Domestic disasters and family boggarts May 11 - 30, 2005 about our broken car, termites, black dogs, garden crisis and other sociable topics

	A hike on a mountain: I am huffing and puffing at this altitude, and Tom would still like to be carried.

Of course our broken wagon (see previous journal) is no disaster. I'm worried, however, that Tony considers us noticeably eccentric -- during last year we came to him with several car problems, which would disappear in the moment when he opened the hood. To stay brief -- our wagon is running on all four cylinders again, without being touched there. Yet since we chased a different trouble, the car stopped being careful and allowed Tony to uncover the mystery of it not liking right turns; now it's running with a new axle joint.

Then the other day, Sid carelessly stepped on a cabinet under our heating furnace in our garage, which gave way under his Hippo weight -- revealing ugly worms under the broken boards. Fortunately for me, I was not at home, and Sid could deal with these termite larvae without the assistance of my stomach already queasy through pregnancy. Left for me was to find some professionals, which turned out to be somewhat exhausting. I would have expected that from the lot of companies specializing in pest control, majority would welcome new customers -- and not let me always reach an answering machine with a message in bored voice saying something to the effect that "we have probably gone to lunch or we are talking with someone else, so call some other time." Soon I gave up any tendencies to let some small and local entrepreneur earn my money, and dialed for Terminix. Abracadabra -- within a week we had our house checked out, picked the extermination method, had visible termites decimated, and traps installed (now all that's left is paying a hefty bill).

	Whales have a day off with a supporting belt I manage some minimal mobility.

To our local miniZOO we have departed with Tom, our associates and their twenty-months-old girl quite content, as we did not expect that every other Tuesday, they have a Dollar Day -- which can be compared to a natural disaster (e.g. a locust plague). Entrance fee is really a dollar (instead of $5.50), but parking costs six bucks (instead of being free like during normal weekdays). I have immediately felt at a terrible advantage (on this cheap day I paid a dollar fifty MORE than on an expensive one). This arrangement, however confusing, has its logic: the Dollar Day is mostly used by schools and other group organization, which park their one bus and save on tickets. Thousands of screaming kids meant, however, not only that Tom never saw any animals (especially since most of the shy ones hid in their burrows and those few creatures numb enough to stay out were covered in concentric layers), but he could not use his favorite attractions either; also this was the first time when I was really afraid for him at this ZOO. Tommy is pretty hapless, and is perfectly capable to march right into the middle of a chunk children one head larger than himself -- of course, lively schoolkids never even register the presence of a toddler. Hence I spent larger part of our two-hour visit to the ZOO, apologizing and trying to disentangle Tom from school groups before a bigger accident could happen. Tommy has learned a new behavior in this crowd pressure -- no yielding to anyone, which has already caused us a few embarrassing situations on playgrounds. When he collides with another child (even one visibly larger and older), he does not get out of the way, instead he pushes forward, which throws his adversary completely out of balance. I then need to explain to a mother of four year old boy that her child is not being naughty and has not started the fight, to the contrary; he was mowed down by our toddler. Such situations are only comical because of Tom's age and weight. I wonder how to tell him that if he's being pushed around by a school group, he should behave differently than if he runs like crazy around a playground and randomly interferes with a similarly un-concentrated colleague child.

	On second try, Tom stopped to be afraid of balloons.

A week later we went to the same ZOO for a regular fee (with free parking), and although this summer day lured out many visitors, being there was much more comfortable. We caught a temporary gap in the crowds on Tom's favorite merry-go-round with cars, and he could have four rides in a row. Nevertheless he still caused a scene for having to be dragged away from his beloved attraction. I made it up to him with a large carousel (where much bigger kids fear for their lives -- I begin to worry that one of our ancestors had to be closely related with a circus man), which he left all by himself, being lured by a fire truck. We met Petra at the ZOO, together with her Lucas and Veronica. It was my first time seeing a mother with two small children in action, and I must declare that there was a lot to be noticed. During those two hours, we had managed to exchange about three simple sentences; watching Petra (who's half the size of yours truly) carrying a whimpering Verunka in a breast carrier AND an uncooperative Luke on her hip, made me seriously doubt the brightness of my future, awaiting me in a few weeks.

	Tom is checking the gear on an airplane exhibit.

