called the mall's lost and found, but no luck. Then I called my sister-in-law. Thankfully, she was home and able to tell me where she had purchased Draff. Within minutes Hubby was out the door and headed to Toys-R-Us.
While he was out Firstborn woke prematurely from his nap. I distracted him with projects and snacks. Then my knight in shining armor strode in quickly ripping price tags from a brand new Draff. I'm not sure if it was a combination of pregnancy hormones and stress, or if just seeing my son's face light up with sheer joy at seeing his long lost friend returned safely, but I began to cry. It was a look I will never forget. I know, it's a look he gives me often, and that alone makes being Mommy all worth it.
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Granny Takes No Prisoners

Recently, I visited with my ninety year old Granny. It was the first time she had seen me in some months and there was definitely much more of me to be seen. At our last meeting I was still early on in my pregnancy. I looked as if I'd eaten a large lunch, not very pregnant at all. This time was a different story. I am now six months along and look as if I'd eaten a small hot dog stand, not just a large lunch.
We were enjoying watching Firstborn as he played with my aunt. During all this time my Granny complimented me on how good I looked and asked questions regarding the pregnancy. She deftly waited until my aunt took Firstborn outside to pick buttercups, and that's when she began the assault.
On outside appearances my granny looks like any ninety year old granny, but don't be fooled. She's a seasoned, war time general. She's lived long enough to learn the best tactile maneuvers, and she's not afraid to use them. Little did I realize that she had already been maneuvering her artillery into place in our prior conversation.
Granny: "You look good. You look like you've been eating well. And I see you're still out and about frequently. Is the baby giving you any problems? Hrphmph."
It all sounded so innocent to me as we were watching the antics of my aunt and son as they tickled one another with a feather duster. It's what she said next once we were alone, that set off the air raid sirens in my head.
Granny: "Don't you think you need to be in maternity clothing?"
Mommy: "Granny, this is maternity clothing."
Granny: "Hrphmph."
Oh no. There it was, the second Hrphmph! Just minutes before I had been lovingly rubbing my blissful belly as Granny had been speaking. I was caught up in the scene before me and not paying much attention to what she said. But quickly, I was jolted back to the battlefield that lay before me. I began running our previous conversation back through my head.
Granny: "You look good."
Translation: I see you've been performing your wifely duties.
Granny: "You look like you've been eating well."
Translation: Don't get too fat. You'll just have to lose all of that baby weight again, and we know how long it took you last time.
Granny: "And I see you're still out and about."
Translation: Don't you think you should be in confinement? You are after all, with child.
Granny: "Is the baby giving you much trouble?"
Translation: That poor child you're carryin' has to be miserable what with all the weight you've gained and you out gallavantin' about the countryside.
Granny: "Hrphmph."
Translation: I don't approve of this one bit.
Granny: "Don't you think you need to be in maternity clothing?"
Translation: You're in the family way. You should be wearing the appropriate tent like clothing, complete with Peter Pan collars.
Granny: "Hrphmph."
Translation: I really don't approve of this one bit. This is worse than I thought.
How had I missed it? I was a sitting duck. No, I was a sitting, pregnant duck with a giant bulls eye painted on my ever expanding belly. This was not going to be pretty. This lady was known for taking no prisoners. She left them in a pile of ashes and bones that had once been their self-esteem, strewn across the living room sofa.
It was time to hunker down. Firing back would have been in poor taste, after all, she was ninety. And her guilt game was far superior to even her war games. I would have to move quickly and carefully. I explained that not only what I was wearing was in fact, maternity clothing, but that it had been passed on to me from my younger sister. Ouch, sorry for throwing you under the bus like that dearest sister, but you know how the old bird operates. It's every man for himself.
I should have stopped there but I couldn't. My tongue marched on with prhases like, "this is how it's done these days" and "all the cool kids are doing it". She just sat there in silence with her left hand in a sort of fist under her chin and index finger covering her mouth. And just like that she had conquered victorious. With the entrance of my aunt and son her demeanor once again changed back into that of a jolly great-grandparent. I sat there on the living room sofa a shell of the once confident mommy to be.

Trying Two

My dear, sweet, and strong-willed son, Firstborn, is not quite two. He won't be two until May, but has already decided to fully embrace the "terrible two's", a phrase I dislike greatly. It's a misleading phrase. Maybe a more appropriately alliterated phrase should have been the "trying two's". Because that's what it truly is. Firstborn is trying many things, not just my patience, but that's the one that comes to mind when I say, "trying two's".
Not only is he trying to learn who he is, but where he stands in this family. And that is going to be somewhat unsettling I'm afraid, once Secondborn arrives in July. He's trying out boundaries, of the physical and parental department. Three weeks ago he attempted ice skating in our narrow kitchen with each foot in a separate frying pan. Needless to say, he didn't stick that particular landing. He did, however, nail the one yesterday as he walked on the couch up and down its length until falling and cracking his head on the wooden armrest. I don't know about crossing his T's, but he certainly dotted his eye.
Firstborn is learning at an amazingly rapid pace that never ceases to amaze me. It's evident that he will be much smarter than I am. Maybe it was the fish oil pills I took the last half of the pregnancy to increase his brain growth and development. I'd like to think that us teaching him sign language starting at five months had a hand in it too. Most likely it's that he takes after his Daddy who I'm in awe of. Whatever the case may be, I'm both terrified and proud of my son's problem solving capabilities.
Recently we've had to replace the original covers on our electrical outlets. He had learned to pull the safety plugs out. The new ones require a steady and strong hand in sliding the plate over to its opening. We're taking bets on how long it takes him to figure this one out. Two weeks ago he learned how to unscrew lightbulbs. Two days ago he shorted out my nightstand lamp trying to figure out how it works. His favorite tool in the house for some time now has been an ever handy pair of kitchen tongs. He uses them to reach anything that's out of his reach.
Do you see where I'm going? Do we enroll him in some sort of Montessori Electrical Engineering program or duct tape him to his high chair? I've always loved working with children whether it be in daycare settings or one-on-one. I highly encourage thinking outside of the box. I believe a child should be independant and confident. I can't sit beside him and watch his every move. Not only would it wreck his self esteem but my house would be a wreck as well, what with all the neglect.
Every day is presenting new challanges and obsticles for both, Firstborn and myself. I want him to keep trying new things and seeing how they work. I also want a clean house (prefereably with all my electrical appliances working within the proper safety codes). But the question is, do I want these at the risk of raising a child who doesn't know how to think for himself void of any personality? No. As long as my child is safe, well fed, and fully aware of just how much he's loved, then I'm doing my job. As the older woman in my ladies group told me a few weeks ago, "Hon, your job is to give that child all the lovin' you got, and to keep him from breakin' his fool little neck...cause it's the only one that the good Lord gave him! The house can wait, but that boy will be gone in the blink of an eye." Amen.
So, for those who think I'm crazy because I let my son finger paint with chocolate pudding in the bathtub and play with Quaker Oats as he plows them into my living room carpet with his tractors I say this: I'm not crazy (err, that crazy), I'm just letting my son be the best "trying two" he can be.