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Looking forward, facing backward
I’m sure I’ve mentioned before that the safest way for a baby or toddler to ride in a car is facing backward. In fact, the AAP has recommended that a child remain facing backward as long as possible, ideally until at least the age of 2. After all, injuries to the cervical spine can occur when a vehicle stops suddenly and a little one’s head snaps forward and then back. This doesn’t happen when she’s looking out the back window. Even more common is the chest and abdominal injuries that can occur when a kid isn’t properly restrained in a toddler or booster seat. I was clearly reminded of these facts while reading this month’s issue of Pediatrics, the AAP’s professional publication. A recent study confirmed that many of you are good with the car seat or booster when in your own car but sort of let the rule slide in someone else’s vehicle. As if 3 or 4 screaming kids in a carpool vehicle somehow make the trip even safer. Anyway. I’ve made my point.
Back to my own kids. We’ll be “carpooling” on a big red bus so it’s not an issue. As for cars, me being me, I had every intention of keeping the girls riding backward until they were old enough to drive themselves. It just seemed to be the safest option. But alas, you know what they say about good intentions.
I started my plan when Eva was born. Although it seemed impossible to believe that my itty bitty baby in extra small head cushion we’d purchased for her newborn insert would ever reach our seat’s 32-pound weight limit, I went ahead and purchased the extra safe option. All proud of myself, I bought the same seat for Zoe when she was born, driving an hour to find a store with the exact same pale green floral cover in stock. (That was their father’s choice. Not mine. Let’s be clear on that. Anyway.)
And now two years later I find myself with a bit of a dilemma. On one hand both girls are technically still able to fit in their chairs. Neither is anywhere close to 30 pounds. And looking at them, they seem relatively normally proportioned; it’s not like they are freakishly tall and thin. Yet we seem to have a problem with our seats.
Last summer I moved the straps to their highest position. Then I flipped the chair over and after a bit of Googling, figured out how to lengthen them as much as possible. And then I grabbed Zoe and managed, somehow, despite angry squeals of protest, to wedge her body into her seat and fasten the buckle. Eva was a bit easier although still the process seemed unnaturally difficult to me.
Fast forward several months and frankly I can’t see any way that I will be getting them back into those seats. Their feet hang over the edge, the straps leave horrible looking marks on their shoulders and I’m terrified of pinching their protruding bellies in the buckle.
Not to mention they just look weird. A child with pigtails and speaking in full sentences as she opens a Ziploc baggie full of pretzels and begins to count them out into her lap just looks utterly bizarre when she’s crammed into an infant style bucket seat. Like a dog on a bicycle or something. Weird.
Anyway, there you go. I do believe that it’s time to let Eva and Zoe face the road. Despite the package insert and product instructions. And technically I guess we’ve done okay, since they are both over 2. Plus there’s the fact that we don’t own a car and it’s only an issue when we’re on vacation.
So now we’re shopping for some new seats. Which is fine. They’ll probably be okay since their mother now drives like a 90 year-old woman, cars on the wrong side of the road over here and all.
But if anyone can figure out what I’m doing wrong with my Graco 32, though, please do let me know. And the rest of you, you know who you are. Do me a favor and make a liar out of those researchers, alright?
Set Them Free?
You know that old saying, “If you love something, set it free?” I’ve always sort of believed in it, with respect to things like seagulls and ex-boyfriends. But, now, well, I’m just not confident that whoever came up with that jolly line was a parent. Because it seems to me that loving Eva and Zoe means locking, closing, shutting, and hiding things on a regular basis. All in the interest of safety. And my home furnishings.
But now we have a new dilemma. My two little darlings have learned to climb in and out of their cribs. They’ve been doing it for a while and I’ve been completely ignoring it. My idea was to pretend that it was no big deal, the ability to claw their way up the side, swinging their bodies upside down while trying to get one knee over the edge, and then reversing the process, landing with a loud thud on the carpet. Part of me is flat out impressed. The other part is horrified. Both because of the obvious risk of injury and one other very obvious fact: nothing (and no one) is safe anymore.
A while back a friend of mine sent me an article about a crib-free “philosophy.” The general idea was that you throw a mattress on the floor and baby learns to sleep in his own space but without the confines of bars. Of course as he gets older, this means he’s also free to roam about.
Frankly the whole idea struck me as absurd. Because I’m just not that kind of parent. I want to know that my kids are in bed, not lie awake all night wondering if they are in bed, drowning in the bathtub, setting fires, wandering out the front door, or using crayons on my walls. That’s not my style. It might be someone else’s style, but it certainly isn’t mine.
But now I’m standing at the edge, looking down, and wondering if it’s time to jump. Do I take the sides off their cribs and send them the message that the freedom to come and go is theirs? Or do I buy one of those nets and seal them inside their cribs at 7:30, like little caged birds?
I don’t know that there is a right answer here. But at some point, whether that is now or later, I’m going to have to face facts. At some point I may just have to set them free.
The Green Bottle
As the mother of a pair of little girls who are now officially two, I am enjoying certain new freedoms. Such as the freedom to dance in front of mirrors like I’m a complete idiot. It’s called the Silly Willy Nilly Dance and the girls and I are very good at it. In fact, it might be the only dance I’ve ever really mastered. So that’s one freedom I’m taking complete advantage of. The other one I’m really quite happy about is the freedom of the bottle. The milk bottle, that is.
Why? What were you thinking?
Anyway, now that Zoe’s two, the girls can officially switch to “low-fat dairy.” In other words, whatever the family normally drinks. Before the age of two, the brain is so rapidly that a high fat diet is essential for connecting all the bits and bobs in our heads. After age two, though, a child should adopt the same healthy life-style recommended for the rest of us.
