Trick or Treat

Last Halloween, Little Man was a wee four month old who cried every time someone knocked on our door. We spend the majority of the evening in the bedroom closet at the back of the house, playing with Glowie the Worm and waiting the trick or treaters out.

This year, Husband and I watched with joy and pleasure as our chubby Little Man ran after his older buddies, his little felt Halloween bag clutched in one hand and a bite-sized kit-kat in the other. He was thrilled to be out in the cool, dark air, and bravely stomped up to each house we approached. He got the hang of holding his bag out halfway through the night so people could drop candy in it. And he took great pleasure (and his sweet time) picking out exactly which piece he wanted when someone held a whole bowl of candy out to him. He showed a definite preference in those bitty kit-kats--they seemed just right to fit in his hand, and had the right feel to be chewed on, although as soon as he broke the wrapper with his teeth he would hand them off to me. Apparently even toting a bag of free candy around wasn't enough to envoke a sweet tooth.

It was a busy day for Little Man...not only did he hike around a neighborhood with a black kitty cat and a dragon, but he spent the afternoon traipsing around our town square, collecting candy from the small business owners and checking out all the other kid's costumes.

And what was Little Man dressed up as, you ask?

He made the perfect Charlie Brown, right down to the patch of curly hair on top of his head. I'll always have the sweet image in my head of Little Man squealing with delight as the leaves crunched under his feet, running down hills as fast as his little legs could carry him, and peering into his bag to see what was inside.

I'd say our first "real" Halloween was a success.

It's Not Easy Being Green

When green is all there is to be
It could make you wonder why, but why wonder why?
I am green and it'll do fine, it's beautiful!
And I think it's what I want to be.
--Kermit The Frog

I have a problem that most parents dream about.

Little Man has never cared for sweet things--his first birthday cupcake never touched his lips. Pureed peaches and berries had to be coaxed into his mouth with endless rounds of "The Wheels on the Bus". Recently, he turns up his nose to his favorite staples like apple sauce and baby yougurt. What does he want?

Green stuff.

Broccoli, spinach, peas--all things green go down with smiles, clapping of chubby little hands and not even a whisper of what the horn on the bus does. He doesn't mind cauliflower, either. He'll eat those greens three times a day if I let him. He never seems to get tired of them. So I've been branching out, experimenting with edamame, kale, and other obscure green veggies. He eats combos that even most adults would hide in their napkin.

Every now and then I'll slip in a fruit--a spoonful of applesauce or pear into his beloved greens. As long as the ratio is tipped in the veggie's favor, he doesn't seem to notice. But if the sweet taste breaks through? Baby food everywhere. He is not easily tricked.

And who am I to complain, really? I'll ride the green wave as long as I can. Because, as Kermit wisely said: "I'm green and it'll do fine."

Having a Baby Changes Everything: Travel Edition

You'd think that by now, 15 months into parenthood, I would completely understand how utterly your life changes when you have a baby. And yet, I am still reminded often that having a baby really does change everything.

Our family is wrapping up our vacation season--we always travel in the fall before the hustle and bustle of the holidays, and we just returned from a trip to the beach to visit Godmother Doctor. It was Baby's First Beach Trip, and our first time traveling without Husband.

I have always loved the beach--I love the smell of the air, walking in the tide, and the relaxed atmosphere. And, as I'd hoped, Little Man loved all these things as well--only we replaced relaxed atmosphere with a non-stop energy that started before 5 AM ("Mama! Mama! Football!") and didn't end until Little Man was so tired he literally fell asleep sitting up.

In past years, one of my favorite things to do was to stroll the beach at night. There's nothing like a moonlit beach. I would sit on the balcony and write, letting my imagination spread out in all the room that the sea offers. I woke early and read books and watched the sun come up, and took long afternoon naps while the sun was at its peak.

This year? One night, I was in bed before 9 PM. Oh, I was still up before the sun--but I was dozing sitting up on the couch while my son drank milk from his sippy cup and sat riveted in front of The Mike & Mike Show on ESPN (his morning routine at home with Husband). I read approximately 1/4 of a magazine during the trip.

I find myself in need of a vacation to recover from my first travel season as a parent. If I thought finding time for myself at home difficult, I found it practically impossible to do so on vacation.

But traveling with my kid has a lot of perks, too. Like watching my fearless kid go running into the surf (and fractically running after him). Or sitting in the sand and building a castle and not worrying about getting dirty. Or crouching down way low to examine the shells that wash up on the beach. Everything is an adventure to him--exploring a hotel room, taking a bath in a different bathroom, being allowed to eat sitting on a grown-up chair (this was a particular thrill to him, as he is already trying to grow up too fast).

Some changes I anticipated, some I did not. But I wouldn't want it any other way. After all, I got my money's worth on this beach trip--and I had a really good excuse to play in the sand.

Growing Teeth is Nasty Business

To the casual observer, it looks like our home has been attacked by a ferocious new puppy. There are toys everywhere, bits of fluff hiding in the corners, and teeth marks in the strangest places--on the corner of the entertainment center, on the rung of the chair, on the window ledges.

But all our dogs are far past the chewing stage. No, it's not a puppy--it's our very own Captain Teether, armed with 7 teeth and three or four more on the way. He's got about a 35 inch range if he streches up on his tiptoes, which means nothing is safe from the drool factory that is his mouth. It means most things on our desks, dressers and the edge of the table are fair game to be tested on those teeth, and if he finds something that is satisfying to chew on--just the right size, yields just the right amount--woe be the person who has to get it back from him.

He chews on his crib bars, he chews on wash cloths, he chews on car keys, he chews on toes (his and ours). He'll give anything a try--he's an equal opportunity teether. He especially likes to sink his teeth into the soft spot between my shoulder and my neck, prompting the never-ending chorus of "give kisses, not bites!". I try not to react when he bites me--because then it becomes a game--but I had to admit I've given a squeal or two when he sinks those chompers into my leg.

But who can blame him? I'd want to chew on something too, if I were him. He can be downright pitiful. He walks up to me, his little feet thump-thumping on the floor, and points to his mouth.

"Uh!" He says, then takes my finger and leads me to where his baby tylenol is kept, sits and opens his mouth.

So I'm patient with him, because growing teeth is nasty business. Patient even when he leaves teeth marks on the bedroom door. Or one of his books.

Or, you know, me.