A Whale in Your Tale

I got caught in a lie one day with my young son. Well, not actually a lie. I'd prefer to call it a euphemism. You know, a way to say something that is somehow unpleasant by glossing over the actual meaning. Please don't misunderstand, my intent is not to confuse or hide the truth from my kids. But on occasion I find it fun to add humor to the inherent unpleasantness of some bodily functions and generally gross behaviors. A lot of us do it, especially when talking to young ones, I think. But on this summer day, I learned that it can backfire, literally.

This particular incident happened when the kids and I were on our play set. To set the scene--I was struggling to balance on the two-person glider swing, a device clearly not intended for anyone equipped with anything larger than a toddler tush. Then out of nowhere, a funny, loud squirty sound (that would have made my Uncle Joe puff up with pride) came from my co-pilot son, followed by an over-the-shoulder glance and impish smile. "You got a buffalo in your britches?" I asked. (In our house when someone let's one go, one of us--normally me--poses this question, normally inserting whatever large creature comes to mind. Buffalo are a popular favorite, followed by dinosaur and giraffe--the larger the animal the better.) Of course, the stinky little man denied it, grinning like the Cheshire cat that he is.

After a short delay, he owned up to his rotten rear rip. Then after a short pause with furrowed brow, puppy-dog eyes, and tilted head he asks me in all seriousness, "So how DO the animals get up your beezer?"

Ugh. . . caught in my foolish fib, my tall tale, my cockamamy expression. I stammered. I winced. I tried to think quickly. So how do I explain the process of the ol' passing of gas to my preschooler? As I tried to imagine the internal human anatomy, particularly focusing on the guts and beyond, I couldn't help but envision a smiling, chubby rhinoceros staring back at me as it made its way through the intestinal tract.

"Well, honey. Actually there are no animals up there. It happens because, well, you see, they start when, well, it, I mean they . . ." How did they happen exactly?! There, I was just a hangin', trying to articulate just the right explanation, the perfect description of how a toot truly transpires. And I was a little stumped on what words to use, what details to share. How did I give an honest and informative answer after seriously confusing my sweet son? What would make sense to his young developing mind which I had previously supplied major misinformation?

After a few minutes of hemming and hawing, while attempting to draw a few pitiful diagrams in the sand, he squealed with delight, "Gotcha! Mommy, I KNOW big animals don't come out of there!" now rolling in hysterics with his big sister who was also reveling at the idea of their mom squirming for an explanation.

I was reminded of a few good life lessons that day. Like my kids are smarter than me. It's good to laugh at yourself. Honesty is the best policy. So while I have not completely dropped my use of colorful accounts of certain foul functions, when someone lets one slip, I still stop short of asking "Who farted?" Which, truth be told, still somehow sounds more vile to me than having a mammoth pop out of your butt.

Still of the Night

It was 3:00 in the morning when I heard the first odd noise eeking from the monitor-my enemy, my best friend. I lied there listening, trying to convince myself that my son was just having a dream and must be talking to himself. Oh, he'll just put himself back to sleep, right? Please, oh please, put yourself back to sleep. Then the sounds turned to weird whimpers. What if he's having a BAD dream! He needs me! My eyes pop open, and I make the familiar nightly race up the stairs to my son's bedside. I snuggled next to him, rubbing his back and telling him to just go back to sleep. While I tried to comfort him, I stared up at the ceiling wondering when this would end. Not just my son's possible frightening dream, but me flying up the staircase during the night, pretty regularly for my three-year-old, but still not an unusual occurrence for our newly six-year-old. When will I sleep through the night?

Where did I do wrong? Did we co-sleep with our babies too long? I was warned by many: relatives, friends with children, friends without children, well-meaning comments from near strangers at the grocery store, park, gym, you name it. Did my kids nurse too much? Oh, don't get me started on the unsolicited advice on that topic. (Do you know where I live?!?) Why didn't I let them cry it out? I read the literature, heard the testimonials, watched the videos. Couldn't do it. But did I really have to be at their bedsides as soon as the first peep was made? Honestly, for me I had done pretty well to pause this evening and wait, oh, about 12 seconds before scrambling up to tend to my son. Perhaps that wasn't enough wait time, huh, Dr. Ferber?

So just as I was about to search my soul and figure out where I went wrong to have such night-dependent children. The exact second I was on the verge to come to terms with, analyze, and possibly solve one of my parenting shortcomings. . . my son's murmurings got even stranger. He's not talking in his sleep. It's not a nightmare. As I listened and watched he was sleeping fitfully. Then it hit me. He's getting sick. No fever--yet--but I knew it was coming. I scooped him up and headed downstairs and rocked him in a chair. As the minutes slipped by he was in fact burning up. He woke up and gave me a quizzical face. I'm no Nostradamus, but I recognized the look. I knew what was going to happen next. I yelled from the living room to my husband to come help. Then the puking began. The skyrocketing temperature, the chills, the aches, the coughing soon followed.

How is it that when your child gets sick the whole world stops? Nothing else matters. No previously scheduled appointments, no penciled-in commitments will take place. Most emails go unreturned. You're lucky to check voicemail, and you only answer phone calls from family and the doctor. And that To Do list in my daily planner that I check religiously throughout the day is no longer "really have to do" stuff anymore. Everything else becomes unimportant.

I am relieved to say that we found out later that morning at the pediatrician's office that our little boy did not have one of the hysteria-inducing flus going around, just a "regular, old virus." He slept much of the day and soon signs of returning health were evident. Fortunately it appears to have been a pretty quick, down and really dirty bug. My mommy mental freeze has almost melted, and I have mostly returned to my everyday life.

Last night when I was putting my son to bed, something struck me-maybe, just maybe my unpopular nighttime parenting method paid off the other night. After all, I was able to catch him before he was alone and sick and throwing up in bed. I even got the OTC meds in his system to start the relief a little sooner. Hey, perhaps it's okay that I am so quick to answer my children's nocturnal chirps echoing from the monitor. Maybe it's not completely terrible when I dash up to my kid's room at the slightest sound. Oh no! Stop! It's this kind of rationale that only encourages my enabling behavior! This thinking is precisely how I cycle back into our current nighttime routine! What am I doing?!

As things turn back to normal (whatever that is) and my son fully regains his health, I plan to use this time to figure out how to reduce my sundown sprints. Perhaps it will hit me next time I am cuddled next to his sister. . .