Thy Thousand Ways

In the 4th century B.C., Aristotle wrote: “The life of children, as much as that of intemperate men, is wholly governed by their desires.” This statement is certainly true of my strong-willed two-year-old, Claire. Her first word to me when I see her in the morning is “Milk!” Her next command is invariably “a food!” Her next is always “Daaa!”, which means “Play Dora the Explorer for me immediately!” Her last word before she goes to sleep, after “Night night, God” is “Milk!” She demands her “reward” M&M’s without first having tinkled (which just isn’t fair), and she wants to take her nap with her dog, sheep, bunny rabbit and penguin!

My mother came to stay with Claire last month, while my husband and I went on vacation. I tried to explain that Claire is both obedient and difficult to handle. At first, my mother did not understand what I meant. After I returned, however, my mother said, “Now, I get it! It’s not that she disobeys, exactly. When Claire does something wrong, and you tell her to stop, she stops. The problem is, she is so smart and creative she continues to find new wrong things to do. She knows she’ll get at least one warning before a consequence. Having figured out this pattern, she takes full advantage of it.”

My mother was right. Claire will pull the dog’s ear and be told to stop. She’ll stop, but she’ll splash in the dog’s water instead, getting herself soaking wet. She’ll be told to stop this, and will, but next will throw her Cheerios all over the living room rug. You get the picture. Claire reminds me of a scene in Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery, in which Anne says, “… [H]ave you ever noticed one encouraging thing about me, Marilla? I never make the same mistake twice.” I identify with Marilla, when she says, “I don’t know as that’s much benefit when you’re always making new ones.” In fact, I thought of that scene today, when I found a fork covered in dried cheese and tomato sauce, sitting on top of my clean silverware in the drawer. I’m sure Claire’s fingerprints were on that fork.

I am comforted by the words of Henry Ward Beecher from Proverbs from Plymouth Pulpit (1887): “That energy which makes a child hard to manage is the energy which afterward makes him a manager of life.” I hope this is true. I hope Claire will retain a will strong enough to help her persevere in this difficult world, cleverly find her way around obstacles, and not always take “no” for an answer. She certainly doesn’t now!

As I try to think up new ways to effectively discipline my little rebel’s innovative, ever-changing, negative behaviors, I often feel like an exasperated scientist having to constantly reinvent new anti-viral medications each time a virus mutates. Nevertheless, the joy she brings to my husband and me continues to outweigh the challenges. In 1809, Mary Lamb wrote Poetry for Children, in which she penned the following lines: “Thou straggler into loving arms, / Young climber up of knees, / When I forget thy thousand ways, / Then life and all shall cease.”

Paternity Power

My husband calls this column my "women's article". He has received the impression that my subject matter is geared more toward women and less toward men. Well, in honor of Father's Day, Sweetie, I'll make an exception for you.

My mother and her two younger sisters grew up without a father, for much of their childhoods. Their father died in a car accident when they were very young, and their mother got a job at a time when most mothers did not work, in order to make ends meet. They all three attended college and have been successful adults. When majoring in Sociology, I always read there are no known societies that are truly matriarchal. I always thought proudly, "These professors have never met my family!"

However, just because my family survived the death of their primary breadwinner and mainstay doesn't mean it was easy. Many stable fathers provide emotional comfort, financial provision and physical protection for their families. They shoulder huge responsibilities for themselves and others. In short, fatherhood is difficult.

Expectations of fathers have shifted dramatically during the past century. We have moved from a time when most households were single-income to a time when most are dual-income in a country with nine-percent unemployment. In this difficult economy, many hardworking fathers, whether married, widowed, single or divorced, are often not able to provide financially in the way they might wish.

Fathers who are present in their children's lives face a great deal of pressure, not only financially, but emotionally, as well. Encumbered by multiple responsibilities, many fathers find it difficult to make quality time with their children a top priority. Fathers who don't play with their children enough are called "distant". Fathers who play with their children too much are called "indulgent" or "poor disciplinarians". Fathers who take a lot of interest in their children's upbringings are termed "sheltering" or "overprotective". Fathers who are more hands-off are labeled "emotionally absent". Although to an extent, parenting is always a balancing act, these conflicting expectations often leave perfectly adequate fathers feeling like failures.

Fathers are often held to a double standard by their employers. While many women receive maternity leave, too many dedicated fathers are unable to spend enough quality time with their newborns, due to the demands of their jobs. Our society often ignores the emotional needs of fathers, who usually aren't even invited to their wives' baby showers. The United States wants men to be "masculine" and "sensitive", "aggressive" and "gentle", "stoic" yet "emotionally open". It's no wonder so many men relate to Miller Lite's "Man Laws"; finally, clear expectations!

