Livingston, I Presume

A kinder, gentler dentist

So we took Connery to the dentist yesterday and had an unexpected milestone. While I knew that they were going to try to clean his teeth (all his other appointments had involved little more than meeting the dentist and getting a free toothbrush), I had no idea they were going to clean them without me.

Is it pathetic that I was sad when he trundled back with the hygienist, happy as a clam and ready to enter the realm of real dental care? Maybe, but I will cop to it. I have never given him over to a healthcare provider before, in part because I imagine him deciding his own answers to pertinent questions like, "How often do you brush your teeth?" in a way that would not be, shall we say, accurate. What if he said that we never brush his teeth and feed him candy all day long? I mean, this is the same kid who told his whole Kindermusik class that we have a puppy and told his daycare that I had a baby in my tummy long before I was pregnant. Would I end up having to fight social services for my son by the end of this appointment, even though we not only brush but floss the child's teeth every night?

Luckily, he seemed to be in an honest sort of mood and apparently told the doctor that we were not subsisting on bottles full of Hi-C or something. Moreover, he allowed the hygienist to clean his teeth, once he had been properly introduced to Mr. Thirsty, Mr. Sprayer, and Mr. Tooth-Tickler. Myself, I've never met Mr. Tooth-Tickler. Mr. Scrape-My-Teeth-Until-They-Ache, yes. Him, I know.

Anyway, Connery was thrilled to get a new toothbrush, two kinds of floss, stickers, and a squishy worm. He told everyone else that we saw yesterday about his trip to the dentist. I like that pediatric dental practices have made the prospect of going to the dentist much less stressful for kids. I'm sure that cynics would say that I'm just falling for some clever marketing, but as a parent, I appreciate that he doesn't have to be dragged back to the exam room, kicking (me) and screaming. I appreciate that the hygienists squat down so that they can talk to my child face-to-face about the coming procedures. In fact, if they'd let me, I'd go see Dr. Todd for my appointments.

I'd like to meet this Tooth Tickler guy.

Better get used to it

Connery has recently mastered his tricycle, and, more importantly, is quite keen to ride it. All day long, if possible. Up until he started at Montessori, he wasn't showing a lot of interest in wheeled vehicles, except for an Elmo scooter-type-thing that didn't have any pedals and instead ran on foot power like a Flintstone car. It was fine when he fit on it, but by the time he was two, he was scraping the tops of his feet more often than actually moving.

Nana and Grandpa bought him the current beloved tricycle quite some time ago. When he first got it, my dad put blocks on the pedals because his legs wouldn't reach all the way down there. When he would try to pedal it, he would get frustrated and want to put it away. It continued that way right up until he saw the trikes at Montessori--and the Big Kids riding on them. All of a sudden, he was a fearless speed demon, a trait he's now brought home.

We all went for a walk the other night with Connery on the tricycle. I say walk, but it was really more like a joyride for him and a run for us. I saw only his ever-shrinking back and his crazy pedaling legs for the entire expedition. All of a sudden, watching him ride away from us--most gleefully, I should add--I had a little preview of what the next 14 years are going to be like. Now it's a little red trike, but all too soon it's going to be a dirt bike and then, someday--ulp--a car.

How do parents ever muster the strength to let their kids out of their sight, much less into a car with a bunch of teenagers? How did my parents do it? I remember at the time that I got my license (having just turned 15, I might add) feeling infinitely mature and worthy of the heinous responsibility that had just been bestowed on me. It turned out that I hated to drive, so I guess that cut down on some worries, but I still was a passenger plenty.

When I was a senior, my parents let my best friend and me drive to Spokane, which is about seven hours and two mountain passes from my hometown. We were going to see Les Miserables, and we stayed with friends of my parents. At the time, I saw absolutely nothing out of the ordinary in this trip. We were two good kids who had good grades and good brains going to see a show unavailable in our smaller town. I now look at this and think, "My God. How did my parents--and Dan's for that matter--ever have the guts to see us off in Dan's little Honda as we drove 300-plus miles through three states? And did they spend the entire time rocking back and forth on the floor, moaning with worry? Because that's what I'd do."

The thing was that in Montana, teens driving long distances was just a matter of necessity. If you were in activities, you had to drive to get to state conventions and district meetings and to see the friends you made from all corners of the state. Going to high school in Montana always felt like being in a small, friendly neighborhood--it was just that your neighborhood took nine hours and 700 miles to cross.

I don't know if it will be that way when Connery goes to high school. Maybe the kids will just text each other until their thumbs bleed and the only danger will be rampant carpal tunnel syndrome. But I doubt it. Instead, I imagine that I'd better just get used to seeing Connery from that angle--pedaling madly and getting smaller and smaller in the distance.

P.S.

