Our son is a barfer. He's been called
Little Pukey
Barfosaurus Rex
Up-Chuck Charlie
Cookie Tosser
We had him referred to a paediatrician when he was about year old. He barfed every day -- usually multiple times, and we were concerned for his health.
No esophageal damage, no underlying conditions (other than food sensitivities and allergies to half the human diet). When we kept a food log for a month and took out all possible physiological reasons for the barfathon, it came down to something sinisterly simple: Little Man's barfing was *BEHAVIOURAL*.
Excuse me? Behavioural? How can a one year old even formulate behavioural actions? And why would he choose extreme barfing as his behaviour?
It was simple: he really, REALLY, REALLY loved his bath.
It was a conditioned response. Have dinner (or breakfast, or lunch, or look at a fallen cheerio on the floor) and the barfing would ensue. We'd clean him up, clean IT up, and pop him in the tub. Every time.
No wonder he's obsessed with water and is currently un-toilet-trainable (he's too obsessed with getting IN the toilet rather than making a deposit!). After unconditioning him to the barfing response, he eventually stopped his upchuck antics.
But he's still a Little Puker at heart. The servers at White Spot duck and hide when we enter their restaurant. Although we patronize the place far more than we (or our pocketbooks) should, I think he's only sunk his pirate ship twice. But, it's a small town and a small staff, and quite honestly, we would duck and hide, too, if we knew of his hidden talent!
Just last week he had a cough. Not a flu, nothing that bothered his stomach or anything. But given any excuse, Little Man will barf, so barf he did. Multiple times.
Thank God for hardwood. Curses on the builder who put carpet in HIS bedroom, though. Honestly, it's a nursery sized bedroom.... what were they thinking!?
Anyways, back to the best $179.00 investment we ever made: a powerful little carpet shampooer that does a bang up job of cleaning up after our Little Man.
If anyone else has a Barfer, I highly recommend it... looking back, we should have bought one a year ago!
Friday, October 30, 2009
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
The Advantages of Being an Overly Imaginative Adoptive Mom
Mother, it's best you don't read this entry.
.
.
.
.
.
.
I warned you, Mom.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Are you still here?? Okay, fine. Read it. But don't get excited.
.
.
.
.
.
I want another child. I want another sibling for my son, one he can share a toybox with and see on a daily basis. One he can share bunkbeds with, and play tag with, and fight over toys with, and destroy our living room furniture with. I want another kid around to love and smooch over, and take for walks and take to the park.
I don't mind the barfy nights and the fevers and the runny noses. I'm great at doing diaper duty, but it doesn't have to be another wee one this time.
Being an adoptive mom has its advantages when you lie awake at night imaging your next child. Unlike pregnant parents, the options are limitless. We're not stuck with the boring standard options gestating parents face: will it be a boy or a girl? Will they have mom or dad's eye colour? How much will they weight?
Booooooooooooring. My imaginative previews of my next child are far more exciting.
Will it be a boy or a girl? One of each? How about a sibling group or three or four or more? (Weee heee hee! I'm giddy already!)
Will they have blonde hair, brown hair, black hair, no hair? Will they have green hair or purple hair or stand out to here hair?
Will they like pizza or pasta or ice cream or cake?
Will they like riding bikes or swimming or will they like to bake?
I could lie awake forever thinking about the little personality(ies) that are just waiting to join our family.
It just feels like someone is missing, and I'm not sure if now is the right time or not, but my adoptilogical clock is TICK TICK TICKING away.
Mom, stop jumping up and down. Calm down. I warned you....
First I have to convince my husband. And that is no small feat. Yes, he's an awesome dad. Phenomenal. But he also has all those silly concerns that just don't seem to phase me.
"What about a room for the new child?" he will ask. "Well, helloooooooooo, bunk beds?"
"We don't have extraneous income, you know. We don't even have a second car." he'll point out.
"Well we got on fine with one car so far, what's another kid to throw in the mix? Hey, if we adopt a school aged child, he can help you carry the diaper bag when you're on the bus together!"
"Not funny," the husband will say.
