Call It What You Want...

Mark’s first visit to the buffet was very successful, especially in terms of value and quantity. After strapping the boy into his high chair, he was treated to a plate full of delicious samplings from the buffet.

He got 3 slices of peach, a slice of pear, 2 helpings of macaroni and cheese, ¼ c. shredded cheese, 1 whole roasted sweet potato, green beans, watermelon, spaghetti pieces, candied yam and apple, and two crackers.

He happily sat in his chair, tucking away the food, eating with two fists, shoving it in before he’s finished with the last fistful of food.

He ate with glee.

He ate with gusto.

He ate with great gastronomic gladness.

The second visit (the next day) was also a success.

He had peaches again, pears again, a big scoop of macaroni and cheese, more shredded cheese, another whole sweet potato, spaghetti with sauce, peas (most of them got dropped beside the chair or on the table beside the plate), and a few slices of beets. And crackers again. And a bite of banana pudding, with which he was not impressed.

The next time they see us coming, they’re going to take down the sign that says that kids under 3 eat free.

Off I went, leaving Tim to tuck Mark into bed, going to the store to buy milk. We were out.

No one joked (in my hearing) "I wonder how many bags she'll come back with."

No bets were taken on how many extra things I would return with.

No one even checked to make sure my alphabetized and categorized collection of coupons was at hand.

But the diapers were on sale, in addition to the coupon I had, and if I bought them (for more than a couple dollars off), I also got a free bottle of baby lotion, which is good because Tim just tossed out the original bottle we got as a shower gift from Ericka, Mel, Mer, Laura, and whomever else was involved.

And I really like the Dove products (in the health and beauty aisle, not the chocolate one, though I like those, too), and when you get a reputable deodorant (that actually works) for $1, that's always swell.

And I used a coupon for the baby snacks (also on sale besides) and then on top of that got a register coupon for the same on my next purchase of them. Can't beat that with a stick, huh, dad?

And peaches were on sale and so was the milk and the 6-pack of RC (see, Tim got something out of the deal, too).

The only difference between me and the Great Shopper is that everything I bought, we'll use. I bought no Fish Sauce, no grape leaves, no indeterminate canned item. Nothing had the price written on it in magic marker. And nothing seemed to be dented, already opened, or past its expiration date.

And I don't actually have a sorted coupon collection. Just a handful from my pocket.

We have returned, mostly unscathed, from a trip to the Chikking Wranch to visit the recently unappendicized Grandma Sarah and the Happy Chikking Wrancher himself, Grandpa Laryy. A certain boy had a wonderful time exploring new toys that Grandpa Laryy finds on his garage sale safaris, and he got a big kick out of doing things that made Grandma sigh over his cuteness and having Grandpa roll around on the floor with him.

Travel, we have learned, is not what it used to be. Gone, I presume, are the days when our biggest worry on a trip to visit one set of parents or the other was the fact that the stupid Burger King didn't give me my fries and we're already back on the interstate and I was hungry and really looking forward to them or the fear that Iowa -- or southern Indiana -- would stretch on F-O-R-E-V-E-R. Now, it's going to be making it there and back with our sanity intact... and a boy who's not traumatized.

This afternoon, after lunch and some extra play time for the boy with grandma while the parents packed, we set off for home. There were no open eyes in the backseat by the time we passed through the "congested area" of 416 and got onto the Pennyrile, heading north. He slept for a good hour and woke hungry during our stop in Washington for ice cream and bathrooms. So Dad got ice cream while Mom fed the kid. We had a good diaper change and a walk around the car, and we were off again, but he was finished sleeping, and we had miles to go before any of us would sleep again.

After another half an hour or so, the poor bored child got his friend, the pacifier, which he sucked on and played with and talked to on and off for the rest of the trip. This wasn't always enough, though. We stopped in Martinsville to give him dinner, but by the north side of Indy, he was cranky again. Holding hands with Mommy was just the answer, but the elbow does NOT comfortably bend in that direction for some 20 miles. It just doesn't.

Finally home, we rethink our strategy in consideration of a forthcoming (and yet to be scheduled) trip to visit the grandparents who reside a bit further than 5 hours away. More stops. Some new toys to introduce throughout the trip -- and ones that aren't easily dropped down on either side of the seat. Companionship in the seat beside him on occasion. More stops.

But this isn't as bad as I am sure it will get. I can remember a few choice incidents from my own past that will most likely return to haunt me...

