My Purple Hayes Daze

Why do children’s books begin to lose their magic by the third go-round?  It has to be more than just that nagging never-ending to-do list we try to squeeze in between tucking baby away and the end of the day.  Or perhaps it is because our books just aren’t fancy enough.  Like Dr. Seuss’s ABC book–a ridiculously long children’s favorite that also happens to be merely two dimensional.

Well, finally someone–a French someone by the name of Marion Bataille–has beat the innovative, creative-types to the chase and won a place in the hearts of parents and children alike with ABC3D.  Good thing, it’s not available for sale until October, because that gives me enough time to figure out if this is really a children’s book.

I could risk becoming one of those parents who co-opts her child’s toys.  You know the kind of parent who uses their child as an excuse to buy something they really want for themselves.  And when the time comes and the child actually wants to play with the toy, he simply cannot.  Or I could publicly admit that I want it for myself.  Because this is truly a very cool book–one that, should I decide to purchase, neither Hayes nor any of his grubby-fingered friends dare not touch.

Help!  Hayes is doing that little-kid thing where he asks for e-ver-y-thing he sees on TV.  And, truth be told, it’s driving me absolutely crazy.

Rather than say yes or no, I decided to approach the whole thing from a different perspective.  I thought to implant the message that he not always rely on someone else to give him the things that he wants.  So now, every time he asks me if I will buy him whatever is being marketed on the TV commercial he happens to be watching, I tell him that I won’t, but that he can take joy in buying it for himself someday.

Clearly, I have issues.  Because the problem is that Hayes is three years old.  And of course, he has to depend on me to give him the things he wants.  And while he will someday have plenty of money, and do with it whatever he wishes, I do not mean to send the wrong message.

But when the day comes that he finally is able to buy his own things, I fear I might have a monster to contend with.  Because what am I going to do if he feels entitled to purchase all the crazy things he will want, and actually be able, to buy rather than empowered to do so?  What then can I say?  On second thought, what now?  What should I say now to prevent a potential disaster?

Cue the banana peel… I’m going down!

Anyone who knows me well, knows that I am unabashedly self-absorbed.  (Some would say it’s part of my charm).  However, I recently had a breakthrough not-so-self-involved moment.  So what that it lasted all of five seconds.  I’m just proud to say it was my little Hayes who got me there.

It happened at a neighborhood coffee shop, where I sipped sweet iced tea from a straw.  Hayes sat across from me blowing bubbles into his.

Allow me to interject that Hayes and I go all out with the antics at home.  And there are only a few behaviors reserved especially for the public.  Not blowing bubbles into our iced tea is one of such behaviors.  But when I reminded Hayes of this, he complied only briefly.  Then he continued blowing hot air into his tea cup.  Since he decided to (1) ignore me and (2) continue to be rude after being told not to do so, I decided to (1) remind him that there are consequences for such actions and (2) deliver the message clearly and succinctly.  I told him that if he did not immediately stop, I would take the cup away and he’d be left with…nothing.

It was in the five seconds after I spit out those words that the breakthrough happened.  In an attempt to uphold the rules and regulate behavior, I spoke with absolutely no regard for my three-year-old’s fragile feelings.  I wanted so badly to take back what I said.  And I tried to make it all better with a heartfelt apology.  But it was too late.  Hayes began to cry.  And when I asked him to explain the tears all he said was, “I’ll…have…nothing!”  He was crushed.  And it was my selfish fault.

But still I’m proud to say that he got me to a place where I could clearly see that I often speak from my position only.  And for all of five seconds, I was totally there.

We poor mothers!  From the time baby arrives, we are constantly running.  We are so incredibly busy with the child rearing, the jobs, the significant others, and the never-ending to-do list, that we stress so much about getting everything done and often forget to take time out to do some of the most basic things for ourselves, right?  Like brushing our teeth.  Well, actually that’s wrong.  According to my dentist, that’s probably not the reason why I had to get yet another cavity filled today.

I swear, I never had the slightest hint of a cavity before giving birth.  Now all of a sudden, I seem to have a new one every time my dentist sees me.  What’s crazier is that when I told my dentist about how I have been so busy being a mom that I cannot seem to ever get with the full-on brush-and-floss-after-every-meal-or-at-least-rinse dental program, she shed some very interesting light on the subject:

Studies show that hormone changes during pregnancy can negatively affect the gumline and contribute to tooth decay.  Furthermore, stomach size decreases as our unborn baby increases in size.  And to compensate, frequent small meals and sugary snacks sustain us throughout the last trimester.  These are oral changes that can reverse once our baby is born or they can create a snowball effect and continue long after pregnancy.

