Skip to main content

Joshua

Our son is shifting from formula to whole milk. This entails several adventures; for example, we're now meant to be "brushing J's teeth" on a regular basis.


J's pediatrician can say this with a straight face. She can also say: "Just pin him to the ground with your two knees; kneel over him. Then, while he is restrained, swipe a wet washcloth at his gums. That's all. Just get him in the habit."


An awkward silence follows. "Yes," I say slowly. "Yes, I'll definitely do that." When the topic comes up again, a few weeks later, I say that the teeth-brushing has been a triumph, and then I quickly change the subject.


Whole milk means occasional constipation. Joshua's face will get bright red, and he'll cry, in distress, as he tries to squeeze something out. My husband will become Florence Nightingale, showing deep empathy, recalling his own struggles with a "clogged system." ("Josh, I have BEEN THERE, man....") Marc will use J's thighs to draw circles in the air; this allegedly helps. Mashed-up pears materialize. Mashed-up apples.


My own approach is to turn constipation into a monster, a witch or sorceress, and to narrate a fictional battle with that being. Josh and his friend--Princess Aliyah--cross paths with the monster, sometimes in undersea chambers, and emerge victorious. By the time the story ends, Josh has often moved on to other thoughts, other challenges. (Often, not always.)


And, on that note.....Here are the good things we're reading:


*"Honey" (Keats, a sequel to "Leaves." A must.)

*"The Three Robbers" (Ungerer -- and each time I notice the beauty of the pictures and the black space more and more.)

*Pinkney's "Ugly Duckling," mainly for the bitchy cat who arrives halfway through. This cat berates the duckling/swan because he can't hiss. "You don't know how to hiss?" And of course the "duckling" struggles to respond.


Happy weekend to you.....

Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...
1 comment
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more