Jill Burns, Subdued Mom

An Egg and a Throwdown

Subdued Mom — Sun, 12 Jul 2009 14:22:00 -0700

It has been a superb learning experience; growing four baby chicks into productive laying hens. Archer has been alternately intrigued and disinterested, with lots of requests to hold, pet and chase the little buggers.

When the momentous occasion of the first egg happened along, I innocently thought it would be an apt right of passage for Archer to march into the chicken coop and fetch the egg from whence it lay. Quite happily, he ducked through the small opening and casually snatched up the egg. Then Inez, the one who laid it, took offense. She began sqwaking beligerantly and charging my unsuspecting son. I was frozen with an odd mix of pride, stupidity and disbelief as the hen pecked at his elbows and backed him into a corner. Soon Archie started whimpering and I stepped in and broke it up.

After Archer emerged from the run with the egg and a stricken face, we washed, scrambled and ate it together with a pinch of salt. After a pointed silence, I offered, "Next time one of those chickens pecks at you, just wave your arms and shout 'GET AWAY CHICKENS!'" He grinned and nodded.

Little by little, I'm learning to prepare the boy for what may come; poultry and otherwise.

Casual Conversation

Subdued Mom — Thu, 09 Jul 2009 01:36:00 -0700

It was as simple as this:

We were lounging on the front porch of our friends' home, dining on fresh greens and thick, juicy steaks from the grill. Archie, sitting at a miniature table across from his buddy Eliot, carefully puts down his glass of milk, tilts his head slightly and says, "Eliot, what are you eating?" Eliot, busily chomping away, pauses, lifts his head to meet Archie's gaze and casually replies, "Meat."

It was a conversation. A bonafide exchange. Questioning and answering, call and response, relationship development.

We, the hapless parents, were blown away. After two years of our children crawling, discovering, playing, slobbering, tottering, crying, giggling and babbling in proximity to each other, they have finally passed over into the remarkable world of interaction.

Forgiveness

Subdued Mom — Thu, 07 May 2009 15:53:00 -0700

Child, I love you.

Child, my stern face

Hides the gushy mushy oozing grilled cheese

That is my heart.

Child, you laugh and I fly into the clouds.

Child, you hit my nose with a tiny wild fist

And it drains me -

Blood sucking down to my belly and shooting back into enraged cheeks.

Child, I'm mad.

Child, You're mad.

Mad mad mad.

And sad.

I set my jaw.

Your mouth opens into a wide, bawling scream.

Sorry, Child.

Sorry, Mama.

Have I Mentioned...

Subdued Mom — Tue, 28 Apr 2009 16:11:00 -0700

...that I love vegetables? Especially raw vegetables in the form of a big hurking salad. Not on a salad plate; I'm talking about plunging a fork right into the deep dish serving bowl. Drizzled with dark olive oil and splashed with lemon juice. And three (or seven) shakes of salt. And an obscene amount of cracked pepper. I have to remind myself to eat slowly. Because I shovel that mess down my throat. Shredded carrots. Tiny florets of broccoli and cauliflower. Peppers and purple cabbage and arugula and pickled beets and tiny beet greens and sure what the hell throw on some sprouts and cukes and tomatoes if they're fresh. Toss it up. It must be tossed. No room for negotiation on this.

Right. This is the kind of food obsession that influences my behavior in general and my parenting in particular. I cannot help but pin all of my hopes and dreams for a life of veggie-induced ecstasy on my one and only progeny. Or, said another way, I really want Archie to eat his vegetables.

So you can imagine the shriek of joy I barely managed to supress when he, on an otherwise uneventful Sunday, began digging on a pile of steamed broccoli as if it were the slow and thrilling discovery of a rare treasure. As I sat there eating my own broccoli heap and staring with a dumb grin on my face, I imagined his internal dialogue going a little something like this:

"What in the world..."

"Hmmm...Mom has a stupidly eager look right now, so this must be something strange tasting..."

"Well, I guess I'll put it in my mouth and see how she reacts..."

"Not bad, but I'm still keeping my eye on her. Something seems fishy..."

My god. Does this kid have any chance of being well-adjusted?

The Potty Training Epoch

Subdued Mom — Mon, 20 Apr 2009 06:37:00 -0700

It seems like centuries ago that we began our quest with Archer for this elusive state of being: potty trained.

It is with great ambivalence that I report (quite humbly) that the quest continues, ever and anon.

God help us.

The Fraud

Subdued Mom — Sun, 22 Mar 2009 03:09:00 -0700

Oh Geez. I am a shamelessly inconsistent blogger. Actually, there is shame. I feel ashamed. Beholden to by blog, I think of my last posting date and wince. How do people do this? Like this awesome blogger mom-chick-lady. And this one. Bless their unwavering ability to get something on the page on an even somewhat regular basis. Bless them for having opinions. Bless their wit. I come home from work, feed and water the kid, do a few meager crunches or a downward dog, and I am ready for nothing else but to drop onto my pillow and start all over again at the pre-light shock of my alarm.