At this time, I cannot imagine carrying anyone -- our little missy, who has been annexing more and more room for her aquarium, is quite enough. With Tom in this phase, I had already been safely stashed at the hospital, and blamed my lack of agility on magnesium infusions, while relaxing in the comfort of a permanent institutional care. My sympathetic husband and nurses propped me during my short trips to the bathroom, worried endlessly that I could slip and fall while I showered, brought me food to my bed -- all I had to do was push a button and lift my back -- a service person rolled in a table and I could start eating. I had thought that during a normal pregnancy I'd be functioning -- well, simply normally. Quite the opposite is true. I have already written about having reached previously unseen dimensions. This (the dimensions, not the writing) brings along other difficulties. Besides having hard time rolling out of a car seat, bending down for a fallen toy, or pulling merchandise from the lowest rack, I began having real trouble putting on my panties, attaching my shoes, or simply walking. I complained to my doctor about horrible pain in my hips and back while walking, and she recommended me to limit my walks. Not that I could not leave Tom on grandma's, daddy's, or Barbara's neck (or even put him to a day care) and fall into my bed, but I don't like it as a solution. First, I think it's a circular trap (the less I'd be moving, the less flexible I'd be), and secondly, I already suffer from feelings of guilt of getting ready to deprive Tommy of majority of my attention and care, and I feel that I should devote myself to him at least for the remaining few weeks (besides, where would I, not having Tom, obtain alibi to play with model toys at our local bookstore?).

	Balloons in Morgan Hill

So I opted for the other advice of my doctor, and bought a maternity support belt. I have to say that if I accidentally glimpse myself in a mirror, wearing just underwear and wrapped in this belt before all that is mercifully covered by the several acres of fabric, which forms my only dress I can fit into, the only word that comes to my mind is "disaster". Well, the important thing is that the belt actually works for now. Not that it would make me feel like running a marathon, but I manage walking across a parking lot to a grocery store without shedding tears of pain. Naturally I have been trying to redirect Tom towards gated playgrounds, where he can run around as he likes and I can occasionally sit down on a bench. I bequeathed our long walks to all the other members of Tom's fan club. Now we only have to hope that this setup would last until the birth -- and after.

In the context of relaxing practices and reduction of long marches, we have planned that Tom would play nicely in our back yard. With the pool covered, our yard is reasonably safe; granny weeded out our jungle a bit, to allow free passage; she further insisted on Tom having a toy house to play in. So far, so good. However Tom, who used to chase half drowned earthworms around the yard all winter, and threw pebbles in holes for our useless pool ladder, suddenly turned fearful. I may have caused it -- one day, when we were home alone, I wanted to cover the pool (after all I'm limited in my mobility and did not want to fish for Tom in the pool), which scared him horribly. I submit that a combination of a motor humming deeply and a gray flat monster crawling across the quiet pool surface may have invoked great awe in our junior, but I thought he was already used to it. Instead I spent following twenty minutes calming down a completely hysterical toddler tightly wrapped around my neck.

	Deflate: only Hippo weight (on picture holding the basket) prevents the balloon from wrapping itself in nearby oaks in a suddenly picked up wind.

I recon that Tommy has reached an age when he begins to recognize furtiveness of the world surrounding him. Most of the times, he lets us explain everything carefully. His first encounter with a hot air balloon had scared him. A Fly-in day in Morgan Hill a few weeks later, where we have seen balloons, small airplanes and also various ingenious historical farm machines, instead was a great experience for him. Tommy crawled under and around planes and tractors, and perhaps he even grasped the idea that if a balloon wants to fly, it must make noise.

It was not as easy with our back yard. Tom suddenly refused even to put a foot out of the patio door. He only dared to quickly run out onto the enemy territory to chase us back into the house like a mother hen, before the monster eats us alive. We tried to divert his attention, calm down, carry, explain, lure out -- nothing worked. I began to wonder whether a mysterious being did not settle in our yard. Since my childhood, I remember quite well a large black dog with yellow eyes who used to lay in wait for me in our hall regardless of my parents claiming that there never was any dog. So now I lacked the inspiration how to talk Tom out of believing in a back yard boggart -- I was not sure if either I or he would possess the communication skills for a dialog at such level -- and come to think of it, neither my parents would ever succeed in talking me out of the dog (in spite my mother's yelling for all apartment house to hear "leave, you ugly bad dirty dog!"). Back then, I simply got used to his presence in our hall.

