Sydney and Kanye: Two Peas in a Pod?

If it is sacrilegious to admit your children annoy you, then let the shouts of “Satan!” come my way.

I love my daughter more than anything on earth, but this new “Terrible Twos” phase she is apparently hitting early is putting her just a notch below Kanye West on the annoyance meter.

Here are a few things Sydney has taken to doing that I am certain are designed to entice me into child abuse and get me sent away so she can spend her days eating nothing but cupcakes:

Spitting out her food. Somehow, she has come to believe that if she is eating something and decides – mid-chew, mind you -- she doesn’t want it, she can simply spit it out. This could be in her high chair, or while she walks around the house.

This is obviously unacceptable. And I have told her so. Loudly. Over and over.

The other day she took a couple bites of an apple, slowly opened her mouth and nonchalantly let the contents drop to the floor.

My wife’s response to this was, “Well, you know, she doesn’t like the skin.”

“Oh, OK, I guess we’ll let her turn our living room into an apple orchard because she doesn’t like the skin. She doesn’t like being confined to our yard either, so maybe we should let her take her toys to the middle of the street and play.”

Chirp. Chirp.

That’s the sounds of crickets. Sarcasm doesn’t go over well in my house when the wife is the target.

Believe me, I am going to break Sydney of this habit or I will end up in the graveyard of failed parents, alongside Dina and Michael Lohan and whomever parented Amanda Bynes. Throw in those teen moms from MTV, too. We’ll have a hell of a party.  

The only saving grace on this one is we have dogs that follow her around and scoop up her remnants shortly after they hit the floor. They stalk her as a tiger does its prey. I think sometimes she does it just to see the dogs eat it.

Is my child the only one who does this?

Throwing her plate of food on the floor. For a while, we had her “trained” to say “all done” when she felt she had eaten enough. She’d often say this with great exuberance, “All Done!” and that was our cue to immediately clear her plate and get her out of the chair.

Now, she seems to have eschewed our agreed-upon signal for the distressing act of dumping her food on the floor. Where does one learn this? If you know me and my rather large physique, you know very little food ever gets dumped off my plate, so this cannot be something she is learning at home.

Again, thank God for the dogs. I never have to worry about carpet stains because they are on those stray morsels faster than Kim Kardashian scurrying to her next red carpet interview.

Nevertheless, this brazen act is similar to spitting out her food and does not go unpunished.

But I am just not sure a 22-month-old mind yet comprehends the whole concept of “right and wrong.” I’ll keep trying, because, at some point, either she’ll get it or my heart will explode in frustration and I’ll fade blissfully from this earth to a place where all children happily eat all the food on their plates – including their vegetables -- carry them to the sink on their own and hand wash them to spotlessness.

Totally ignoring me. The other day, I asked Sydney 15 times to look at me so I could show her something. She was playing no further than five feet away. Somehow, she managed to keep her back turned through all 15 pleadings.

This is a remarkable skill, when you think about it. This single-mindedness and ability to block out the world around you might lead to great things. I imagine this is how Stephen Hawking is when he is working on some serious physicist stuff.

It is also a growing trend. She regularly has a very nonchalant attitude when it comes to taking directions from others. Perhaps she is practicing for her teen years.

I can’t wait for those golden years when she essentially serves as dad’s gopher, fetching a newspaper or beer, or picking up things his 50-year-old body refuses to bend for. I still remember when I was about 8 and playing outside with my friends, hearing my dad call “Brian!” several times and running inside to see what he needed.

“Can you change the channel for me?” he asked. (This was before the days of remote control.)

Ahh, the rites of fatherhood. When do I get there with Sydney?

Until then, I’ll continue to repeat simple commands like, “It is time for bed, let’s go upstairs” and she’ll continue to stack her Legos, like daddy’s voice is a dog whistle her ears are not attuned to.

So those are my top three complaints as of now. It is important to note that this is a fluid process, and as we conquer one annoying habit, another soon pops up. If you ask me six months from now, this list will be different and, perhaps, quite longer.

Now, I could also do a post on all of the things that I adore about my daughter, from her recitation of the ABCs in order to get everyone to clap for her; to her getting excited and shouting a 25-word diatribe, of which only about five are actual words you can understand; to the ultimate daddy-loving symbol of affection, the “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” I get when she runs into my arms upon my arrival from work.

But that would bore you. Or seem like bragging. Or paint me as a nice guy.

Call me a guy who likes to go against the grain. Even if it is sacrilegious to the shrine of parenting.