Blog? Who needs it.

I do. Because I feel better now.

Signing off...

Casual Conversation

Subdued Mom — Tue, 17 Mar 2009 16:05:00 -0700

It was as simple as this:

We are lounging on the front porch of our friends' home, dining on fresh greens and thick, juicy steaks from the grill. Archie, sitting at a miniature table across from his buddy Eliot, carefully puts down his glass of milk, tilts his head slightly and says, "Eliot, what are you eating?" Eliot, busily chomping away, pauses, lifts his head to meet Archie's gaze and casually replies, "Meat."

It was a conversation. A bonafide exchange. Questioning and answering, call and response, relationship development.

Ode to January

Subdued Mom — Sun, 08 Feb 2009 15:45:00 -0700

New Year's Resolution way too ambitious and thus guaranteed to demoralize me,

Two early mornings at the gym and then I'm hitting snooze for the rest of the month.

Archie transitions to new childcare.

Day one: doesn't look back.

Day two: won't get out of the back of the car.

Day three: doesn't think I'm ever coming back.

Day four: Back to himself again.

Obama swears on Abe's bible. Hallelujah. Now save this freaking planet (please) and help me to keep my job, man!

Flight of the Conchords returns to television.

In-laws in-house weekly.

Nodes swollen

Superbowl Sunday big screen 40 people ungodly piles of meat.

Wait. Wasn't Superbowl in February this year? What is happening?

Still sick

More nodes popping out of my neck with infection

Mmmmm...massage.

Throat raw, nasal drainage.

Archie hasn't been sick for at least a week - that's nice.

Potty training backslide.

I've begun paying him for sitting on the toilet.

Pennies and nickels mostly.

A few quarters.

Is that bad?

Still sick.

It is February.

I'm still sick.

Return to the doctor tomorrow.

I am still sick, doc.

Bring it, Mr. Weatherman!

Subdued Mom — Thu, 18 Dec 2008 14:58:00 -0700

So you think you can intimidate us by coating the streets with slick snow and rendering our Ford Focus worthless? You think you can chap our faces until nothing but raw red streaks remain where our cheeks used to be? You want to break our wills by hitting us with single digit temperatures when we still don't have the insulation in upstairs?

You think you're tough, Bellingham weather?

HA!

We will sled, my good sir. We will sled.

My Buddy

Subdued Mom — Wed, 03 Dec 2008 07:47:00 -0700

After taking a weekend vacation with our good friends John and Colleen at Cultus Lake in BC, I realize - with utter clarity - the impact that Archer's little buddy Eliot is having in his life.

Let me set the scene: a late night arrival at the cabin whereby Archie has fallen asleep in the car. A seamless transition (he was already in pajamas - score one for mommy preparedness) into a pack'n'play in the upstairs spare room. Quiet. A jolting scream from thought-to-be-deep-in-REM-sleep child who awakens three hours hence in unfamiliar surroundings. A blissfully drowsy Eliot perks up from deep sleep to respond in kind from the next room. A groggy Archer hears said response and instantly flips attitude to one of playful intrigue. The following midnight dialogue ensues:

"Eliot?"

"Archer?

"Eliot..."

"Archer."

"Eliot! Eliot!"

"Archer!!!"

To and fro the conversation continued through the two thin walls that separated the boys. By four o'clock in the morning, Colleen and I shuffled past each other in the hallway, rubbing our eyes and shaking our heads in disbelief. The dirge-like call-and-response lasted nearly all night; neither child willing to give up the waking dream that they would be reunited for a midnight rendezvous to play and rejoice in each other's company.

First. Gulp. Haircut.

Subdued Mom — Mon, 10 Nov 2008 13:14:00 -0700

It was actually Phil who finally broke down:

"My god. I can't handle it. We need to cut that kid's hair."

After Halloween, when Archie vehemently refused his costume all day long and I was forced to throw his long, thin swath of hair into a ponytail and tell everyone he was going trick-or-treating as a little girl, the family made an executive decision:

Lose the mullet.

We anticipated lots of writhing and gnashing of teeth, but in the end it was a quiet Saturday morning after breakfast; we took the electric shaver to his head as he preened in the mirror with dispassionate curiosity.

And so the delicate wisps of spun gold that have tickled the neck of my child since he emerged from the womb now lay encased in a sandwich-sized Ziplock baggie, while the dapper little fellow who shed them bolts unencumbered into boyhood.

