betterbutter

god or whoever makes them cute for a reason

On Friday, Eli weighed in close to 27 pounds. Today, two days later,  it's not likely he weighs that much. He's come down with a case of the trots.

Our carpet and patience are suffering much more than Eli appears to be. When we decided on a carpet I insisted  we get the off-white variety. That was a poor choice. I've made a holy mess of the carpet and I suspect I've mostly just ground in debris. My cleaning skills are on par with my interior design instincts. How do you wipe something off a carpet without burying it deeper? It all makes me shudder.

Also our patience is more or less gone. Before Eli was born Joe and I had a conversation about how he thought he'd be more patient with Eli than I was. I agreed because he was more patient then. It turns out I'm a trainable. Eli has trained me to be more patient. Sometimes the patience is graceful and I pat myself on the back. Sometimes it's just a dull glaze and a body that remains while my mind spins wildly, angrily out of control and out of reach of Eli and sharp objects. Sometimes I leave the room.

So Joe hesitantly acknowledged that I am high on patience these days. Higher than he is. Flattered and surprised at what might have been an admission of defeat in his mind, I filled the next few minutes with some nonsense. I rambled on somewhere in there about surrender and that part I meant for real. I have surrendered to all things Eli. His will and needs trump my own within reason. I don't claim that this is the right or wrong thing to do. It's just been a matter of survival for me in spending the amount of time a day that I do with him.

Joe is frustrated by how Eli won't play one thing for any good amount of time and that the thing that Eli does want to do isn't necessarily what Joe wants to do. Joe wants to play ball. Eli wants to open and shut the screen door. Joe wants to read a book. Eli wants to eat the book. Joe wants Eli to put the food in his mouth. Eli wants to throw it on the floor. I agree that many things Eli are frustrating if you have a particular outcome in mind. And sometimes you do. Sometimes you have to go to the doctor or just spend a moment by yourself in the bathroom or you'd just rather not deal with an incident at that exact moment. The frustration makes all sorts of sense. I don't begrudge Joe a second of it. I just can't help but marvel a bit at my own general state of steadiness in the face of all of Eli's dissent. It is not always so but like I said, generally. Or sometimes.

If I were a girl scout, I'd say I'd earned my motherhoodinthetrenches badge is all. In my acceptance speech for said badge, I would thank my parents for raising, not abandoning, me and ask only that the trenches be less about poop tomorrow.

hank pulls the crank

Shucks. You all are sure helpful. A name for the unborn is on the horizon. On Sunday night before the food poisoning set in, before the morning spent in L&D getting my veins poked and blown, before confirming that the baby and I would both survive, Joe devised a name game to settle this headache.

We each got 100 voting points and a ballot with the top five names. Ajax was not mentioned and for that  I thank you. The rules were that each name had to get at least ten points and no one name could get more than fifty. And off we ran to our corners.

Some old contenders resurfaced for the final showdown. And Luke was no longer of interest to Joe. Just wasn't, end of story. I now reveal the results to you.

Abe           40
Henry        50
Jack            35
Charles      55
Isaac          20

Doesn't that make Charles look like the winner? Alas, he is not. It's Henry because Charles is only good to us as Charlie and never as Charles, Chuck or Chaz. Whereas Henry is palatable to us in all forms. And it's older and dignified and less bland than Charles in our  minds.

Ta-da, a name has been born. From second place we bring you Henry our Second.

As for those of you who mentioned Ben and Sam, both names I dig, they are out of contention due to living family members with the same names. It's a small family and we can't go stealing each others names while said members are still in good health.

And remember to ALWAYS take with you droppings.

sticks and stones will break my bones

We've got seven weeks to come up with a name for Inutero Boy. That is if we hope to call him by name anytime around his birth. While it seems pressing I suppose other issues are more so. Maltsby's leash tugging and general state of disobedience is no longer charming. My disdain for making a weekly menu and grocery list could result in malnutrition. Eli's affection for hitting is increasing disproportionately to our ability to figure out how to handle it. Now those issues press. Our boy will need a name but first he'll need milk and a clean diaper. So again, not pressing but still I obsess.

There is one name on which we agree but neither of us love it. And that would be a sad thing to say to him someday.

Henry, my little soy bean, we named you that because it was the only name Mommy and Daddy didn't both hate.

Nice.