When I dropped Connery off at school this morning, he ran off to play with some other kids on the playground. A few seconds later, he turned around and asked me if I was going to leave. I told him I could stay for a few minutes if he wanted me to.

He didn't.

Maybe someday I'll figure out how his mind works.

Make me understand

Connery first went to daycare when he was 13 months old. During his first year of life, in Prague, I had some generous maternity leave and then we had the services of a wonderful part-time nanny whom Connery adored. Separation anxiety? What's that?

The first day I brought him to the daycare center, I fretted that he would cry and I would be rooted there to the spot, unable to leave my sobbing baby who couldn't even totally walk on his own. Imagine my surprise when he gave me a little wave and then settled in to play with the fascinating new toys. I had way more trauma from that parting than he did. That trend continued as he got older, to the point that he would at certain times shoo me out of the childcare center so that he could get down to business. "It's time for you to go, Mommy," he would say.

There were times that I even worried he was perhaps too independent. Had we failed to bond during those critical early days? Was my refusal to carry him in a sling 24/7 and breastfeed him every 20 minutes at the root of his ease of parting? My mom worked very hard to convince me that his nonchalance was not a sign of the parenting apocalypse but instead a sure marker that Chip and I had managed to create a child so secure in his place and in our love that temporary separations were of no consequence. That sounded pretty good to me, so I went with it.

So how to explain his sudden change of heart? For the past four days, I have left a sodden, grasping, tearful child that I barely recognize at his new preschool. Nothing we or the teachers have done seems to help. We've left notes and pictures for him to find, spent time with his teacher, and talked it through until we're blue in the face. And yet he sobs. Which of course makes me want to get in my car and sob after I've dropped him off.

I'm sure it's related to the transition to the new school, but I'm at a loss as to how to remedy that. Time, I suppose. I know I shouldn't expect consistency and logic from a four-year-old, but the inconsistency factor is enough to give me whiplash sometimes.

Birthday shots

It used to be much easier to get Connery to smile in a fetching way. Still, I think the photos of the weekend are nice...

The universe laughs

Was it just yesterday or the day before that I was wishing so fervently that I could have a little break? Well, the universe--in its inimitable, irritating way--just made that possible. After Chip and I spent most of last week coughing, hacking and sneezing, Connery has now come down with the crud. "You wanted slow?" the universe chuckled. "I'll give you slow. Try 10 hours of nebulizer treatments and Wonder Pets. And be hella glad that he hasn't discovered WebKinz yet."

For the first couple of years of Connery's bouts with illness (he was never sick as an infant, lucky for me), I would feel guilty about letting him watch TV all day when he was sick. When I would stay home with him, I would grimly plan low-impact activities, including bundling him up and pushing him around the neighborhood in a stroller. Fresh air! Sunshine! Finally, I came to my senses. When I'm sick, the last thing I'd want would be to have Mommy Earnestest forcing me outside for my own good. No, sickness calls for television and lots of it. And blankets. And possibly popsicles.

Naturally, the arrival of his illness coincides with a long-planned visit from Nana and Grandpa and the forthcoming birthday weekend. My hope is that keeping him home today will mean he can forestall some of the worst of it, but we all know how the universe feels about best-laid plans.

On the upside, maybe I'll finally get more than two blog posts in a week. That would be exciting.

Finally

I've been looking for a while for a cookbook for Connery or some kind of "lunch idea" cookbook for us. Unfortunately, the books out there tend toward the "celebrity chef" side--please, God, save me from more Rachel Ray!--or toward the very specialty, i.e. when you are a gluten-free vegan who wants to eat only foods local to the upper northeast side of Berkeley. That's why I was glad to find this at the local Barnes & Noble last weekend. While it does feature a celebrity chef of sorts in that it features characters from Ratatouille, it also has classic French recipes given an easier twist to make it possible for kids to help out in the kitchen. We've already made three recipes from this book already, which has to be a new cookbook record.

In looking at other cookbooks either for kids or for parents cooking for kids, I've found other problems besides the aforementioned celebrity-specialty conundrums. There's a huge subset of "cooking for kids" books that make liberal use of the four kiddie food groups--hot dogs, chicken nuggets, pizza, and cookies--as if those foods are the only ones that will ever appeal to a child. The opposite extreme is the OMG CHILDHOOD OBESITY EPIDEMIC OF TEH FAT!?!?! cookbook designed to appeal to moms who want their kids to eat "healthy," wherein healthy means without any sugar, fat, or taste.

Now, I'm all for kids eating good food. In fact, if you ask my mom--who was in her day the strictest mom on the block in terms of what was in our cupboards--she'll call me a food nazi when it comes to what Connery gets to eat. I'll cop to being very, very label-conscious and anti-processed-foods to the extreme. But that doesn't mean I'm going to raise him on low-fat margarine and sugar substitute (See above: anti-processed-food.). What I love about What's Cooking is that I see nary a fake food anywhere in the book. Eggs, veggies, fruit, cheese, bread--basic, good food prepared in a tasty and imaginative way--predominate. Beyond that, food is presented as a real joy to prepare and consume. There are pictures of each recipe and an unabashed invitation to make the recipes together and enjoy them together.