	Homeowner

Our back yard situation kept developing critically, considering raising temperatures and increasing weight and pushingness of our future daughter. Besides not being able to stand up for much longer, I got visited by hemmeroids (preventing me from sitting) and persistent heartburn (worse when lying down). Remaining available positions are: hanging self by feet from a beam or -- trying our pool. We managed to lure Tom out into the pool during the weekend. However, without a synchronized effort of both parents, he soon continued in boycotting our back yard. Fortunately I had the idea to lay out a foam puzzle which he had played with last year. He has probably remembered, for he eventually resolved to leave the safety of our family room and try this new/old surface right at the threshold. He even made two steps out to the danger zone and sat on the puzzle. Then he crawled into my arms and started to tell me that there was a gray beast on the pool who makes noise. I confirmed that and explained in great detail all the functions of the automatic pool cover, its moving parts, wheels, motor, universe, life and everything. Tommy nodded wisely, but again kept insisting that I won't allow the cover to make noise at anyone, or devour anyone. I promised that, so he continued to check out his new toy house. Since then he kept asking to sit down together on the safe of the blue foam puzzle, and to let me explain some more technical details of our pool safety system, but it seems that we got the situation under control now.

	We may have chased our back yard boggart out too soon Tom insists on splashing in our pool

Tom has gotten eventually so courageous that we may regret having eliminated our back yard boggart. Junior insists on splashing in our pool, if at all possible without being regulated, at all times. He wants to get on the first two steps, throw some water, jump in it, crawl out again, bring as much moisture into our house as possible, run out, jump in the water, carrying along as much sand and dirt as possible, and so forth. If we permit ourselves to catch, dry or warm up our cold blue and teeth-rattling toddler, we receive our just reward in the form of a loud, disagreeing squeal -- well, the part of the vocal spectrum possible to utter over the aforementioned rattling teeth. He also started a habit to decorate his toy house not only with his toys, but also many precious household treasures, and all we can do is occasionally checking on his collectibles passion.

I finally got a chance to lure all possible friends with small kids to come and visit us on our back yard with a pool. It fulfills my idea of California lifestyle: a sun shade, cold drinks, a pool... although we sometimes must take off pretty quickly to work out toddlers' crises, it has been much more comfortable than dragging Tom in this heat to some playground and back. Better yet, it's been a real boon for Tom to be among other children. With a twenty months old Andrea he finally saw in practice, what the pot is for. He has not made any meaningful conclusions yet, but at least he understand now that one is to sit on it. Our former (about two) attempts to put him on the pot were met with furious protests -- Tom is a child of the action, and would last to sit on one place for about three seconds (perhaps five, if I show him something interesting with one hand, while I hold him firmly with the other). Potty training in the traditional style "let's sit down and when it happens, we praise", makes little sense in our case.

	Daddy teaches me to walk on a log.

Tom has therefore finally seen a child who would sit on the pot minding her goal, and began to explore what was all the excitement about. Don't think it's easy -- just to sit on such a contraption in the right direction -- and not to forget your little feet o hand inside, takes quite some concentration. Only one little detail remains -- how to communicate to Tom, WHAT exactly should take place on the pot. I had thought that simply running about without clothes in our back yard would make him notice his bodily functions, but for a long time it seemed that Tommy would not get distracted from whatever he was doing by any unimportant things. Besides, he tends to peen in the most unexpected and least useful moments -- like when I am in the pool and he is looking through a bug screen into out bedroom. I had to wipe the patio door, the screen and the bedroom threshold, then hose off our makeshift steps. You would not believe the range such a little boy has. Tom must have gotten interested in his aiming skills enough to try hitting his favorite toy car next time. I don't know what Sigmund Freud would say; I used my parenting voice and said that one should pee into the pot. Tom went and sat down on the pot obligingly, but I think he was disappointed for nothing more happened that would explain my excitement. We shall see -- there are four or five warm months ahead of us, we may work the potty routine out yet. And if we don't, I'm simply going to have to support two diaper-needing kids for another winter.

Perhaps I should leave the diaper-free training to Sid. It seems that men understand each other better in these matters. I would not otherwise know how to explain Tom's first attempt to connect words in meaningful sentences. Naturally, our junior has invaded our bathroom while I resided there, as is his habit (the fold-up door between our two bathroom parts cannot be locked) and to make light social conversation, he pointed to the toilet bowl and informed me with an important air that "dadda farrrrrt" (he can make very authentic farting noises with his mouth). He must have a very good idea about what his father is up to when in the bathroom. Well -- we must get used to the fact that our children will not respect us for little things like our loving, feeding, teaching them and taking care of them, instead their minds shall forever capture quite different parental strengths. Currently I can only hope that the girl will pick somewhat better topics to brag about in a good company.

Copyright © 2005-2007 by Carol & Sid Paral. All rights reserved.