We do each have a number one name. Joe's is Ajax like the Trojan War hero not the stronger than dirt cleanser. I am not joking. Mine is Abe for no particular rhyme or reason other than it's short and I like it. There is no chance for Ajax but there are days where Abe seems possible. I have promised Joe an endless stream of uninterrupted video gaming and sexual favors in exchange for my top name pick but that would also be an awkward conversation in the future.

It's not untrue what your father says, Abe. I did do that, that AND that so I could name you what I wanted. I also saved you from the torment of being named Ajax. Points, please, punk.

So we're at a standstill because I probably won't do that, that and that. Some days Joe warms up to Abe if it's short for Abel. I have two issues with Abel.

1. Abel, Abel, strong and able get your elbows off the table.
2. Didn't Abel get killed by his brother?

And then yesterday while Joe was at work surfing the Internet, he came across a new name. After a fairly sleepless 24 hours, we both still to like it. While it reminds me of a movie from the 80's starring a young Corey Haim, I forgive it.

I'll keep you posted. Wait for me on the edge of your seat.

this will drag on but really i just want to know what you think

Eli likes to hang out with kids his own age and height. He follows them, mimics them, stares at them and steals their toys. Of course, it's touching AND it tires him out so always, after playing with his homies, lies the promise of a nap. These days I join him in a napping, cuddling extravaganza. Our chances to do this are available for a  limited time only. Something like fifty days until theboywecannotagreeonanamefor will get borned. In a selfish way, I miss Eli already. In the time that is just ours and there are no tantrums and only smiles, I miss him NOW for what is so soon to be juggled into shapes I cannot imagine. I find big comfort in his interest in other kids because he has developed hobbies outside of me. Perhaps that'll help him handle our new nameless baby boy.

But really this has nothing to do with the boy-a-coming or how Eli will handle it all, not to mention how I'm going to handle it. There will be plenty of time for that post-partum.

It's more about this question.

This question has been nagging at me for a spell. If Eli is so content in the company of others then what exactly is the advantage of having him at home with me? It's potentially cheaper to keep him home. And I get to feed him exactly what I want, discipline him exactly how I want and snuggle him at my every whim. Those are all real benefits but I wonder if I am compromising his opportunity to interact with different folks and their different strokes by keeping him so close at hand.

Both of my parents worked. I have fond memories of daycare and babysitters and none of them trumped the influence my parents had on me. I didn't feel abandoned or even sidelined by Mom and Dad. I don't ever remember wishing I could go home to a parent instead of whatever the arrangement of the moment was. Would I be a totally different person if I had had a stay-at-home-parent? I don't see any proof among my peers that having a parent at home during childhood guarantees any edge in the morality, academic or life skills department. What am I missing?

Part of the preparations for Boy Wonder II have included two daycare options for Eli. Both options could be called upon as needed. And in doing this, I'm wondering would it be best for him to spend some time with others since so much of the world and his experience in this world will be without me.

In many, maybe most, ways I am happy to be at home with kids but suddenly as Eli is asserting his desires I wonder if home isn't  just a little claustrophobic. And by home I mainly mean with me all day wherever that is. We go places and meet people and play and his days are busy but might he get even more exposure and structure and varied takes on the world with someone besides me?

Now, if he were anywhere outside of my eyeshot, I'd miss moments like this and that would be a shame.

a little bow will do you

People here in Japan bow. You already knew that though.

I am a fan of the bowing. You never have to wonder how to greet or bid farewell to someone. That's not the case for me in the States. Do I shake a hand? Give a hug? Nod? Smile? Appropriate greetings and farewells confuse me at home. I don't want to appear overly casual or formal ever. In non-professional situations the handshake feels silly especially with another woman. I'd rather pinch her cheek or give her a high-five. At least it would seem friendlier than shaking her hand. The rules just aren't clear to me. Or they don't exist.

Here in Japan the rules are more clear or at least I'm blissfully ignorant to the nuances. I throw bows around happily all day long. Seems like everyone else is engaged in the same song and dance. So onward I bow.

Good morning. Bow.
Thanks for the groceries. Bow.
Yes. My dog IS cute. Bow.
Nice to meet you. Bow.
I have no idea what you just said. Bow.

Naturally, I impose this behavior on Eli like a good mother does. This way, not that way, MY way.  I put one of my hands behind his head and the other on his belly and push forward creating a passable bow. He obliges in so much as he doesn't scream. And then yesterday as we walked down the street, a couple passed us on the sidewalk. Eli made eye contact, placed his hand behind his head and pushed himself forward into a bow.