Our society is so fraught with food issues that it's nice to see a cookbook that is trying to keep those out of our kids' heads. It's unlikely a single book can counteract the toxic celebrity culture that berates Britney Spears for being too fat and photoshops America Ferrara beyond recognition, but it's noteworthy that somebody is trying.

Storyteller

We have this red leather photo album on the coffee table in our living room. Though I am not usually one for photo albums--requiring both organization and work as they do--I did put this one together because it was a gift and because I really like the look of the album. Besides, it was pathetic to have someone over who wanted to see pictures from our time abroad and have to bring them into my office to show them digital shots on my 14-inch laptop screen. Charming, even discounting the very real chance of injury when they walked into the place.

So anyway, it sits on our coffee table, but given that our social life is...how do the French say it?...pathetique, we mostly enjoy it as a family. Connery particularly likes the last third or so of the pictures, since most of them involve him looking unbelievably cute in some exotic locale. We've gone through it with him (and here's a picture of you sitting on the chair at a Starbucks in Vienna and here's a picture of you in your stroller in Edinburgh and here's a picture of you drooling in Nuremberg...) and he never gets tired of it.

Last week, however, he decided that our plotline was a little lacking. It was no longer enough to give the litany of places and people--there needed to be some characters and some action. Luckily, he was ready to provide it. Here's his take on our album:

This is the story of two sad people, Chip and Nicole, who lost their baby. They spent a long time wandering around Europe, looking for their baby. They went to Italy, to Crete, to Turkey, to London--all over Europe,as it happens--but were clearly miserable, despite the fact that in all available portraiture of the era, they are looking quite relaxed and extremely youthful and well rested. It wasn't until they finally found the perfect baby--right there in Prague!--that they were finally happy. The End.

Not a bad story, when you think of it.

That's what grown-up folk do

I was helping Connery get ready for bed last night when he revealed to me a small measure of how we are shaping his worldview. After much running about and shrieking--in a happy way--he finally achieved buck-nakedness. Thus unclad, he clambered onto his bed and lay there like some 16th-century model ready for a long session with his favorite Renassiance painter. When I asked him what he was doing, he replied, "I'm being a grown-up."

Interesting.

Edited to add for clarification in case of reading by CPS-types: Nudity = Grownups because of the sleeping and the nakedness while in that state. Geez.

From the department of DUH

Via Salon's Machinist blog comes the not-so-startling news that "educational" DVDs for kids may not result in actual Baby Einsteins. Scientists at the University of Washington found, in the words of Farhad Manjoo, that:

Babies who watch the videos are less verbally proficient than those who do not; researchers found that for every hour that an infant between 8 to 16 months old spends watching a brain DVD, he understands, on average, 6 to 8 fewer words than a kid who didn't do Einstein.

As far as I'm concerned, you don't have to be any kind of scientist--rocket or otherwise--to figure out that these income-sucking DVDs are providing valuable time for parents to make dinner or...you know...blog. That's it. Dancing chickens do not a genius make, people. Of the available, expensive raft of "edutainment" offerings out there, we have found utility in only one: A Baby Einstein CD set of lullabies and other relaxing music. That set put Connery to sleep for at least the first two years of his life, while--undoubtedly--sowing the seeds for raw intellectual firepower due to the subliminal hypnotic suggestion of the magical Mozart.

Mozart is magical--music is magical--but not for any debunked effect on babies' brains. It's such a typically American thing, actually, to take something that the rest of the world enjoys on its merits--music, art, architecture--and try to turn it into a tool. We can't just have kids listening to and enjoying music, we have to use it to help them get into Harvard someday.

And now that parents have been told again and again that TV is verboten for young kids, it's easy to see why it would be comforting to think that your kids were actually learning something rather than having their brains rotted. It's all or nothing, baby. The American Way. If you let your kid watch television, you're a bad parent--or so we've been told. So instead of trying to come up with a common-sense approach--Gosh, maybe an hour of Sesame Street a couple of days a week isn't going to relegate her to a life of Gentlewoman's Cs--we try to circumvent the restrictions by creating "educational" children's programming. Now it's not just OK to let Baby tune in, it's actually neglectful not to, so you'd better get yourself to Costco to by that $179.99 Baby Einstein box set.

Maybe this study--common-sensical as it may seem--could be a start to breaking that cycle. But I wouldn't count on it. If there's one thing we Americans don't know how to do (besides take enough vacations) it's exhibit anything approaching moderation.