Blowing Through the Caution Signs

 

 



 

I have some good news, some moderate news and some bad news.

The good news is Tyson came home last night. This kid has blown through every precaution sign the doctors put in front of him. To think we went from “he will definitely need this first operation” to “he doesn’t need the operation and can go home today” in less than two weeks is amazing.

The docs felt he was at greater risk of catching some hospital-related disease the longer he stuck around the hospital, so they sent him home after only two days in the step-down unit. They had expected him to be there until next Tuesday. Heck, they had expected him to be in the CICU a lot longer, too.

The boy is tough.

And he saved me a night or two of sleeping at the hospital. They want you to spend 24-7 with them when they are in the step-down unit to prepare for when they come home. So, we had a plan that the grandmas, mom and dad would spend nights at the hospital. My wife already had the days covered and I took over after work until about 8.

The grandmas handled the first few nights. Because I have to work, I was going to take the weekends. My back was screaming in anticipation. I’m already as stiff as frozen leather from just sitting in the chair the few hours a day I am there. Sleeping there would have been painful.

I once spent a weekend in Atlanta where I walked a few miles to one of those all-day festival concerts. I then spent the day standing and listening to music. My back got so stiff and painful it wasn’t right for four months. It only loosened up after I had wisdom tooth surgery and they put me under. I’m fairly certain I would not have been able to walk after a weekend in the step-down unit.

So we have our little boy home. He is as strong as an ox and hopefully ready to grow over the next six months so he is ready for his big operation.

Now the fun begins. We get to see how Sydney reacts to a little brother. She mostly ignored him in her two visits to the hospital and again last night. I can see her trying to push him out the back door when we aren’t looking. I would not put it past her to pull an Amanda Bynes and just go off the deep end. She is used to getting all the attention.

We also get to see how the dog reacts. I say dog, because, if you remember my earlier post, Brooke has elected to send her rambunctious Murphy off for the summer. Vegas will likely take the Sydney approach and ignore him. Just another interloper stealing away daddy’s attention.

And we get to see dad get back in the groove of taking care of a tiny baby.

Basically, I suck.

In the hospital, I must have let his head fall a half-dozen times. I could never get him to be comfortable or to eat a lot. He peed on me when I changed his diaper.

I was a mess. And he knew it. I think I felt him cringe every time I was in charge. His eyes were begging the nurses not to leave him alone with me.  

I wish I could fast forward six months. I am much better when they are a little older and tougher. Right now, I’m just afraid of accidentally doing something that results in his death. Remember, I am the guy who let Sydney fall off the bed because I was engrossed in paying bills.

I’d be lost without the wife. Today, I woke up to find her sleeping with Tyson on her chest. She can even multi-task sleep. They looked so right together. If that were me, I would never be able to sleep with him on my chest and, if by some miracle I did, I would certainly somehow drop him off the bed.

To add to my apprehension, here’s my moderate news: they have told us that his heart will eventually FAIL.

Yes, his heart is not going to make it. We knew that, but I thought it would surely make it until the big operation.

Not necessarily so.

We have been given signs of heart failure to look for. If we see it, we get him to the hospital. They will then do the first operation they were hoping to avoid.

At least we will have a few days to figure it out. They say this is not a situation where we have to get him to the emergency room immediately. But we need to be on the lookout and not let it progress too much.

How am I going to know if he is having heart failure or just being a normal baby? If he turns red and cries, is he just grunting out a poop or having a heart attack??? Good Lord, no one should trust me with this kind of decision. I’m not exactly the most observant person in the world. If I had been that guy in Cleveland who noticed that kidnapped girl trying to break down that door to escape, she’d likely be there another 10 years because I wouldn’t have looked up from my lunch long enough to notice.

By the way, Charles Ramsey, tip of the cap to you. Enjoy your burgers.

The final bit of news is the bad news.

Because of his heart condition, Tyson had increased chance of genetic issues. They did a full genetic test on him and found he is missing part of Chromosome 9.

They are not really sure how this will manifest itself. It is not as easy as the chromosome issues that lead to Down’s Sydrome or even worse fates. This one is really dependent on how much of the chromosome and where it is at.

Heck, they are not even sure it is a problem. They are testing Brooke and I to see if we have the same thing. Because this is rare and very few people in this world have full genetic makeups done on themselves, it is possible there are tens of millions walking around with the same issue and it does not affect them at all.