Then I crumbled  into a pile of love and glee.

in this house we call it a penis

I may be involved in a new friendship. It's like dating all over again for me. All the lists of why I like her so much and all the worries about whether it is reciprocated and all the self-talks where I tell myself to just be myself. It's junior high again except with kids and a much longer list of chores. But really I LIKE like her. I even stammer on the phone or cut her off just to avoid a possible awkward moment of silence. I sometimes even chastise myself for saying that stupid thing I just said.

While I haven't always been the best friend I could be I love my lady friends through and through. Before motherhood it wasn't  too difficult for me to find the company of women who inspired, humored, challenged and filled me up. But suddenly I am rusty at the friendship game. I don't know how to reach out with quite the right balance of interest sans desperation. With the possibility of this friendship I am in such a state of glee. We can play, eat, shop, talk here and there together! Our kids, they can grow, fight, love and hang together.

So when she asked me to babysit her daughter on Saturday night, I was ecstatic. YES! She trusts me to babysit! And we can swap hours and there will be love and joy everywhere! And it WAS fun. I was happy to report back to her that her daughter had eaten a cracker, wet through one diaper, drank water, played nicer than Eli and finally fallen asleep.

I did NOT tell her about the part where I changed Eli's diaper and her daughter stood next to the couch and pointed, stared and ultimately giggled at the sight of  Eli's penis. Now if we decide to make our friendship official then I'll have to tell her about the incident before all the paperwork is submitted. See, if she hasn't already taught her daughter the word penis then I may have done so and I wouldn't want an elephant like that living in the room of our friendship.

H!E$L@P!

Now that Eli gets the correlation between his signing and our actions he's gotten wicked bossy. Almost all other signs have been retired for HELP because HELP causes Mom and Dad to appear instantaneously and concerned at his side. Is there better magic out there?

Sometimes I rebel and let him sign madly in a pool of boy-eating balls.

he bangs, he bangs

The sign language is catching on here in our Mizugama house. Eli fully gets that he can show us a sign as a means to communicate something. It's earth-shattering and average and glorious all in the same mouthful. He continues to see things in the real world and make connections and show me with a sign. It chokes me up. You and me, Eli, we're COMMUNICATING! Yesterday at the grocery store we passed a newborn baby in a cart. He looked at me and made the sign for BABY. Yes! It is a baby! Or we were looking at a picture of him in a Santa hat and he looked at me and signed HAT. Or when he woke up from his nap yesterday he removed his binky in order to sign EAT. I finally understand. This breathing, crying, sleeping, hugging, laughing boy is a human. He is one of us! What an exhilarating combination of joy and hope and relief.

Most of his signs I understand but many of them are the same or similar. There are five signs that he will sign exactly the same way. Sometimes the context makes it easy to figure out. Sometimes it doesn't and I fake it and get it wrong and Eli gives me such a devastating salty, hairy eyeball. Instantly, I'm awash in guilt to which I respond by offering him cookies which are really sugarless, saltless rice cakes. (I learned it from you, Mom!). So about those five words:

more
shoes
help
keys
stop

These signs all require a degree of hand banging. You can see where it would seem knit-picky in his mind to distinguish between these gestures. I am not bent on him getting this or anything down perfectly (except maybe walking and getting 90% of his food IN his mouth) but I get panicky when he's trying so hard to tell me something, BANG BANG, and I just don't know if he's looking for more of something (but more of what?!) or needing help to get the wire so he can wrap it around his neck or demanding me to stop sweeping because it's his turn with the broom. It's just that when he looks at me so earnestly and bangs his hands together with every expectation that Mama will understand and then I don't, well, I guess it's best that he know sooner than later who's driving his train.

sitting in time-out times infinity

Joe and I got in deep trouble this past Christmas. In a nutshell, we opened Eli's present from Grandma, my MIL, before Christmas. He had been teething. We were exhausted and the package seemed like the answer. It was an impulsive, desperate move on our part. That was not our  most egregious offense though. In addition to the premature opening we didn't let her view the event over the web cam. It was never totally clear to us that that was the plan but in her mind it was and as such we had gone back on our word. The fallout from this breach of contract wasn't ever directly vented to us but through others we learned that tears were shed and from Grandma herself we received lots of silent dead air time punctuated with long, deep sighs. We apologized for our offenses several times and then quickly took photo after photo of him playing with his toy to try to shove some love and appreciation her way. It was not enough but nothing could heal the hurt we'd inflicted upon her. To add insult to injury, Joe bought her a Buddha statue for Christmas. Not once did the irony of Buddha for Christmas occur to us. It did, however, occur to her and, boy howdy, that was messy. This is old news.

