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My Son Found His Wiener
Why is it that men feel so comfortable touching themselves regardless of the audience or situation? I used to think it was because they felt more comfortable with themselves than women do but now I believe it is something more primitive. I believe men are born with a reflex that compels them to automatically check their junk without even thinking about it. Growing up with brothers I have always been aware of boy’s fascinations with their body parts but it wasn’t until I watched my son discover his wiener that I truly understood that this is all apart of the development process.
It was like any other diaper changing event. I was quickly wiping off the poop that had lodged itself in every crack and cranny. During this procedure is when this primitive reflex started. My son very cautiously reached down and gave himself a tug. It was as if he found a new toy and from that diaper change on it has been the same discovery over and over.
I think the most interesting part of this event was my husband’s reaction. His reaction was not of disgust or embarrassment, which, is what he does when our daughter does something similar. He was actually proud, like this was a “that’s my boy” moment. Maybe this is a right of passage that every male makes but for me as a mom, my epiphany was that I am actually raising a man and this is just one of many discoveries he will make during his life. I just wish he would stop “discovering” while I’m wiping poop off of him.
A Determined Crib Midget
If what they say is true, “What goes around comes around,” I must have been one hell of an ass. After my first baby was born, my husband and I thanked God for such a sweet, well tempered little soul. He is a pleaser. From the day he was born, our ‘problems’ with him have been minimal. No major hiccups once the jaundice passed, his infancy and first year were cake, pure vanilla, nicely frosted cake. . . That being said, we were unprepared for who and what was to come next. . .
Seventeen blissful months later our daughter Stella was born. She emerged from the womb screaming and wreathing around. From the first moment she had everyone scrambling to comply with her frantic demands. Maybe it was our fault, we had named her too strongly and she was simply trying to live up to the title, or maybe it was karma having a laugh at our expense. Either way, the curve ball hit us right square in the face. What was wrong with this child? Why did she cry constantly? Why didn’t she just lay there on the blanket and coo and blab like her brother? Why wouldn’t she just take the pacifier instead of constantly wanting to use me as one?! And why dear God, why did she scream so much when we tried to ‘make’ her take a bottle? Key word there… ‘make.’ We learned early on there was no making Stella do anything, at least not until a little later on when we could put a little fear of God into her. No, at this point in her infancy it seemed as though she held the cards and all we could do is try to play our best game.
The key issue was her eating. She was always happy to nurse. She nursed eagerly and constantly it seemed, but never would she take a bottle. She refused. We took every bit of advice from doctors, family and friends to no avail. I would leave the house, in case she could sense I was there, or smell me. Still she would wait. She would wait for hours, making herself and any willing victim who agreed to give it a try for me completely miserable. She would wait for me to walk in the door and to the couch I went. Shirt up and nipple out before I had a chance to set down my keys. We tried different nipples, different bottles, different formula, formula with apple juice, warm breast milk, cold breast milk, breast milk with ice, everything….she accepted none of it. My doctor told me she’d never seen a crib midget with such a strong willpower. Not something I was glad to hear.
After ten months of being her walking Dairy Queen I had had it. I needed a break. Something longer than four hours. Time with my husband, time to breathe. So again, I talked with my pediatrician about it. She and I were out of ideas…all but one. Leave she said. Find a willing victim, leave her with them, and leave for a few days. Surely, she will cave. She will have to…she has no rare anti-bottle disease. She’s not allergic to plastic, has no strange aversion to rubber. There was no real reason for refusing it other than she knew mama was there and soon she would be satisfied. And so, reluctantly but with a huge sigh of relief, my husband and I left her with my saint of a mother in law and we went. I packed her every bottle, nipple, cup, formula, and frozen breast milk I had and we said goodbye.
I’d love to say that Stella, realizing that she’d been beat at her own game, finally gave in. Her jugs were gone, and she’d have to settle for the next best thing. Surely she couldn’t starve herself for two days… Again we underestimated the sheer willpower and determination that could be contained in twelve pounds seven ounces. For three days and two nights she survived on Saltines and yogurt. Everything else she refused. Aside from a few meager sips of breast milk from a cup, she refused liquids.
The leave taught me several valuable lessons, including: Two children poured from the same genetic mold may yield two completely different vessels. No child is the same, therefore advice is just that, ‘advice’, it’s not a for sure. If someone seems to know it all about children, they probably only have one child. All you can do is try, try, and try some more. It may never work, but at least you know you’ve done all that you could.
When I returned from that trip, (which on a side note, my husband and I thoroughly enjoyed because my mother in law concealed much of what was going on so that we ‘wouldn’t worry’ God bless her…) I felt like a horrible, selfish, unworthy wretch of a mother. How could I leave my child to starve? Why hadn’t I just put up with it until she decided it was time to move on from the boob? Hindsight is 20/20 I guess and to be completely honest, I’d probably do it again. We couldn’t have known she’d be so stubborn. Best of all, the trip had served to deplete my milk supply and increase her demand, the plan had worked beautifuly. Such fun, such fun. And the call to the lactation specialist to explain what we’d done and beg for help only served to more deeply entrench the feelings of inadequacy and stupidity that I’d already been feeling. She’d have had me nurse until Stella graduated kindergarten if she so pleased.
I tried to find a happy medium…Tried to take all of the tokens of advice I’d been receiving and make some sense out of them. And in the end, as I should have known from the get go, it was Stella who made the final call. Somewhere around twelve months she began to lose interest in the troughs hanging from my torso and began to take a sippy cup. All of our prodding and urging, trying and pushing was to no avail, she had her time and she took it, up until that final suckle.
Thank you for reading. Hopefully someone, somewhere will be able to gain something from this rambling story, somehow relate to this tragic tale. Or maybe all it will serve is a small laugh and a feeling of pity for a mother trying to do her best while knowing absolutely nothing.