1. Hello McDonald's!!!!!... Bye bye, McDonald's (in mournful voice). (An occurance that the chikken wrancher claims to have no memory of)
2. Jenny tries to read in the car to pass the time like her brothers.
3. Macon Bacon

Add your travel nightmares/warnings here.

That list of Firsts has another addition:

First Bumped Head

I imagine Mark will soon look like Uncle Bumped-Head (I mean Brian), but for now, he has had his first head injury. In using the entertainment center lower door for a standing-tool (not terribly effective as it is a flat surface and gives nothing to grasp), he lost his balance and slipped, bumping his little noggin on the door, and yielding a little bump that will probably be a bruise. Poor little dude.

Add to this the facts that

• He missed his morning nap; rather, he took it, but spent the entire hour talking to himself, playing with bed accessories, and in general amusing himself;
• It was past his usual afternoon naptime, but he hadn't been put to bed yet because he was playing so happily;
• He has a rather congested nose;
• He had a poopy diaper; and
• His entire front upper half -- shirt and overalls front -- was soaked through from drool

and you have a very unhappy boy. However, washing the food residue off his face and head to find the bump also allowed him to play with a wet washcloth, always a satisfactory activity. So we played with the washcloth for a little while before going upstairs and changing clothes and diaper and heading off to bed for a well-needed nap.

But congratulations to the little guy for a nice new "first" for his list. Even if it did hurt...

*and the very next day, another thing to add to the list:

First Household Item Casualty

The floor lamp -- which has been taunting the boy for just long enough -- took a dive today. It really isn't a casualty -- though its bulb is -- but it makes for a scarier story. All is cleaned up. And the lamp is moved to a less-accessible spot. How long before he finds it there?

Communication is such a great thing, but for all the talking I do, I confess I'm not always so good at it. I let weeks go without even emailing some of my dearest people -- um, if you haven't heard from me in a while, I assure you it is not personal -- and it doesn't even cross my mind to make a phone call (gasp) to anyone but immediate family. Even they go a while without hearing my voice on the other end of the line -- but that's a hereditary problem I'm sure. The whole family has it. Even the ones who married in (with the exception of the Dunce's more attractive half) are not telephone fanatics. But this digresses from the direction I was headed.

Mark is learning the best ways to communicate. We will someday move past the screms that mean a variety of things from "I'm tired" to "I want attention" and "I'm mad for some reason." Ear-splitting shrieks are not my idea of good communication. "Use your words, Mark," we tell him, with little success.

However, he is adding to his communication skills. He understands the word "No" and generally stops whatever he was doing (momentarily). He gets happy when Daddy says it's "bathtime." He even gave Auntie Linda a kiss yesterday when I suggested it. Right now he is sitting on the living room floor with a favorite book (Old MacDonald's Farm), talking to himself and making nice raspberry sounds. This tells me that things are okay.

Yesterday was a breakthrough in some more obvious communication. He got fussy -- as normal -- about 5:45 p.m. I expect that; he's telling me he's hungry and it's nearly supper time (6 p.m.). When I got on the floor and encouraged him to play, he army-crawled in the direction of the dining room. I thought it was to play with the popcorn tin-turned wastebasket, one of his favorite diversions. It was not. He grabbed the base of his high chair, then the chair next to it, and stood up, holding onto the high chair where he would soon be sitting to eat. SOON being the important part. He was telling me something loud and clear. I even understood it.

I'm hungry, mom. It's time to eat.  

The wicked high chair strikes again!

Early in Mark's life, his ever-graceful mommy tripped and stubbed her left little toe on the high chair. Still learning it was there, she was probably justified in being a bit clumsy but also a little careless. Five months later you would think she'd know where the durn thing was. But no.

Now the chair is at the table instead of in the corner. So it was my right toe this time. I now have a very lovely black stripe down the middle of my (already) misshapen little toe. The toe is useless anyway; it doesn't touch the floor and does nothing to help my balance. It and its corresponding left toe are little more than vestigal on my feet, thanks to their hammertoe-ness. (It didn't work to press them down to the floor as flat as I could, which I did with all my toes when the Dunce had his series of toe surgeries.) I have to stretch shoes on the sides where those toes reside to make room. The kind podiatrist suggested a few things to try before surgery... which I am glad to do before surgery. If they were to do surgery, I would just as soon have them removed as have them straightened, given my tendency to hit them on things... like high chairs.

Mom broke a toe on my high chair, so the story goes. Am I getting my just desserts?

Mom also broke her toe on a time machine. I like that story better.

Editor's note: The swelling has mostly gone down, the bruising has lessened, and walking is not excruciating pain any longer. I may survive this go-'round with the high chair. Stay tuned...