From Sweet Juniper! Untitled

Happy 2nd Birthday Sean!!

Originally uploaded by Kelly Dwyer

My goofy little man, with a mouthful of birthday breakfast!

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Originally uploaded by Kelly Dwyer

My serious little man.

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Originally uploaded by Kelly Dwyer

2 years ago today. My water broke in Toys R Us as Mom and I searched for a stuffed lion to give to Patrick who was out on the trail riding his first century bike ride (re: Tour de France). Spent a beautiful, surreal, stunning, peaceful, perfect first day of labor pampered by amazing Moms and in-laws, on their beautiful deck, with a virgin margarita in hand and chips and salsa a-plenty. 36 hours later, Sean was born.

I suppose any number of things have coalesced recently to keep me away from the blog. Packing, moving, unpacking, settling in, trip to New York, writing and weather gorgeous enough to want to spend every minute outside. So a brief update is in order I think, fragmented though it may be.

Sean has started sleeping 8-10 hour stretches and 3-4 hour naps. My gut tells me that this is less likely a result of all of the time spent wearing him out running around outside, than it is a passing growth spurt or phase. But whatever it may be, Pat and I couldn’t feel better. And the kiddo sure is a happier boy now that he’s not waking up every 2-3 hours overnight.

Patrick is starting to train hard for his upcoming marathon (most likely November in Richmond). He’s been taking the baby out every morning for long runs on the bike trail. Pat and I had joined Weight Watchers before we left Minnesota to help with shedding the accumulated insulation that padded our asses from the Minnesota winter. We’re both feeling more active, healthier, and generally happier. No, wait – make that ENORMOUSLY happier.

The weather is beautiful for it. Sunny, breezy, warm summer air. We haven’t topped out over 85 degrees since we got here – a rarity in VA at this time of year. Of course, it means that Sean’s every waking moment is spent dancing in the grass, splashing in the blow-up pool, drawing with chalk on the driveway, or riding his plastic cars around the cul-de-sac. A perfect start to the summer.

Sean’s started stringing together 4-5 word sentences and is expanding his vocabulary daily. He even made his first joke, and then laughed at it the other day. He was yaking and yaking about “Momma Water Bottle, Water Bottle, Water Bottle….Water. Water BUTT!!! MOMMA WATER BUTT! Hehehehe, Sean funny.” Yes indeedee, my kid made a butt joke before the age of 2 and knew that it was funny. That’s my boy. Sniff. Makes me so proud.

The hitting is slowly becoming less of an issue. As his communication gets better, as our mutual frustration lessens, as his ability to do what he wants is easier here, as his control over his body gets refined and as he sleeps more, hitting rarely occurs more than once a week.

He’s eating more solid foods, playing more interactively and independently, greeting his cousins and grandparents by name (and with a big HOORAY!), and becoming more of a little boy every day. We’re happy here. All of us.

I’ve been humming the song “Let’s Get Physical” this week to myself every instance that Sean swings his hand back and delivers a welting blow to my face. His theme song. It’s getting a little old, but I can’t think of any better way to squash my knee-jerk frustration and fury, and manage the consequences with a level-head. There’s nothing like singing Olivia Newton-John to make the situation seem that much more absurd and silly.

I know this is just a phase. It’s a behavior that’s filling a gap in his communication tools until he’s verbally and emotionally more mature. It’s the only way that he’s figured out how to express extreme frustration and disappointment to me. And it’s only me (Pat very rarely), and no one else that he hits. I expect that’s because no one else says NO to him with the frequency I do.

I really have done a lot of thinking and reading about how to manage it. I’ve tried talking, time outs, showing how sad and hurt I am, being dispassionate, disengaging, using my MOMMY voice. I even carried a drum around with me for a week so that I could pull it out at a second’s notice and tell him to hit his drum, not Mommy. I talk about how wonderful it is when he uses his gentle hands and gives me sweet spontaneous hugs. I am trying. Really. And it’s not that I’m confusing the kid. I’m working on scientific principle here and trying an idea for a few weeks before determining it’s not working (this has been going on for months). Taking a page from my brother’s book: consistency is the key.

The only thing that used to work is to redirect and diffuse. I know exactly the situations that cause him to hit. I see them coming from a mile away. But he’s a bright and determined kid. Redirection really has stopped working. And because there’s a build up to the situation where I’ve asked him to stop doing something, he’s usually on to me before I can redirect. He knows that I’m trying to dupe him. He’s just too smart for that anymore. And he knows what he wants, Mommy be damned.

He actually hit me hard enough to cause my nose to bleed today while we were at the playground. He was trying to scale a tall metal ladder, but kept throwing fits because I was holding onto his waist to spot him. I gave him several chances to do something else or to get used to me holding him. I used my happy, encouraging voice to help him up the ladder again. But he kept throwing fits and almost falling from the top, so I picked him up and off the ladder. The reaction was instantaneous – he was anticipating it and got me smack in the nose. I dropped him to the ground (after going down on one knee). I caught a woman standing up from her park bench in alarm out of the corner of my eye. I wiped my nose and scooped him up calmly and put him in his stroller. Once he was restrained I got eye to eye with him (out of kicking range) and said how much he had hurt me and that he needed a time out to think about how sad it makes me when he hits. I know he was frustrated and sad, but hitting is unacceptable. I turned him towards the fence and walked behind him.