"It wasn't supposed to be." I'll counter.
And at that point in the conversation, my husband will as usual trot out his standard response to my "let's have another child!" outburst.
"I'll be on the deck, ready to jump."
Really, honey. That phrase is getting old!! And so are we.... so about that second child..."
.
.
.
.
.
.
I warned you, Mom.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Are you still here?? Okay, fine. Read it. But don't get excited.
.
.
.
.
.
I want another child. I want another sibling for my son, one he can share a toybox with and see on a daily basis. One he can share bunkbeds with, and play tag with, and fight over toys with, and destroy our living room furniture with. I want another kid around to love and smooch over, and take for walks and take to the park.
I don't mind the barfy nights and the fevers and the runny noses. I'm great at doing diaper duty, but it doesn't have to be another wee one this time.
Being an adoptive mom has its advantages when you lie awake at night imaging your next child. Unlike pregnant parents, the options are limitless. We're not stuck with the boring standard options gestating parents face: will it be a boy or a girl? Will they have mom or dad's eye colour? How much will they weight?
Booooooooooooring. My imaginative previews of my next child are far more exciting.
Will it be a boy or a girl? One of each? How about a sibling group or three or four or more? (Weee heee hee! I'm giddy already!)
Will they have blonde hair, brown hair, black hair, no hair? Will they have green hair or purple hair or stand out to here hair?
Will they like pizza or pasta or ice cream or cake?
Will they like riding bikes or swimming or will they like to bake?
I could lie awake forever thinking about the little personality(ies) that are just waiting to join our family.
It just feels like someone is missing, and I'm not sure if now is the right time or not, but my adoptilogical clock is TICK TICK TICKING away.
Mom, stop jumping up and down. Calm down. I warned you....
First I have to convince my husband. And that is no small feat. Yes, he's an awesome dad. Phenomenal. But he also has all those silly concerns that just don't seem to phase me.
"What about a room for the new child?" he will ask. "Well, helloooooooooo, bunk beds?"
"We don't have extraneous income, you know. We don't even have a second car." he'll point out.
"Well we got on fine with one car so far, what's another kid to throw in the mix? Hey, if we adopt a school aged child, he can help you carry the diaper bag when you're on the bus together!"
"Not funny," the husband will say.
"It wasn't supposed to be." I'll counter.
And at that point in the conversation, my husband will as usual trot out his standard response to my "let's have another child!" outburst.
"I'll be on the deck, ready to jump."
Really, honey. That phrase is getting old!! And so are we.... so about that second child..."
Sunday, October 18, 2009
How to Tear Up in Twenty Seconds or Less
Little Man is finally getting to the stage where he can carry on simple conversations. They don't follow any set pattern, and are usually interrupted half-way through with whatever urgent need he might have, but we're getting somewhere.
After his bath this morning, Little Man asked to call Grammy's house and "talk to Meggy", his foster sister (foster aunt, I guess, now that he's moved home?). I explained that Meg was moving home to her forever family soon, and he wouldn't be able to call Grammy's house to talk to her anymore. (Meg is an infant, and doesn't 'talk' anyways, but the two enjoy exchanging giggles and coos.)
Little Man looked upset, and frowned for a minute. "Meg go home? No more Grammy?" I explained again "Meg is moving home to live with her mommy and daddy. But we can call to say good-bye today, and you can call Grammy any time you want to. Grammy will always be there. Just like momma and daddy."
"You me mommy." Little Man said firmly. "Love you for-ever." He commanded, quoting his favourite bed-time story.
"That's right," I said. I could feel the tears welling up already. "Would you like to hear your special story about how you came to join our family?"
Little Man loves stories. "Yay!" he clapped his hands "Special story, Momma!"
And so we talked -- for a record time, I think (about two minutes) about his birth mother, and the special plan she made, and how he went to live with his Grammy and Opa until Momma and Daddy could take him home to live forever.
By this time I had tears running down my face. I was a mess. Little Man, in all his angelic empathy, climbed in my lap and tried to wipe my tears away. (He succeeded only in poking me in the eye, but he meant well.)
