A Rose By Any Other Name

A variation on the imagination theme: The Mud Puddle prefers to be called by names other than his own.
And by names I mean cartoon characters, a female one to be specific.

It all started innocently enough, he spent the weekend with my parents (God bless them) and when we returned he was Dora, my mom was Boots, and my dad was Diego. Hee, hee isn’t that cute?

Well, it lasted longer than the weekend. I wound up being a lizard (Issa) and his dad is Benny (the bull/cow thing).

Daycare seemed understanding enough, they called him Dora, I called him Dora, my husband played along for a little while then decided to try and ‘talk him out of’ being Dora, using logic and reasoning. With a three year old. (I am laughing just typing this).

Scott told him that he couldn’t be Dora because Dora is a girl (we use the correct terminology to illuminate the differences between boys and girls none of this “who-who”, ‘sissy’, or ‘down there’ stuff. We use the WORDS people but I will spare you that here) and The Mud Puddle is a boy.

So my smart and cunning son took that information and instead of then calling himself by a boy’s cartoon name decided if he was Dora he needed to go to the bathroom with the girls at daycare. And asked to do so, politely of course.

(Please note: the look on my face upon hearing this went from shock to bewilderment, to hysterics – the good kind – in three seconds).

Daycare thought it was funny, I thought it was funny, Scott had no comment.

As will come as no surprise to those of you with children, he eventually stopped being Dora and decided to be Diego (They are cousins – the Mud Puddle imparts this information every time we discuss the two of them). I get to be Dora. Which is WAY better than being that lizard.

So driving in the car we are talking about the sun and where it goes at night (China is my answer) and other important things when out of NO WHERE I am informed: Diego has a (insert scientific term for male organ here).
Surprisingly, I kept the car on the road. And responded calmly, that yes, he does have that.

I don't remember this chapter in the eight baby books I read.
We are off the map people (Dora pun intended).

People let me tell you 'bout my best friend...

"The Courtship of Eddie's Father" - best tv dad ever. (I know, the argument can be made for Mr. Brady of “The Bunch” fame, but when you know all that went on behind the scenes it ruins the mystique for you).
Bill Bixby (pre-gamma rays and Lou Farigno bust outs) was an awesome dad. Flawed, funny, and first and foremost Eddie's dad. (Suspend the disbelief with the phat NYC penthouse and the Asian housekeeper/babysitter for a second). I saw an interview with the kid who played Eddie who said that Bixby was a father figure to him – that caring was genuine.

The Mud Puddle is very lucky to have a similar and in fact better Father. Scott was awesome out of the gate. Days after the Mud Puddle was born, I was all doped up, stapled up and barely walking, he was changing diapers and sleeping on a pull out chair, and not complaining a bit.
When I got a little better I was skeeved out by the belly button thing (and of course, it came off on my watch. Grossest moment as a parent thus far) and the circumcision, and he changed the dipes like he was born to do it.

He is the kind of dad that isn't embarrassed to dole out kisses, or read bedtime stories, and he is a much better disciplinarian than I am. And were it not for him the Mud Puddle and I would never get out of bed in the morning (not that I am necessary thanking him for THAT).

When I look back on these first three years I count myself lucky that I had a partner in crime that was so willing to step up to the plate in the parenting department. The Mud Puddle is definitely better for it, and I am proud of both of them for the father and son that they are. I know as The Mud Puddle gets older he will realize how good he has it, especially when he looks around at the other ‘fathering techniques’ out there.
I know some dads who are very ‘hands off’ when it comes to the kids. Forget diaper changes let alone cuddling on the couch or playing on the floor. Scott had passed the dad audition by being a great uncle to the nephews and niece he has. He was always very comfortable around them and it was good training for his Daddy Days.

They do occasionally wreak havoc as most fathers and sons are wont to do. I find myself saying more often than I like “quiet down, both of you” usually in a public place and usually after four or five ‘looks’ from other people (when someone figures out how those people who live in their own worlds with their screaming kids and their failure to yield manage it, can you send me the recipe??). But I would rather they gang up on me then not enjoy each other’s company.

The Mud Puddle and his dad are buddies and I count myself lucky that I am the side kick (and sometimes cop) to this dynamic duo.

All Growed Up

For the uninitiated into the world of parenting – I present to you this staggering figure: from birth ‘til the age of 3 a single child will need to have 6,570 diapers changed. No, I didn’t make that number up and I would say the actual number is probably higher than that. But it makes my point.
When your child is potty trained, it is a liberating experience for all involved.
No more diapers, wipes, genies, pull-ups, snapped-leg pants. On the other hand it also means your child is officially no longer a baby.
The Mud Puddle has made it to Big Boy Land. Now I am happy for him and so proud that when he was ready he just did it (future Nike spokesman perhaps), there has not been an ‘accident’ since Friday night. Dry pants for almost a week. I had no idea that was even possible.
On the other hand… he is a big kid, a toddler, a pre-schooler - not my baby is what I am trying to say.
Another apron string snipped.
Now anyone who knows me knows I am happy with the one I have and want no more but it is a little sad to turn this page.
He was a fun baby, very happy and silly and just everything I could want in a child but I could have wallowed in babyland with him a little longer.
Because I know full well that the further we move away from birth, the less he will need me and the closer he will get to being an independent person.
All of this from a pair of size 2T Nemo underwear? Yes, the milestones that make the montage video (birth, first step, graduation, wedding, etc) are the ones we expect to become verklempt about. But there are emotional land mines, the little incidents and events that sneak up on you and pierce you right in the mommy spot in your heart. And there is no defense, no shield of armor you can don to protect yourself.
I love him more everyday and am sure I will grapple the rest of my life with his need to fly and my need to hold him close. Cue Whitney Houston, and batten down the hatches, it should continue to be an interesting ride.

Imagine Monsters

So the Mud Puddle is at that age (which, oh by the way, TOTALLY snuck up on me) where he has started imagining things.
There are times as a parent that you brace for, the first time they see a clown or a person dressed up as something else (Santa Claus or an Acorn in our case), the first time they go to the movies or an amusement park. How will they react? What will happen? Shyness? Smiles? Screams of Terror?
Imaginary friends (or foes) was one of the items on my Bracing for It list.
We have friends whose daughter is one of the sweetest, smartest children I know. When she was three and started having imaginary friends they were dragons, and she would work herself into a frenzy. SCREAMING when she 'saw' them in the kitchen or the bathroom. Haley Joel Osmet via the Sixth Sense had nothing on her. She didn't see dead people but boy those dragons were real to her.

So fast forward to the Mud Puddle, how would he react? What kind of substance would I need to start abusing to get through this?
Luckily, he is very matter-of-fact about his imaginary animals. He 'saw' one the other day.
"Mommy, there is a monster."
"Where, over here? What color is it?"
"Lellow"
"What should we do with it, monsters aren't allowed in the house. Should we put it outside?"

I guess I could have let him stomp it, like he does with ants, but some of my buddhist phase must have stuck with me when it comes to monsters (were it not for my love of shoes, purses, and all things Ann Taylor I could have lived out my days barefoot on a mountain meditating and loving fleas) so we put it out on the lawn. It seemed to fit into his hand which must mean it is a small monster.

And it hasn't shown up since that initial sighting, but I am sure this is just the tip of the iceberg.
I had a gang of animals that lived in the bathroom and kept me company (and told me to lock the door that didn't have a key and required my father to climb a ladder and come in through the window - on the second floor - and yes, this happened more than once).

Parenting, in my rookie estimation, is a series of bracing for the worst, hoping for the best and just improvising no matter which way the tide turns.
And being sure to document it all for future blackmail purposes.