She handed me a tissue as she approached – a very nice smile on her face. More sympathetic than judgmental, thank goodness. We joked about the terrible twos and how nice it would be to get to an age when logic and discussion can be used. She was complementary of Sean and my “sense of humor” – I assume she was referring to my sighs of exasperation and the deep counted breaths that I was taking. I didn’t feel embarrassed – just sad. Sad and tired of this.

I’m tired of being the bad guy. I’m tired of being used, abused and bruised. Poor Patrick will get home and need a hug and my only response is “Don’t touch me.” I don’t care if it’s a hug, a hand shake or a kiss. My body has become a punching bag. My personal space has dissolved into a wriggling mass of toddler knees and elbows as Sean plays “climb all over Mommy” all day long. How did 50’s housewives manage in their perfect day dresses?

A little more reading, a new tactic to try. I’m going to focus on being as compassionate and loving as I can, while portraying the ‘no hitting rule’ as a moral imperative, not a Mommy mandate. “I’m so sorry you’re sad and frustrated. Isn’t it upsetting? It’s okay to be mad. But the rule says we cannot hit. There’s nothing I can do to change that. I know that makes you angry…” You get the idea. It’s going to be a stretch. Because, to be honest with you, all I want to do is scream right back at him. ‘Cause, man, that kid’s got a wicked left hook. What’s your knee-jerk reaction to being smacked? Fear, anger, retribution? When my eyes are watering and my nose is running, the last thing I want to do is smile.

I think I should be looking into boxing scholarships…

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Originally uploaded by Kelly Dwyer

It’s amazing this kid’s brain doesn’t explode from the amount of developmental leaps that he makes every day. This week has been all about pronunciation and communication. We’re getting closer to actually understanding most of his close to 200+ word vocabulary (and growing).

Sean officially retired his last sign this week. He learned how to say “Thank you” rather than sign it. Signing was a wonderful tool. Those 10-15 signs got us through that really difficult period when he was desperate to tell us what he needed/wanted but couldn’t verbalize. It took me a while to figure out what new word Sean was chanting at me all day. Keekoo? Keekoo? What is that? And then the lightbulb went off. Thank you! Keekoo! I got a little sad realizing that he wasn’t going to be signing anymore. And then I realized my son was saying “Thank you” unprompted. Many repetitions of the happy dance ensued.

Patrick was adamant that I blog that Sean has officially strung two words together. It was a momentous occasion; one that we should write in his baby book and cherish forever, he says. Of course, Sean’s first sentence would have to be “Momma fart!” Thanks kid. Thanks for that. Now let’s have a discussion about the meaning of tact.

It’s also been interesting to watch Sean revisit old words that he first learned many months ago and adjust their pronunciation. Melmo has become Elmo; Awwww? has become All done. Oorrrr has become Oranges. All within this past week. It’s been a busy few days for that little brain.

Ask me how we’re sleeping. No really. I dare you.

There’s nothing like watching a New York movie to give me that warm, reminiscent feeling of home like a kick to the head. I could count the number of scenes on one hand in Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist where I didn’t recognize where they were in the city. Everywhere else smacked me right in the face with memories of breakfast at 2 am, cocktails at 3 am, bands that weren’t worth a crap, music that moved my soul. It was like watching my college existence flash in front of my eyes. Veselka, Bowery Ballroom, Port Authority, transvestite lounge shows, Pennsylvania Station, Mercury Lounge.

You want to know the kicker though? The part that made me suck in a breath and grab Patrick’s arm? I couldn’t even get anything to come out of my mouth more coherent than, “Oh my god. It’s…it’s…its.” And it was. He knew it right away, too. It’s our deli. The deli on 10th and Broadway. The Deli Around The Corner.

The intrepid heros of the movie park their van in front of Digital Society on the corner of 10th and Broadway, in front of NYU’s Brittany dorm, while our heroine runs inside the deli to find she’s just missed her friend (who managed to puke in the ice cream case – I always did love to get a pint of Ben & Jerry’s out of there). The interior looked a little clean and far too bright on film, but those strange racks of tiny packets of vitamin boosts and asian bubble gum still covered the wall behind the register. The buffet looked just as unappetizing as ever. But I remember so well those early morning/late night runs with Patrick around the corner. Sometimes Jared would join us, sometimes Sayer. I’d get a cinnamon raisin bagel, toasted on an enormous industrial metal monolith, slathered with cream cheese. My coffee, light and sweet. Patrick’s, black, extra large.

We’d usually get a coffee for Pops, a gentleman of indeterminate age or background, save his African heritage. He would stand in front of the absurd art installations on the ground floor of our dorm, looming behind him as though they were lording their privilege and poor taste over his homelessness.

It still hurts, seeing New York as an outsider. I have this primal need to go back to New York and lick the door handle of that deli and shout, “MINE!” MY deli. MY street. MY memories. Who are you to go and film there? You don’t have those experiences. You didn’t live your life there. (Or maybe you did. Please forgive my need to whiz on my territory.)

I want Sean to see New York through wondrous eyes first. To look out at the skyline and breath in the smell of the city. To feel invulnerable, to feel alive. To pull from that inherent urban energy that infuses every light, every street, every sidewalk. Maybe Pat and I should reading him some NYU admissions literature at bedtime. Hey, it’s my right as a parent to live vicariously through my kid.