House of the Holy Terror
When he was just a wee one, we started calling him Doodlebug. He was such a tiny cute thing and, simply, he was a Doodlebug. But then he grew and he started gaining more boy qualities, and Doodlebug didn't really seem to fit anymore. He was more of a Doodles, as he began to grab and smile and laugh and develop a personality. And now as he enters late babyhood, Doodles doesn't fit so much either. He's bigger, more verbal, and just not as passive as he once was. So he needs a new nickname. And the only one that comes to mind is the Holy Terror .
And, oh, what a Holy Terror he is. Mobility is not a pretty thing. That little monkey is not only crawling everywhere (still commando style), he's suddenly developed a knack for pulling himself up. On everything that I don't want him to pull himself up on. We have toys just the right size for him to grab onto. The couch is his. The sides of his crib are readily available. The carpeted stairs are nice and padded. So what does he want? Oh, the stereo looks nice. The sides of the bathtub beckon. The new toy rack that hasn't yet been anchored to the wall. The Jumperoo but only when another child is actually jumping in it. When I offer him lots of opportunities to stand upstairs where the floors are carpeted, he refuses. But on the hardwood floors downstairs, he can't get enough. Do you know how loud the smack of a baby's head hitting the floor is? It's not a pretty sound.
Of course, if it were just an issue of pulling up, that wouldn't be a problem. But it's also, well, everything else. There are the temper tantrums my formerly angelic child now throws when he's dropped his toy/spoon/my keys/teething biscuit for the fifteenth time and I refuse to pick it up again. The separation anxiety that hits in the middle of the night. The solid food strike he's been on for the past week and a half (he has this adorable way of clamping his mouth closed, shaking his head, moaning angrily "nnnnn," and waving his hand in front of his face to block the incoming spoon). The "I want to do it myself" for holding his spoon and picking up his bowl of cereal (he won't eat it, but he's perfectly happy to grab it and fling it onto the floor). The beginnings of him weaning himself (a plastic bottle is better than me? I'm insulted). The melodic way he opens the kitchen cabinet doors and then slams them close (and then gets surprised that when he shuts the door on his fingers that it actually hurts).
Okay, so it isn't all bad. He laughs and giggles more. His curiosity is incredible. The look of wonder on his face when he accomplishes something new is amazing. And he's so interactive now. It's simply fun. Or at least it will be once I invest in a baby helmet for the HT and a pair of ear plugs for myself.
And, oh, what a Holy Terror he is. Mobility is not a pretty thing. That little monkey is not only crawling everywhere (still commando style), he's suddenly developed a knack for pulling himself up. On everything that I don't want him to pull himself up on. We have toys just the right size for him to grab onto. The couch is his. The sides of his crib are readily available. The carpeted stairs are nice and padded. So what does he want? Oh, the stereo looks nice. The sides of the bathtub beckon. The new toy rack that hasn't yet been anchored to the wall. The Jumperoo but only when another child is actually jumping in it. When I offer him lots of opportunities to stand upstairs where the floors are carpeted, he refuses. But on the hardwood floors downstairs, he can't get enough. Do you know how loud the smack of a baby's head hitting the floor is? It's not a pretty sound.
Of course, if it were just an issue of pulling up, that wouldn't be a problem. But it's also, well, everything else. There are the temper tantrums my formerly angelic child now throws when he's dropped his toy/spoon/my keys/teething biscuit for the fifteenth time and I refuse to pick it up again. The separation anxiety that hits in the middle of the night. The solid food strike he's been on for the past week and a half (he has this adorable way of clamping his mouth closed, shaking his head, moaning angrily "nnnnn," and waving his hand in front of his face to block the incoming spoon). The "I want to do it myself" for holding his spoon and picking up his bowl of cereal (he won't eat it, but he's perfectly happy to grab it and fling it onto the floor). The beginnings of him weaning himself (a plastic bottle is better than me? I'm insulted). The melodic way he opens the kitchen cabinet doors and then slams them close (and then gets surprised that when he shuts the door on his fingers that it actually hurts).
Okay, so it isn't all bad. He laughs and giggles more. His curiosity is incredible. The look of wonder on his face when he accomplishes something new is amazing. And he's so interactive now. It's simply fun. Or at least it will be once I invest in a baby helmet for the HT and a pair of ear plugs for myself.
1 Comments:
We're on the verge of all this too. I'm glad to hear the solids strike is not unique - Zach is doing the same thing as we speak - he sucks his lower lip into his mouth and shakes his head back and forth. I know we have Tooth Number 1 on the way, it's at the surface but not up yet and I'm pretty sure that's why. It's given him a lovely Jekyll&Hyde personality. Augh.
I tell him all the time, it's a good thing he's cute!
~Christine
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