Now, I’m going to stop here and say that I’m actually quite terrified by this recommendation. Because frankly, if the girls’ neural pathways are finished myelinating, and from here on out we are going to see a rapid slow down in cognitive development, then, to be honest, my children will not be going to Harvard. However, I will remain hopeful that we’ve just been laying the foundation and the sum total of their abilities will not involve eating ketchup by the fistful and counting to 12. (Skipping 3, 7, 9 and 10, of course). Anyway. Back to my point.
Which is that I can now stop buying that artery-clogging full-fat stuff and allow our family to bond over a steaming mug of sensible low-fat cocoa. Except that I drink skim. Don’t sneer your nose at me. I grew up in California. It’s the law out there.
Not to say that I be pushing the girls too fast on their road from creamy deliciousness to blue-tinged water. We’re going slowly. I swapped out the blue lids for the green ones. And the girls seem okay with it. Zoe calls it her “Green Milk.” Which is as far as we’ll go for now.
And I’ll enjoy the freedom of knowing that worst thing I’ve done if I accidentally pour my red capped bottle on their cereal is just confuse them. After all, they’re used to seeing actual milk on their Cheerios. Not that stuff their mother drinks.
Happy Birthday Zoe!
This weekend Zoe celebrated her 2nd birthday, complete with a homemade chocolate cake decorated with a giant red googly-eyed creature intended to look like Elmo. And that makes it official. I’m no longer in control. I am now the mother of two-count ‘em- two 2 year-olds. And while I may be older, I’m most definitely not the one in charge. In between being told not to sing along with them (Quiet Mommy Stop!) and that I’m not allowed to sit on the left end of the sofa (Leave it Mommy, Leave it!), they continue to touch, explore, break, snap, sneak, and bite everything. And each other. And that leads me to my current problem: “The Naughty Spot.”
Might just as well have named it “The Most Awesome Place Ever.” Because that’s what Zoe and Eva think of my attempts at discipline.
I blame Supernanny. She said we were supposed to remove them from the scene and put them in a designated place for a time out. 2 minutes for 2 year olds. Okay, sounds simple. I even bought a new timer and put it on the fridge, right above the corner in the kitchen that is away from the TV and their toys. And when the timer goes off, you get down at their level, explain why they were in the naughty spot, demand an apology and give a hug and a kiss and make up.
Foolproof, right? Harumph.
Eva loves nothing better than 2 minutes by herself without Zoe bothering her. The other day she even found a Brussel sprout on the floor and was very content to peel back layer and layer until the timer went off.
And Zoe has actually taken to biting me and then screaming, “Corner!” and running happily into the kitchen. Apparently she enjoys the ritual of the hug and kiss at the end.
This was not how it was supposed to go.
So I’ve switched television gurus. Forget Nanny Jo. I’m back to Dr. Phil. He said to find my child’s “currency,” whether that is a certain toy, TV, money or blueberries.
I’m still trying to figure out what works best. With Eva it seems to be threatening to take away either her Wubbie or the 2 pence coin that she carries around. And Zoe has developed an unusual affection for a plastic soup ladle that now sleeps in her bed, so I’ve got that on my list.
I’ll let you know how it goes, figuring out what they value the most at that moment.
In between bouts of telling at them to “get out of the corner,” that is.
Zoe’s Headache
Despite the fact that both of my children have gone flying down our staircase at some point in the last 6 months, most of you should realize that I’m a bit of a nut job when it comes to safety. I’ve done my best to make our home as safe as possible, even to the point of having a new shelf built at the very top of our downstairs closet so I could move all the cleaning products out of even my own reach. And then you should have seen my face last week when I caught one of the girls with a whole grape. Let’s just say my husband won’t be doing that again any time soon.
However, I have recently been informed by my almost 2-year old that it is time for me to loosen up. And she told me in no uncertain terms. And at 3 o’clock in the morning.
Background: Babies should never sleep with blankets or pillows or toys or bumpers or anything else that could possibly cause suffocation in the night. I think this is a good rule. A suffocated baby is a bad idea. So I followed it. Religiously.
That said, Eva is 2 and Zoe is turning 2 in a couple weeks. And over the last year I have very gradually started to give in to stuffed animals making their way into the cribs, first tiny little bunnies and now 18 inch Big Birds. In fact, at last count I believe there were 2 rabbits, one Cookie Monster, one Big Bird, 2 pink snakes, 2 Gymboree Gymbos, 4 books, 2 sippy cups of water, and two small blankets in their beds, collectively.
But do you see what was missing? Honestly it didn’t even dawn on me. Until Tuesday night.
She started at 2:30 in the morning. I went trudging down 2 flights of stairs in response to the “Mommy, Mommy!” coming across the monitor. Binky back in mouth, blankie tucked under her arm, back upstairs I went. Repeat the scene 15 minutes later. Now if you are counting you realize that is already 8 flights of stairs I’ve climbed. Normally she sleeps through the night. Or else I would permanently live downstairs.
So on the 3rd call, I enacted the “three strikes” rule and took my pillow with me. Because I’d be spending the rest of the night in the guest room, which sits next to the girls but lacks the same high quality head support I keep in my own bed.
I went into their room and tried to lie Zoe back down. She began sobbing violently and pointed. “I need pillow.”
“What?” I said, “You need my pillow?”
“I…sob…need…sob…pillow,” she wailed.
I gave her my pillow. She lay down and went promptly to sleep. I saw her again at 7:15.
And I now understand. Babies get no pillows. Two year-olds need them. Duh.
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