Many fathers are not given credit for the ways in which they support their children and the mothers of their children. Working two or even three jobs, obtaining hard-to-come-by health insurance for their families, doing household chores and providing childcare are only a few of the ways in which men give their lives for their families.

So, here is a poem in a "women's article", saluting you fathers out there who are as wonderful as my daughter's father.

My dearest husband
Father of my child
Gilder of every joy
Balm for every hurt
Comforter in every dark hour
Darling friend
Your judgment allows me rest.
Your diligence, my security.
Your innocence, my guide.
Trustworthy, you have taught me to trust.
Faithful, you have taught me to depend.
Loving, you have taught me to love.
Delighting in our child,
You are a revelation of God's fatherhood.

Baby Lust

Baby lust ... I didn't realize this condition had taken over my heart until today. It grew gradually, like jasmine, spreading its green leavers over a trellis. Baby lust is an emotional, sometimes physical, obsession with having a baby, or another baby, or yet another baby. Symptoms include spending hours in the infant section of Target, buying one's clothes a size too big and rocking in the nursery rocking chair alone. Severe symptoms include registering for baby items at Target, buying honest-to-goodness maternity clothes and rocking in the rocking chair while holding a five-pound chicken wrapped in swaddling clothes ... all without being pregnant. Not that I've been doing any of these things ...

When I was pregnant with my daughter, Claire, I was so nauseous I became convinced that anyone who decided to become pregnant more than once had to be clinically insane. Now that I'm equally convinced every difficult moment of pregnancy was worth the reward, I am becoming one of those clinically insane people. Not that there aren't logical reasons to have a second child. Some first children need a sibling to show them the world doesn't revolve around themselves. Some first children need to learn to share. The other side of our back seat is going to waste. We have almost all the supplies we would need for another child. None of these logical reasons sound very convincing.

However, throughout history, people have had children for all kinds of illogical reasons, from status to sibling rivalry. Consider the baby war in Genesis. Leah vied with her sister, Rachel, for their husband, Jacob's favor by bearing four sons. Rachel, Jacob's second wife, so long barren, jealously competed with Leah by having her maidservant, Bilhah, bear two sons to Jacob so Rachel could count them as her own. Leah then had her maidservant, Zilpah, bear two sons to Jacob so Leah could count them as her own. After Leah bore sons numbers five and six, Rachel finally bore two sons of her own. Sounds like a soap opera, right?

I don't know whether my motives are rational, but I do know I turned 30 last week. It's not that time is running out, but there is less of it than there used to be. I now have a craving even stronger than that for chocolate or sushi. As childless Elizabeth I said, I want to "hold a babe in mine arms" ... a creature with hair as soft as cotton candy, small limbs held close and trembling, the ability to sleep anywhere and delicate, transparent fingernails. I long to feel that sack-of-sugar weight over my shoulder as I pat that little back, the satisfaction of knowing a onesie is a complete outfit, the virgin softness of untouched palm within uncurling fingers, smoother than a rose petal. I want to catch a whiff of eau de bebe, that intoxicating fragrance of Dreft, Johnson & Johnson baby shampoo and breast milk. I want to awaken at 2:00 a.m. again, surprised to find I'm not upset, after all, because I get to hold this precious creature in my arms, rocking her as she nurses, as she closes her eyes in inestimable bliss.

More than anything, I have the desire to nurture a living thing, to watch it grow, to live vicariously through it as it reaches its full potential. My husband says we may start trying later this year. I guess I'll be gardening a lot until then.

Word Associations

Each baby is born with over 100 billion brain cells, or neurons. That is 10 times the number of stars in the Milky Way. As a newborn develops, each neuron forms thousands of connections. By age three, a child's brain has formed about 1,000 trillion connections! Although the neural connections in my 22-month-old daughter, Claire's brain are invisible to me, I see indicators of new ones forming each day. As Claire learns words for the objects and concepts in her world, she begins to associate them with other objects and concepts.

For instance, Claire learned the round, green thing used in tennis is called a "ball". She then saw an orange and perceived it was round, albeit a different color. She called it a "ball", at first pronouncing it "a MAWooo!!!". Next, she saw other tasty fruits were round, as well, and, simultaneously perfecting her "B" sound, joyfully proclaimed them to be "a BAWooo!!!". Grapes, blueberries, grapefruits ... all balls. A soap bubble and a photo of planet earth became "a BAWooo!!!" You get the picture.

I worry that Claire's ability to pronounce new words is being hindered by her strong attachment to pacifiers. Claire even made up a name for her pacies very early on: "a YAya!!!". For the longest time, I thought this was her name for me, as she did not say "mama". Imagine my chagrin when I found out that, in my daughter's affections, I came second to a small, chewy hunk of plastic. Although at one time she refused to even exist without a pacie, Claire and I have since worked out a compromise. When she awakens in the morning, we have "The Ritual of the Pacie". I hold Claire near her crib, saying "night night, yaya" (as many times as necessary). Claire then removes her pacie from her mouth and throws it into the crib, where I "tuck it in" with a blanket. (Don't judge me.) After this ceremony, she asks for her pacie ... oh, only about 1,000 trillion times a day.