"Is okay, momma." he said. "Have ice cream? Feel bebber?" He got an extra long snuggle for that one. And, I'm sad to admit, we shared a bowl of ice cream at 9:30 in the morning.
After his bath this morning, Little Man asked to call Grammy's house and "talk to Meggy", his foster sister (foster aunt, I guess, now that he's moved home?). I explained that Meg was moving home to her forever family soon, and he wouldn't be able to call Grammy's house to talk to her anymore. (Meg is an infant, and doesn't 'talk' anyways, but the two enjoy exchanging giggles and coos.)
Little Man looked upset, and frowned for a minute. "Meg go home? No more Grammy?" I explained again "Meg is moving home to live with her mommy and daddy. But we can call to say good-bye today, and you can call Grammy any time you want to. Grammy will always be there. Just like momma and daddy."
"You me mommy." Little Man said firmly. "Love you for-ever." He commanded, quoting his favourite bed-time story.
"That's right," I said. I could feel the tears welling up already. "Would you like to hear your special story about how you came to join our family?"
Little Man loves stories. "Yay!" he clapped his hands "Special story, Momma!"
And so we talked -- for a record time, I think (about two minutes) about his birth mother, and the special plan she made, and how he went to live with his Grammy and Opa until Momma and Daddy could take him home to live forever.
By this time I had tears running down my face. I was a mess. Little Man, in all his angelic empathy, climbed in my lap and tried to wipe my tears away. (He succeeded only in poking me in the eye, but he meant well.)
"Is okay, momma." he said. "Have ice cream? Feel bebber?" He got an extra long snuggle for that one. And, I'm sad to admit, we shared a bowl of ice cream at 9:30 in the morning.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Pirates in our Parkade Magically Make Tuesday into Monday.
Tuesday morning was one confused day of the week. We were attacked by the missing Monday that we THOUGHT we skipped over thanks to Thanksgiving. Nope. We were not spared. It was a Monday by all accounts:
I ran out of conditioner.
I nicked my knee with my razor.
I got a run in my stockings.
I burnt my tongue on my coffee... but not before I ran out of cream.
Despite the attack of the Mondays, we finally got organized, and our trio (hubby, toddler, and me) made our way down to the parkade.
That's when I noticed that pirates had struck.
"Uh, honey, where's our license plate?"
"What do you mean?" hubby asked, peering over the piles of lunch kits, diaper bag and favourite blankee. "Oh #*@#!)" he muttered.
It was gone. Not fallen off, not hanging off. Not lying conveniently on the floor. Just.... gone. Upon closer inspection, it was clear it had been pirated. There were fresh scratches on our bumper, and bits of residue left where the dealer's frame had once protected our $18 licence plate. (Actually, I suppose that it was only worth $9, but when you steal one, the other becomes useless...)
My instinct was to check the car to make sure it was locked & that nothing was missing. My husband's instinct was to inspect his motorcycle (which I affectionately refer to as his first wife) to make sure she was unharmed. Luckily for us both, the pirate's booty was limited to our rear licence plate.
I was actually a little annoyed that only our car was targeted. Our neighbours' two vehicles, and the piles of furniture our new neighbour had stored temporarily in the communal parkade remained unmolested.
Beasts.
I called the police station, which advised me I had to fill out a report.
Okay.
I dropped my husband at work, and went to take my son to his daycare.
Grandma's mini-van was not in the driveway.
Fantastic.
I checked my watch: we were half an hour later than normal. What day was it? Monday of course - oh, wait, it was Tuesday.... and on Tuesdays Grandma takes the kids out from 9 til whenever.
I know this.
But the attack of the Mondays and the pirates in my parkade made it slip my mind.
Okay, off to the insurance place. Tap my foot, wait for the doors to open. We are greeted by the mother of my friend from grade 6. Thankfully, she doesn't recognize me, as I'm at once both bewildered and irritable. (A dangerous combination.) Little Man finds an inkpad in 3.7 seconds. Blue faced (his) and red faced, (mine) I explain why I need new license plates.
