Andrew the SuperBaby

Andrew has done several things to amaze me in the last week.  I keep reminding myself that he’s not even two years old yet!  Sure, he will be in a couple of weeks, but he’s not yet.  As the youngest, he seems to be growing up much more quickly than the rest.  Therefore the title of my post...I will call him a SuperBaby for these last couple of weeks before I have to admit that my SuperBaby has become a SuperBoy...


1) After dinner one night, Andrew was riding around on his little truck.  Damien looked over and saw that he had taken his sippy cup and purposefully poured some of the milk into the bottom compartment of the truck.  He said “Andrew, we don’t put milk in trucks.”  Andrew looked right back at him and said “Dada… milk truck!  Milk truck!”  He had made a milk truck…of course.


2) I often sing to distract Andrew from things like wiping him up after dinner, and I often change the words to make it more entertaining.  On a recent occasion, I was singing a song from his WaterBabies class.  Instead of “Fishies, Fishies, dive into the pool!”  I changed “Fishies” to “Andrew.”  He grinned, and it was several moments later when I realized that he had not only joined me in singing, but was making his own name changes.  He did a round of “Gooma, Gooma” (his word for Grandma) followed by “Ben, Ben,” and on to “Sophie, Sophie,” etc.  


3) At the breakfast table the other morning, with no prompting or example by his siblings, Andrew stood his nibbled-on piece of toast on end, looked at me proudly, and said “Boat, Mama, boat!”  There seems to be a transportation theme with his food these days.


4) Andrew asked for one of the special Cheerio snack balls I had made the other day.  Benjamin asked for a cracker.  After eating only a few bites of his snack ball, Andrew saw Ben’s cracker and started begging for one.  He adamantly repeated “Cracker!” while I continued to respond with my terms, that he could have a cracker after he had eaten his snack ball.  At one point I worded my explanation as “when your snack ball is all done.”  Andrew looked at me very seriously and said “Trash!”  Before I had a chance to react, he ran off and threw his snack ball in the trash can.  Then he came back and said “All done snack ball!  Cracker!”  What could I do?  I gave him a cracker.


5) At dinner last night, I glanced over at Andrew’s plate and noticed that the rigatoni I had made for dinner were the perfect size to fit right over the top of the straw on his straw cup.  The moment I thought it, he picked up a piece of rigatoni and slid it right over his straw.  It must be genetic.  (Okay, this last one’s not so amazing…but it is funny!)

The Notes

A few months ago, I was traveling for a few days while Damien and his dad took care of the kids.  One of the nights that I was away, Damien found the following note on his dresser:

(If you don’t read 6-year-old, it says “To Dad, I would like to talk to you.  Please answer.  Love, Sophia.”)

A puzzled Damien dutifully went to have the requested discussion.  It turns out that Sophie felt that her brother had been receiving more “opportunities” than she had over the past couple of days, and she wanted to express her frustration.  After Damien heard how she was feeling, he was able to address her concerns and they were both happy the next day.  When Damien reported all of this, I was extremely amused, but also amazed.  I mean, a note is a very healthy and constructive way to approach a problem...isn’t it?  


What I didn’t know is that there would be more…many more.  And they continue to evolve over time. Here is the version from two days ago:

(This one was hung on her dresser, so that he couldn't miss it when he tucked her in for bed.  Note the addition of the "Yes" or "No" checkboxes with smiley and frowny faces.)


And here is the version from yesterday:

(Translation:  “Daddy, I would like to talk to you!  Love, Sophie!  Yes = Happy/I love you!  No = Sad/I hate you.”  Also notice that the frowny face now sports angry hair.)  


(I know my mom is laughing as she reads this, and remembering the time that I expressed my anger as a child by writing a note that said “Dear Mom, I hate you.  Love, Lisa.”  “Love, Lisa” was the only way that I knew to end a letter!)


Each note has been followed by a discussion in which Sophie gives her dad her thoughts and suggestions on our family relationships.  One discussion revealed that she gets tired of us telling her what to do in the morning, and resulted in a list being posted in her room that she can follow to get herself ready for school. Another discussion involved her thoughts on how we could motivate her to get along better with her brother.  (We have yet to test those theories!)  


Interestingly, the notes are always addressed to her dad.  Perhaps because this whole thing started while I was away.  Perhaps because she has found it an effective way of communicating with him.   Or perhaps she has learned from experience that her mom is not terribly receptive to parenting suggestions at the end of a long day.  


All I know is, we haven’t seen the last of these notes.  And we are more than a little afraid…

Co-Parenting

Occasionally another parent with one or two children will ask me what it’s like to have three.  I could make many observations on this topic, and perhaps I will in future posts.  Last night I was reminded that with three children, my hold on authority has become much more tenuous.  Not just because chaos reigns at all times, but because the older children frequently attempt to assume the role of parent for their younger sibling.

Last night I came in from the laundry room, and immediately heard “Mom!  Mom, come here!”   I followed the sounds to the back room, and as soon as I came into view I heard both of the big kids saying “Mom!  Andrew hit a cat!  Andrew hit a cat, and he needs to go to time out!”  Benjamin added “Yeah, I told him to stay right there until Mommy or Daddy could deal with him.”

Sure enough, there was Andrew standing perfectly still with his back against the wall, as though in a holding center awaiting processing.  “Andrew,” I said, “Did you hit the cat?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you need to go to time out.”
 “Yeah.”  (Guilty grin.)

So I carted him off to the time out chair.  It just so happened that he had a half-eaten dinner roll in his hand at the time, and as we left the room I heard Sophie instruct “Make sure you take the roll from him before you put him in the time out chair!”

Sure, Sophie was bossing Benjamin around long before Andrew entered the scene.  She has always had parenting advice for me.  But somehow now that there are two “big kids” and one toddler, the older ones often slide into the roles of surrogate parents.

At times I appreciate the help.  Comments like “Mom, come quick!  Andrew’s on top of the piano!” or “Mom, come quick!  Andrew has your scissors!” are always welcome.

At other times it can be frustrating.  Such as “Mom, come quick, Andrew has a cord!” to which I respond “Just a minute!” because the cord in question is from a long-discarded baby monitor and is nowhere near an active outlet, and therefore the raw chicken on my hands seems like a far greater threat.   Since they have internalized that electricity is dangerous (Yay!  Parenting success!), in this situation they will continue to scream at me in increasingly panicked voices despite my assurances that I am aware of the situation, and my promises that Andrew will be okay.  They will be near hyper-ventilation by the time I get to them, at which point they have been known to chastise me for my lax parenting.  The phrase “I kept you alive all this time, didn’t I?” has been uttered on more than one occasion.  But the fact is that they simply don’t trust my parenting.  Needless to say, this is rather demoralizing.

Since they are so capable, I am sometimes tempted to turn over my parenting duties to the big kids.  It would be so nice to let them keep Andrew in check while I lay on the couch munching on bon-bons.  But I don’t.  Because deep down I know that if I were to validate their view of themselves as co-parents, my authority over them would be lost forever.  And let’s face it…there’s only room for one mom on this island.