Daycare Dystopia

Subdued Mom — Sat, 04 Oct 2008 17:07:00 -0700

All of these many months of hand-wringing and despairing about the fruitless job search and suddenly: I get a job.

Gulp.

WHHHHAAAAAAAAAA!

I don't WAAANT to work from 8 in the morning until it's dark outside. I don't WAAANT to sit in meetings with colleagues and "collaborate" on upcoming events. And I REEEEEALLY DON'T WANT to be away from my precious baby boy for, well, most of his waking hours.

This was my mindset when I set out to secure a childcare "situation" that would allow me to return to work after almost two years of being out of the game.

Well. I quickly discovered that finding an open spot for a 19 month old in ANY daycare in Bellingham - let alone a good one - was akin to my own desperate quest for employment; namely, frantic and demoralizing.

I didn't really even know how to start. I asked around to friends. I asked a few strangers. I checked the boards at the Co-op. I surfed the web. I did Craig's List. I dropped in at preschools. Finally, someone told me about a service provided by the Opportunity Council, where you fill out a form with your name and child's information, as well as your childcare needs and preferences, and they generated this list of childcare providers that fit your criteria. Nice, eh?

So I get this list of about 18 places and start calling: "Sorry, I'm full for that age group." "Nope, we can't take anymore under two." "I can put you on our wait list." Hang up and repeat.

When I had dailed all the numbers, I had two leads. Two. Way out in the county.

Over the next day and a half, I got a few more returned phone calls and was able to visit a few places. Wow. Between the smoke-saturated furniture and television-as-the-main-learning-activity environments, I began to question the wisdom of returning to work.

There is a happy ending. We lucked out and found a solid program for Archie three days a week, and a nanny for one day, and a family member for one day. It ain't cheap. We're piecing it together for now. And we're on wait lists. Yes, I've joined the ranks of those modern bourgeois parents who get their kids on wait lists for programs, schools and activites so far in the future that they are inconceivable in our every day lives.

But if it means I'll stop bawling every time I think about sending my kid away for the day without me, it's totally worth it.

Bountiful Life

Subdued Mom — Mon, 15 Sep 2008 06:17:00 -0700

There are few things I find more delightful than my toddler chattering and dawdling around the garden.

Yesterday I was pulling weeds and he diligently gathered them into a bucket and dumped them on the compost pile. He did this for almost an hour.

And although I find it a little heartbreaking when he yanks my struggling tomatoes off the vine when they are still green, the pleasure smeared across his face when he finds and sucks juice from a perfectly ripened fruit brings me joy that is just simply off the charts.

The "Uncle Dawg" Blog

Subdued Mom — Sat, 23 Aug 2008 16:44:00 -0700

This is a tribute to all of those caring, engaged, lovely adults who are influencing my son. Sure, sure - he has four of the greatest grandparents ever to walk the earth, and aunties-to-die-for. But, above and beyond the above and beyond, he has this incredible community of nurturing, charismatic big people who are totally in his corner.

Take Rich Murray. He is our roommate. I call him King Richard because I am but a humble servant in the shadows of his tremendous generosity. Phil calls him "Daaaawwg" because, you know, he is a best friend. The guy you can count on. And now, he is inextricably a part of Archer's life. I couldn't be happier.

One of our first mornings together as new roommates, Rich began his morning oatmeal ritual, which involves stirring whole oats vigorously on the stove until boiling, then scooping two heaping mounds into a plastic dog dish (don't ask) and adding a thin layer of skim milk. But instead of wolfing down his portions as he usually does, he spun the dish around so that one side rested in front of Archer and...

...shared.

Baby Lifejacket

Subdued Mom — Sun, 27 Jul 2008 06:21:00 -0700

Before we left for our sailing trip I conducted exhaustive research on baby pfds, knowing that Archer would be living most of his days toddling around the open decks of our sailboat out in deep water. The less bulky and cumbersome the better, I thought, but of course it had to be the kind that righted him in the water if he happened to take a tumble into the open blue.

I found the most streamlined jacket on the market. I tested it in swimming pools. After some initial fuss, he took to it quite nicely. Outlook: hopeful.

Didn't really turn out. He hated every minute of being constrained in a life vest, aside from the one time he played so long on the beach in the hot sun that he fell asleep while his Grammy put it on him for the dinghy ride back to the boat.

So I resorted to limited use of the thing -- only during rocky seas and dinghy rides. I just couldn't bring myself to keep him locked up in this puffed up vest when it was 90 degrees and humid. We played on the boat and beaches sans restraint -- except for the occasional tightly held hand.

Now, back in Bellingham, Phil and I hope to start taking Archer canoeing, so we'll be revisiting the "battle of the baby pfd." Who knows, he might take to it quickly with more and more exposure. After all, he only whines occasionally when I put his bike helmet on him nowadays. Safety first -- ARGH.