"No problem, ma'am. We'll just need the police report number for the paperwork."
Back to the car we go. Shuffling papers, I curse under my breath. Curse in French a little louder for good measure. Find the scrap of paper I'd scribbled the number upon. Return to insurance office. Thrust paperwork towards agent. She smiles "and is this little man the registered owner of the vehicle?"
"No, stupid," I felt like saying. Instead I smiled "My husband's at work. We share the car and today I'm taking it."
"Oh, that's too bad," she said in the least authentic voice I'd ever heard. "He needs to come and sign the papers."
Two hours later, after dragging my husband away from his work, swearing on a stack of Yellow Pages that he was who he said he was (he didn't have any ID on him that day), returning my toddler to Grandma's house (who was as bewildered as I felt as to why we were so late!), I finally got on the road to go to work.
Our receptionist greeted me with a smile when I finally crossed the threshold to our office "Good morning, Sarah" she beamed. "How are you today?"
"Grumpy!!" I replied. "It's Monday!"
I ran out of conditioner.
I nicked my knee with my razor.
I got a run in my stockings.
I burnt my tongue on my coffee... but not before I ran out of cream.
Despite the attack of the Mondays, we finally got organized, and our trio (hubby, toddler, and me) made our way down to the parkade.
That's when I noticed that pirates had struck.
"Uh, honey, where's our license plate?"
"What do you mean?" hubby asked, peering over the piles of lunch kits, diaper bag and favourite blankee. "Oh #*@#!)" he muttered.
It was gone. Not fallen off, not hanging off. Not lying conveniently on the floor. Just.... gone. Upon closer inspection, it was clear it had been pirated. There were fresh scratches on our bumper, and bits of residue left where the dealer's frame had once protected our $18 licence plate. (Actually, I suppose that it was only worth $9, but when you steal one, the other becomes useless...)
My instinct was to check the car to make sure it was locked & that nothing was missing. My husband's instinct was to inspect his motorcycle (which I affectionately refer to as his first wife) to make sure she was unharmed. Luckily for us both, the pirate's booty was limited to our rear licence plate.
I was actually a little annoyed that only our car was targeted. Our neighbours' two vehicles, and the piles of furniture our new neighbour had stored temporarily in the communal parkade remained unmolested.
Beasts.
I called the police station, which advised me I had to fill out a report.
Okay.
I dropped my husband at work, and went to take my son to his daycare.
Grandma's mini-van was not in the driveway.
Fantastic.
I checked my watch: we were half an hour later than normal. What day was it? Monday of course - oh, wait, it was Tuesday.... and on Tuesdays Grandma takes the kids out from 9 til whenever.
I know this.
But the attack of the Mondays and the pirates in my parkade made it slip my mind.
Okay, off to the insurance place. Tap my foot, wait for the doors to open. We are greeted by the mother of my friend from grade 6. Thankfully, she doesn't recognize me, as I'm at once both bewildered and irritable. (A dangerous combination.) Little Man finds an inkpad in 3.7 seconds. Blue faced (his) and red faced, (mine) I explain why I need new license plates.
"No problem, ma'am. We'll just need the police report number for the paperwork."
Back to the car we go. Shuffling papers, I curse under my breath. Curse in French a little louder for good measure. Find the scrap of paper I'd scribbled the number upon. Return to insurance office. Thrust paperwork towards agent. She smiles "and is this little man the registered owner of the vehicle?"
"No, stupid," I felt like saying. Instead I smiled "My husband's at work. We share the car and today I'm taking it."
"Oh, that's too bad," she said in the least authentic voice I'd ever heard. "He needs to come and sign the papers."
Two hours later, after dragging my husband away from his work, swearing on a stack of Yellow Pages that he was who he said he was (he didn't have any ID on him that day), returning my toddler to Grandma's house (who was as bewildered as I felt as to why we were so late!), I finally got on the road to go to work.
Our receptionist greeted me with a smile when I finally crossed the threshold to our office "Good morning, Sarah" she beamed. "How are you today?"
"Grumpy!!" I replied. "It's Monday!"
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