Fast forward to last week when our Easter package arrives. Throwing caution to the wind, we opened it and then remorsefully wondered if, although never spoken, the same rules applied to this package as the Christmas package. Were we breaking the contract again? We went back and forth all weekend about whether or not to lie about the open or unopened state of the package. In the meantime, as is required, I took pictures of Eli with every item in the package. Here's Eli eating a cookie you made. Here's Eli tearing off the bib you made out of glittery fabric. We love glitter! Glitter, glitter, everywhere! Here's Eli wearing the jacket you sent. It'll be great for the grocery store where the AC really puts a chill in the air!

Ultimately, we decided to be honest but Joe didn't get a hold of her so I knew I would have to break the news which I did this morning  in the same breath that I shared all the photos with her. I did NOT send my favorite photo of Eli pooping WHILE eating her cookie. I do have a touch of class, no?  Please also note that I dressed him up for this photo shoot just in case it was to appear that these were taken ON Easter and that he was donning an Easter outfit. The rouse ran deep.

After apparently getting away with opening the Easter package, she knocked me right back on the floor.

"What are you all planning for Easter?"

This is a loaded question. The answer is nothing but that's not the right answer. I mentioned an Easter egg hunt as loudly as I didn't mention church. And since we don't catch wind of our transgressions from her personally, I have yet to hear what heap of doo-doo we're in now. So we  lay in wait.

and joe was voted most likely to be a talk show host

1991. New Hampshire. High school. A girl named Isis. Pet rat in pocket. Mohawk on head. Piercings galore. Senior superlatives. NOT VOTED MOST UNIQUE.

I was. Me. Meredith.

Okay, I did use Manic Panic for a spell and in junior high I did once attach a padlock to the shoe lace of my Chuck Taylor but, come on, there were obviously more worthy candidates (Isis!#*!) for the title than myself. My classmates had voted me into this position and had I been Isis I might have felt deserved or honored or entitled. But I was more on the side of confused and vaguely hurt and insulted and even oddly proud. I would have described myself as someone who more or less tried to remain an inch above invisible. Others didn't see me, feel me, hear me that way. Twas puzzling for me then.

I had a flashback of that feeling after my last post. Bear with me while I do a poor job at making this connection.

I blogged, I stopped blogging and now I blog again. Old blog feelings are flooding back. Yes, this feeling. I've felt this before. There's the self-imposed urgency to tune back in to all of your lives and get in touch PRONTO. I want my attendance to be counted. Meredith? HERE! There's also the constant sorting of daily experiences into bloggy or non-bloggy categories. Is this too mundane? Is this even true? What's my point? And such. Of course, there's also the general flurry of curious thoughts about who reads and what do they think and will my in-laws find this site and do I care and should I and do I do this for me or why do I do this or how many times can I blame other people for losing my keys and on and on.

Then there's that feeling that the mood or tone or image of myself that I think I'm portraying is not at all received. And an entirely different message has been sent. Like instead of invisible you're the most unique? Or like when I wrote the other day about how Eli peed on my bra and I wore it wet because I didn't have another one I meant for the story to come across as a light statement about the indignities of motherhood. I certainly didn't sit down with such a mouthful of intention but as I read your concerned and maternal comments and e-mails I realized that there were miles between what I thought I said and what you all heard. At times I seem to depict myself as borderline incapable of taking care of myself in a socially acceptable fashion. While that is unfortunately true I don't EVER mean to let on to that side of me. I just don't hear it in my own voice the way you all do. On one hand, I am embarrassed to be coddled when I meant to be silly. But also, I appreciate it because I genuinely don't know sometimes how askew my take on the the world is in the eyes of others. I sincerely thought I would get comments about how you all would have done the same thing or have been in the same situation or sentiments along those lines. Yet many of you kindly, worriedly, quietly offered to buy and send bras. Hark! No need. In the wake of your gentle prompting, I closely followed Lady Grace's advice and bought two bras that should do the trick well enough.

If only I could control my voice just a wee bit better as not to unintentionally expose my flaws to you.

(bows head and sheepishly exits stage left)