Baby Love and Rejection

catTime and time again, the cat hurts the only person who really likes her.  Sure, her solo admirer sometimes pets her a little too hard, and one time he fell over on top of her in his effort to show his undying love.  He means well, but she is unforgiving and damaged and persists in hissing and running from him.

Yesterday, the sweet boy was in the living room, behind a baby gate when the cat decided to taunt him from the other side.  I watched from a beanbag chair nearby, feeling a false sense of security, thanks to the gate.  They are safe from each other, I mused, as the cat laid down against the white, metal bars letting her full tail rest on our side of the gate.  Every so often, she flicked her tail as she purred and cleaned her thick fur. 

It was too much to resist, that big, juicy tail moving like a beautiful, wild creature independent from the lazy, mean cat.  The boy toddled over to the gate, grabbed her tail with one hand and then reached through the bars to pet her fat tummy.  In an instant, she was furious at the violation of her space, she hissed and swatted at his hand with all of the evil she could muster.  There was an audible thwap as her furry paw connected with his hand. 

Bad Cat 1: Baby Boy 0  

She definitely set him up for a swat or worse, depending on her foul mood.  Fortunately, the boy was left unharmed but confused and upset that his furry friend didn’t want to play, like ever.  It was his first rejection and it hurt me to watch.  

As I tried to help him understand what happened, he lost interest and turned to knock over a stack of blocks and chase his ball, already over it.  Meanwhile, his poor mama was left to stew on the future when there will be real pain, rejections and undying, unrequited love and just how in the world to make it all ok.

The Poke of the Sticky Finger

fingerThe little boy sat on my lap, comparing the difference between my belly button and a button on the back of the chair.  He delighted in pointing from one button to the other, over and over.  Surely, he was learning something from this so I let him continue with his button business.  Plus, it was too early to redirect him into something more constructive or active.

From button to button he obsessed until he missed the button on the chair, located just over my shoulder, and poked his grubby finger into my eye.

I shrieked from the surprise of having a tiny finger suddenly jammed into my eye and the actual pain of the contact.  His hand was clammy and sticky from drool and who-knows-what else with a sweaty hand smell.  Freshly cut grass or rain in the summer or hot cookies in the oven all have specific yet hard to describe smells, I believe the smell of a sticky, sweaty baby hand is the same.  You just know when you smell it and to be honest, it’s a little gross.

My beloved son recoiled back as though bitten by a cat, an all-too-familiar experience, shocked and scared.  Temporarily, he froze with finger in midair to assess the situation.  Mommy would live, although likely with only one eye.  A possibility which he found acceptable and continued poking at the buttons.  Meanwhile, I mused over life with limited vision and at the very least the eye infection that was soon to follow.

Perhaps the thing that shocked me the most was that I wasn’t even mad at the assault on my eyeball or that I would likely wake up with my eye crusted shut and need to go to the doctor’s office for a horrible prescription eye drop that would sting with each drop.  Certainly, I didn’t love what happened, but it was another day in the life of baby raising and for better or worse, I was in it for the long haul.  There was no room for anger in our busy schedule of playing, napping, eating and repeating.

Mommy Hugs

sleeping-cher

It’s the smell of vomit on my shirt that wakes me up, or maybe its just the first thing that I notice.  Curdled milk and stomach acid combine to make a very unique smell which seems to follow me everywhere I go.  The source of the bodily fluids is still fast asleep; curled up on his side, with his chubby cheeks and rosebud lips making him look like a cherub resting from fluttering about on a pair of tiny wings. 

In reality, the baby is tired from chasing the cat, pulling all of the pots and pans out of the cabinets, standing up against the toilet and dismantling the nightlight from the wall which was somehow missed in the last round of babyproofing.  He continues to show us what he needs and wants, what he likes and dislikes, and how to be better parents. 

One of his primary interests is in ending all cell phone usage in his presence.  He reminds us to be present or else he will put a handful of ants in his mouth.  He keeps us accountable through inquisitive eyes that see and question all.  He keeps us selfless as we prepare him for the world and a future independent of diapers, rattles and pureed food but never free from mommy hugs, I hope.    

One less leaf

leaf

The baby laughed like a maniac who had just gotten away with robbing a bank or draining the dolphin tank at the zoo.  I eyed the boy suspiciously as he continued to giggle with an open mouth. 

“What is in your mouth?” I asked in alarm as the tip of a piece of foreign matter peeked out amidst the laugher of its host.

Two tiny teeth stood guard, rice sized soldiers protecting whatever he had tucked away in his cheek.

I wrangled the squirming baby and his mouth clamped shut with the determination of a Rottweiler’s teeth into a piece of meat.  He knew that he was found out but he wasn’t giving in without a fight.  

“Open up,” I demanded with the baby under one arm and a finger in his mouth.   

He shook his head in refusal and smiled with eyes that sparkled with mischief.

“Yes, you will,” I argued with the naughty boy.

I fished left and right until I felt something solid, pinched it between two fingers and extracted an entire leaf.

I laughed in disbelief, but I wanted to cry.  What if he had found something more malign than an old leaf, like a nail or a dead spider?  I promised him I would do better and be more vigilant against the dangers of the world.

Graciously, he forgave me and crawled off babbling his favorite word, “Dada.”