And here I was, thinking that I just needed to pay more attention to myself. (You know, a few more pedicures, another pair of skinny jeans and perhaps one of those sleek, expensive toothbrushes).

Alas, I stand corrected.

Do you remember the surreal moments in the very beginning, when your first, new bundle of joy slept so silently in the other room that you actually forgot you even had a baby?  Or the time you vowed you would never allow your child’s toys to take over your adult living space?  Well, here you are now.  And you cannot even fathom ever forgetting that your child is here too.  And the freaky new thing is that she’s with you even when she is not actually with you.  Like the times you go blindly searching for the loose change at the bottom of your purse and instead grab seashells and twigs from the collection of random objects your child has found a nice home for in what you once coveted as your personal space.  These are the unexpected moments that remind you that you are a parent.  I, too, have many of these moments.

Recently, walking down the street, I noticed a humongous praying mantis at my feet just as I almost stepped on it!  (Allow me to insert here how freaky it is to see a giant praying mantis on a New York City sidewalk).  And what was I thinking?  Well, all fright aside, I found myself thinking of my kid, of course.  I could not help thinking of how cool Hayes would find this.  I even had the nerve to look through my purse for something in which to contain the praying mantis, just to show my kid.

There was a time when I would not have given a second thought to that praying mantis, other than how I would have managed to get it’s smashed carcass off of the bottom of my shoe.  It amazes me how the transformation from then to now happens right under our noses without our even being aware of it.  But I suppose that’s one of the beautiful and easy things about being a parent.

I’m totally convinced that nothing makes it harder to be a parent than television commercials.  It’s not the over-the-top sensationalism or the constant promotion of instant gratification.  It’s really that they are saturated with all of our cultural and societal crap that kids–and some adults, for that matter–just don’t understand.

Recently, in the middle of my weekly Run’s House-induced escape from reality, a commercial for the upcoming MTV video music awards was on just as Hayes walked into the room.  Of course, he got there just in time to catch a glimpse of the famous Britney and Madonna kiss, and he’s been talking about girls kissing girls ever since.

This is the part where I wish I could magically jump into the future and really weigh my options.  Who knows the impact this kind of introduction will have on the person he will become?  That a choreographed pop star publicity stunt is the unfortunate basis upon which Hayes’s ideas about sexuality is being formed says a lot about how culture is produced in the society we live in.  I’d much rather that his ideas be formed by reality.  Because neither Britney nor Madonna are truly invested in the roles they are portraying.  They don’t give a second thought to how developing young minds will process and later internalize their calculated efforts.

These days, conversations with Hayes usually go one of two ways; either he responds to whatever I say with a defiant “No, Mommy!” Or else whatever I say ends up being translated into three-year-old-jargon and repeated to someone who was never a part of our original conversation.  Thankfully, this usually happens with the people that Hayes and I know and love and speak to everyday.  But every now and then, it involves a total stranger who, no doubt, walks away from the encounter thinking I’m a jerk.

The last time this happened was after a conversation Hayes and I had about how he was not getting a pair of those God-awful Croc shoes.  You know, the plastic shoes every single child and their mother on the playground has.  I understand the functional factor here but, they can really ruin a good look.

Recently, a pair that a little boy wore to the park caught Hayes’s attention.  He got very excited and ran directly over to the boy whose mother was also standing nearby.  Hayes pointed to the little boy’s Crocs and said, “See Mommy, they’re not ugly.”  This presented a slightly awkward moment that I cleverly smoothed over with a quick lie, “No, the camouflage pair isn’t ugly, my love.”  But, of course, Hayes took the opportunity to beg me for a pair right on the spot, creating a slightly more awkward moment.  That’s when the little boy’s mother attempted to convince me of the amazing shoe investment that a pair of Crocs is.  They’re comfortable, the kids can put them on in mere seconds all by themselves, blah, blah, blah.  She had me confused with someone who cares more about function than form.  I felt the need to make myself clear.  So I launched into a brief explanation about how the smaller sizes can be kind of cute, but the overall design is so unattractive that they just become unwearable.  Since she had nothing to say after that, I was pretty happy with how I diplomatically countered her assumptions of me.  That is, until I walked away and noticed that she was also wearing a pair of those God-awful Crocs too.  Yikes!