But we do know that some of the kids with Chromosome 9 issues do have problems, such as Kleefstra Syndrome.  This results in developmental/learning delays, low muscle tone, recognizable facial features and other things commonly associated with genetic disorders.

I know we have had really good luck so far with Tyson and his condition, and this may be pushing it, but I am confident my boy is going to be ok. He has just blown us away with his resiliency and ability to overcome. I am extremely hopeful this is a spin of the wheel that will not land on his number.  

But if he is afflicted, so be it. There aren’t too many families as equipped as mine to handle it. My wife is a special education teacher who has a heart of gold. I’m a daddy who is going to be there for his son no matter what. We earn a fairly decent income to get him the things he needs.

I’m far more worried about him surviving major heart surgery than I am raising a child with disabilities.

I just want him around.

The Household of Sisterly Love

We have tried to get Sydney ready for Tyson's arrival. Do they have anger management classes for 2 year olds?

My sweet, pleasant little girl gets all the attention in our house. Having to share might put her on an anger bender similar to the late-night ravings of Amanda Bynes. Instead of Jenny McCarthey, it will be little Tyson taking the brunt of that anger.

I've told you before of her anger issues. And here. And probably a half dozen other posts. She is easily frustrated and quick to blow a fuse. Sound familiar? Yes, you got it….just like Brooke.

It is nothing for her to get mad at something -- say she wants to play with an object and I say no -- and grab it and squeeze it as hard as she can. She literally gets a look on her face like she is an Olympic weightlifter straining to set the deadlift record. I alternate between laughing and trying to explain how this is not acceptable behavior.

Just this week, she was enjoying the fan blowing air on her when she decided to touch it. I forcefully told her she was not to touch the fan. Her response was to grab the sides of the fan and squeeze it as hard as she could. Not sure what she felt like she was accomplishing, but she gritted her teeth, grimaced and blew off some steam.

Her middle name is intensity.

I don’t think she does this with other kids. I’m fairly certain her child care provider, the unflappable Miss Amber, would have 1) told us about it and 2) booted her from day care if she did it with any regularity. In fact, the only time I have seen her with other children for a great deal of time (outside of day care) she was downright passive when the others were aggressive towards her. (That led to her dad giving her boxing lessons.)

But she does it plenty with inanimate objects such as the fan, her food for some unknown reason – you should see her squeeze the hell out of a blueberry – and, occasionally, her dogs, if they knock her down or don’t get out of her way fast enough. Lucky for them, her squeezes are only strong enough to harm a, well, blueberry.

I’m fairly convinced she has a career in the roller derby awaiting her. I’m signing her up for karate classes as soon as she can walk for 15 minutes straight without falling.

So, I am worried about her demeanor when it comes to sharing her parents with another child. The other night, when Brooke and she visited with friends, some of whom had babies, she was NOT happy when Brooke took a little one into her arms. She immediately ran over, pulled at her mom and said “Help me!” which is her universal appeal for our attention.

J-E-A-L-O-U-S.

This is what little Tyson is facing. Hell hath no fury like a 20-month-old ignored.

We’ve tried to do what we did with the dogs when Sydney was coming. We have a baby doll we call Tyson and we ask her to hold it and feed it and even kiss it.

She throws it.

I have one book we bought about the arrival of a new baby and I read it to her, substituting Tyson for the name of the baby.

She pushes it away and grabs for the nearest Sesame Street book.

(By the way, did you know there is a character named Murray on Sesame Street? And Abby Gadabi (spelling?) I just learned about Elmo a couple of years ago and now I find out about these two and some orange female character with a name I do not know.  Progress, I guess. But the Street still looks exactly like it did on my grainy black and white when I was drinking from a sippy cup. Where’s the updated set?)

She’s not exactly warming to the Tyson factor. If anyone has any tips, I will take them.

We really won’t know until he gets here what her real reaction will be. She might suddenly develop a nurturing gene overnight.

I’m not counting on it. I remember the fights I used to have with my younger brother and sister. Until she was a teenager, I am pretty sure I had my sister convinced we found her in a garbage can and adopted her. As for my brother, I can remember my mom locking us in a room one day and telling us to SETTLE it. I am not sure what “it” was, but whatever it was, it cost my brother a bloody nose.

I’m fairly certain Brooke and her brother, Blair, had similar battles.

But of the few people on this earth I’d battle for, maybe even die for, my brother and sister are at the top of the list. We don’t always get along, but we are blood. That means everything.

If I can get that kind of commitment out of my two kids, I’ll put up with a few Olympic-like squeezes here and there.