It is amazing to watch her form associations between very different things. For instance, Claire learned a feathery bird that walks around a barnyard is a "chicken" that says "bock bock". She can't say "chicken" yet, so she refers to each as "aBOCKbock!!!" One night, I baked chicken and offered her some. She said, "aBOCKbock!!!" and, with no compunction whatsoever, ate it up. A few days later, she saw a black, feathery thing squawking in a tree, called the crow "aBOCKbock!!!" and watched it fly away. A few days after that, she saw a house fly zooming around the kitchen and said, "aBOCKbock!". Now, I know I'm her mom, but that's pretty impressive. (Her application to Mensa is almost complete.)

Sometimes, Claire's baby language is endearing and funny. Once, when she unexpectedly barged into my bathroom, I asked her, "Where did you come from?" Evidently remembering her great-grandmother's catechism lessons, she said "God" (in her case "GAAaah!!!").

Claire is the type of toddler who believes in a backup plan. She secretly hid pacies all over the house, leaving me to think she had only two left. After the "Ritual of the Pacie", she would furtively and nonchalantly toddle up to one of her stashes, coming out moments later with a pacie I hadn't seen in weeks. The first time, I was surprised, but I figured I had just missed one. After the tenth time, finally exasperated, I rhetorically asked her, "Where did all these yayas come from?!"

"GAAaah!!!"

Subtitles, Please!

Don't you wish toddlers had remote controls? Aside from all the wonderful things you could make them do, such as "stop", "pause" and "mute", you could also request subtitles, as needed. My 21-month-old daughter, Claire is learning to talk. While I'm sure this process is more frustrating for her than for me (as evidenced by intense, weekly tantrums), at times, I just can't figure out what she's saying!

I often wish I could point a remote at her, press "Menu" and select "Subtitles". Cryptic phrases, such as "oh! oh! MEEEE-ul!", would be magically translated to: "May I please have a bowl of strawberry oatmeal with a long-handled iced tea spoon?" Ear-splitting sounds, such as "MAMAMAMAMAaaaaaaaaaEEEEEEEEEEEEE!", would be revealed to mean: "Mother, would you please kindly lift me up so I can see all the contraband items on the kitchen table you have placed out of my insidious reach?" When especially angry or not feeling well, Claire will declare, "ah-gueeea-gueeea!" I still don't know what that means, but I strongly suspect it's a bad word.

In lieu of subtitles, Claire is very creative in her attempts at communication. She is aided in this by her basic sign language repertoire, which I taught her from age eight months, although Claire is not hearing-impaired. This week at dinner, she performed the signs for "more" and "please" while saying "bee-up-bee-up", the sound she believes fish make while underwater. Crystal! Yesterday, at a picnic, she would flirtatiously sidle up to other adults with food, peer at their tupperware containers of fruit salad, and say "a-Baaaawl!", thereby receiving numerous red grapes. Last night, she went to the freezer, pointed at a container of ice cream, wrapped her arms around herself, and said, "Brrrrr!" This morning, she pointed to the TV, brought me the movie about owls, The Legend of the Guardians, and said "Hoo! Hoo!". I can't help but be impressed by her ingenuity. She must have gotten that from her father.

In my rational mind, which I do not always inhabit these days, I know that Claire is going through an important developmental stage. She is learning her native language, the importance of both verbal and nonverbal communication, ways to connect with others, and techniques to build relationships. I am learning to express my ever-increasing empathy toward this small creature, to teach her about this big world in which we live, and to communicate with her on her own level.

Perhaps subtitles are overrated. Once, before Claire was born, my husband and I were invited to a couple's house for dinner, where we met their daughter, Sophie. We were frequently bemused by the two-year-old's speech, while her parents could understand almost everything she said. I would say, "Subtitles, please!", and her mother, Katie would translate. Later, after the plates had been cleared, as Katie was giving me advice about nursing, I noticed Sophie listening attentively, perhaps reliving fond memories. Sophie asked her mother to pick her up and shouted joyfully, "Bubbies! Bubbies! Bubbies!" Katie looked at me with eyebrows raised and said, Do you need subtitles for that?"

Fallout Shelter Etiquette

Writers furthering Emily Post's mission to teach etiquette to generations of Americans often emphasize cultivating polite behaviors in children. When beginning this process with my 20-month-old daughter, Claire, I felt inadequate and hypocritical. Who was I to teach etiquette to anyone? I forget to send thank you cards within appropriate time frames, fail to place my napkin on my lap once seated, and only recently learned how to use a finger bowl. Claire, who can hear, but whose speech is still mostly unintelligible, has learned to sign "please" and "thank you". She routinely signs "please", as she has found she subsequently is rewarded, but regularly omits "thank you", believing this sign serves no useful purpose whatsoever.