Ok, I’m no Paris Hilton, but I think the science book Hayes found at a neighborhood flea market is just plain hard.  It’s not the vocabulary, it’s the content.  It’s The Magic School Bus.

Anyone remember The Magic School Bus?  (cricket. cricket).  Ms. Frizzle?  (cricket. cricket).  PBS in the ’80’s?

I know.  It’s been a while since I’ve thought about science too–which is exactly why I bought the book…  Well, and because Hayes wasn’t taking no for an answer.  Kid’s will definitely make you pay for your sanity.  But I digressed.

Hayes and I do a lot of cool covert science things like cooking and…let me see…does gardening count?  Is that science?  Well, my point exactly.  I don’t really do science.  But I do understand that science is important.  And just because I may not be knowledgeable enough to always point it out, ignorance doesn’t get me off the hook.  Hayes has got to learn about science and I’m the parent who must introduce it to him.

You know the story line: Ms. Frizzle takes her class on a science adventure on the magic school bus that, this time, turns itself into a steam shovel and digs way into the earth.  They learn about rock layers, fossils, stalagmites, stalactites, metamorphic rocks, ingenious rocks, composite volcanoes, and all that other seriously hard science stuff that I just don’t do!  Enough.  Cut to the video before I panic…

image by PETAKiDS.com

Let’s just lay it all out on the table; I am vegan by choice.  And Hayes is vegan because I am his mom.

The decision was simple.  I will teach him to be responsible for what he consumes, for our environment and for the care of animals who cannot advocate for themselves.  And then, when he becomes a teenager and decides to throw all that I have taught him out the window, guilt will eventually drive him back to what he knows is right.  Really, it’s all a mother can hope for.

I must admit, rearing a vegan child is not always easy.  There are those inevitably tricky moments when his friends’ birthday cake is not from a vegan recipe and when Hayes is the only kid stuck with a plate of fries to fill his belly at Chuck E. Cheese.  Those are the moments that I hope are fleeting in his memory.  The ones that will not leave too permanent a mark on his psyche.  And just when I am convinced that it will be years before I will know if he understands it all, a small glimmer of hope:

The other day, he turned to me after a fast food commercial and confidently stated, “We don’t eat that.”

Aaaagh…  The power of brainwashing!

There’s no reality check quite like the hint of autumn at the close of summertime.  The way my skinny jeans no longer make me appear overdressed is a jarring reminder that the season is almost over but the to-do list is not even complete.  It means that Hayes has not yet enjoyed every experience I have planned.  So, in my haste to make the most of the summer’s last days, I decided that Hayes and I would bake cookies–not exactly a warm weather activity, I know.  But this is the type of decision I make when I panic.

Whizzing through the cupboards, I noticed we had all the ingredients for perfect peanut butter cookies–except for the white sugar and baking soda that I promptly added to the grocery list growing on the refrigerator door.  Determined to continue on with the plan, I ordered Hayes to grab his shoes.  We were off to the store.  Two hours later, I returned exhausted.  Two hours after that, Hayes had to remind me of my plan.  And as I gathered the ingredients for our end-of-summer activity, I realized we had only a half-a-cup of flour with which to make perfect peanut butter cookies.  I could have screamed.  I could have cried.  I could have thrown a major temper tantrum about the whole thing.  Of course, in hindsight, I could have just gone to the corner store for more flour.  But I was exhausted, and clearly a little out of it, because I continued without so much as a thought of going for more flour.  If half-a-cup of flour was all we had, then half-a-cup worth of cookies we would make.  And it made us eight little perfect peanut butter cookies.

That night, Hayes ate one.  I devoured six and saved the last one for his school lunch.

The next day, the cookie returned the only uneaten snack in Hayes’s lunchbox.  And when I asked him why, he told me that it tasted bad.  My first thought was that something went wrong with the recipe.  And I realized that was definitely the case when I tried the cookie again, this time with a fresh perspective.  But in hindsight, something was wrong with the plan from the very beginning.  So I tossed the last not-so-perfect peanut butter cookie in the trash and decided that I had learned a pretty important lesson…at least until next summer.  In the meantime, I should teach him to never insult a lady’s cooking.