My grandmother has been hospitalized in Birmingham since Thanksgiving. Since I am the only family member living in Birmingham, I have had a great deal of company during the past several weeks. My mother and her two sisters have taken turns staying with my family and me in my modest 1550-square-foot house, in order to care for my grandmother and make medical decisions. Together, we have shared Christmas, New Year's, a cramped living space and some particularly violent winter viruses. During this time, I have learned more about etiquette than I ever learned in Mrs. Post's masterpieces.

One night, my aunt had bronchitis, I had a stomach virus, Claire had the flu, my grandmother's kidneys were not functioning, the refrigerator was empty, and piles of dishes sat festering in the sink. My husband, peering out of bloodshot eyes and seeing us in various stages of illness and emotional collapse, said, "People need to know what happened here". From that moment, we called our house "The Fallout Shelter". I have found no book written on proper fallout shelter etiquette. Please allow me to put forth a few suggestions, many of which were demonstrated by my considerate family.

First, after getting sick in a bathroom, please ensure said bathroom is liberally sprayed with Lysol. Second, if your stay must exceed the recommended, sweet-smelling, three-day limit, please contribute financially to groceries, supplies, and utility costs. Third, if a guest of the fallout shelter appears to be temporarily losing his or her mind, it is the host's responsibility to either call in reinforcements, medevac the guest out, or both. Fourth, it is appreciated, yet not expected, for guests to provide supervision and entertainment for any resident toddlers, when convenient. Fifth, it would behoove any host to remember that frequent, home-cooked meals tend to improve fallout shelter morale, so keep a well-stocked kitchen.

I have learned that proper etiquette goes far beyond using one's dinner fork instead of one's dessert fork for the main course. Real etiquette communicates love, respect and patience toward others. Oftentimes, the people we meet are experiencing hardships we know nothing about. Too frequently, we behave rudely to strangers, who, unbeknownst to us, are emotionally vulnerable, in pain or grieving. Too often, we fail to be polite to those we love most. If we put others' needs before our own, we will naturally exhibit most of the habits Emily Post promoted. What better lesson to teach my daughter?

Divine Proportion

The mathematical principle of Phi is: The whole is to the larger in exactly the same proportion as the larger is to the smaller. Phi, also known as the Divine Proportion, can be identified in a pattern of numbers that increases by adding the two previous numbers.

In writing, this all seems so esoteric, so difficult for math-challenged people (such as myself) to understand. However, if you look at a spiral-shaped Chambered Nautilus shell, the principle becomes visible. This miracle is comprised of gently curving, pearly spaces, each created by the homely organism that once inhabited the shell. Beginning with the miniscule chamber in the center of the spiral, you can trace each consecutive chamber, each created as the organism outgrew the last, each slightly larger than the one before. Each one precisely follows the rule of Phi.

As a mother, I have watched my 19-month-old daughter, Claire grow and change with each passing day. When Claire was 10 days old (and I was crazed by rapidly shifting, postpartum hormonal levels), I remember wailing, "She's 10 days old already, and I've missed it!" My mother, bewildered, reminded me, "But Annah, you've been here!" I had been trying to express my longing for Claire to remain a newborn forever. At the same time, I looked forward to knowing her as a child, teenager and adult. I suppose every mother wants to have her cake and eat it too.

I mourn each time I fold and box clothes Claire has outgrown, placing them in the attic, much as the Nautilus sheds its shell. New chambers are created as my husband and I buy 12-month clothing, 18-month clothing, 24-month clothing. Likewise, as Claire's mind develops, I miss the days in which she would stare, fascinated, at ceiling fans and lamplight. Now, I rejoice to hear her learning to say "sock" and "ball". I loved her when she was the passive recipient of affection, but love even more her toddler kisses and spontaneous "hit-and-run" hugs. Her wise-beyond-her-years newborn gazes have given way to myriad expressions from joy and delight to "uh-oh-tantrum-coming". Her bobble-headed attempts to sit up have been replaced by running, dancing and twirling. Each day I lose her. Each day I gain her.

But how can one measure the development of a tiny, precious soul? Add the last two numbers? Measure it with a tape measure? This mystery is beyond all science, all mathematics. It is certainly beyond me. Perhaps this is what Oliver Wendell Holmes recognized when he wrote the last stanza of his poem, The Chambered Nautilus:

"Build the more stately mansions, O my Soul,
As the swift seasons roll!
Leave thy low-vaulted past!
Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free,
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!"

What a privilege to watch this spark of divinity unfold.