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The Presidential Resident (Mitt Madness!)

Yesterday was Super Tuesday, when ten states—including Massachusetts—headed to the polls for the 2012 Presidential Primaries. I knew early it wouldn’t be a typical sleepy Election Day in our neighborhood. Down the street, a swarm of television vans was staking out the senior center next to our local ballpark.

Which could only mean one thing: Mitt Romney and I have the same polling place.

Yes, we live in the same unassuming first-ring suburban town where Mitt claims residence via a seldom-used condo—purchased after the Romneys sold their estate on the hill. It’s one reason I have a soft spot for him. I can (almost) forgive the grotesque wealth and Swiss-bank-account vibe. Because he’s not just from some gated, hedge-lined zip code—he’s from my town. Which is, let’s be honest, only about one-quarter hedge-lined.

It will be hard—but not impossible—for me to vote against him come November. I mean, surely having the President of the United States as a local resident boosts property values? Just something to consider.

I did a little recon and learned Romney was scheduled to vote around 5 p.m., so I left work early to participate in a little Mitt Madness. When I picked up Little Boy from daycare, I tried to explain our post-school plan. He heard “vote” and got very excited—we were apparently going on a boat.

We parked at home and walked down to the senior center. Our usually quiet neighborhood had turned into a press gauntlet: cars everywhere, cameras, reporters, local cops, and two helicopters overhead. Little Boy was enthralled by all the exotic vehicles, but I dragged him inside to cast my ballot. If I were smarter, I’d have waited outside for Romney’s arrival—but I prioritize efficiency when I’ve got a toddler in tow.

Also, I suspect we’re in different precincts. They switched things around so that my larger, middle-class precinct got stuffed into the smaller room, while the rarefied richies lounged in the ballroom. Democracy at work.

It took me all of a minute to vote. Then we emerged to join the growing crowd outside.

Romney arrived minutes later—swarmed by Secret Service and a wall of press. I caught a glimpse of his forehead behind a policeman’s shoulder, snapped a blurry photo on my phone, and considered it a win. He moved fast, followed by Ann, as if gliding toward destiny (or at least the ballot table).

We lingered a bit longer, but the crowd was getting restless and Little Boy was edging into meltdown territory. So we walked home. Later, we watched Romney’s mini press conference on TV—same backdrop, same helicopters, now in stereo. He signed autographs. Kissed babies. The whole thing felt oddly cinematic.

And yeah… I sort of wished we’d stayed longer. Or at least that I’d gotten a clearer shot of the forehead.

Do you see it—behind the massive policeman? Do you see… Romney’s forehead? That was the best my phone could manage. He moved quickly, ducking into the building with Ann close behind. We loitered for ten minutes, the crowd swelling, Little Boy getting increasingly squirmy, and I finally called it.

Back home, we watched the local news coverage of Romney’s mini press conference—helicopters in stereo. He smiled, signed books and signs, shook hands. And I kind of wished we’d stayed, just long enough to awkwardly thrust Little Boy into his arms for a photo op.

Ah well. Maybe we’ll try again in November. Preferably with a better camera.

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By Meredith – March 7, 2012

Slalom

Little Boy and I were on the ski lift at Nashoba Valley, our localish ski hill that will still manage to challenge Little Boy for another two winters at most. Mr. P was off in Salem, running a 20-mile race that started too early for us to drag a 3 year old out of bed, so I decided a Mommy-Son skiing outing would be a fine morning activity.

We were enjoying watching the “big kids” racing the slalom event below the lift. Suddenly, Little Boy screamed. “What’s wrong?” I asked, thinking he saw another tweenager wipe out on the slalom course (though normally he doesn’t scream, he laughs).

“I thought that man was a monkey!” he exclaimed, pointing to a grizzled Nashoba employee with a large bushy beard.

I laughed for a good 5 minutes, long after we descended from the lift and started down the mountain. My prolonged mirth coincided with a lapse of attention to Little Boy, who perpetually scans the side of trails looking for little bumps to “jump” over. Normally this is okay, but the scanty snow cover caused him to be stuck in a muddy groove, and I had to hop awkwardly to pull him out.

“Looks like you got your hands full, Mom!” a cocky voice rang out nearby. It was a ski instructor, who was skiing backwards while coaching a young teenaged boy. “That’s why I ski with no poles when I go with the little ones!”

“Well, I need the poles to pull him along the flats,” I said meekly, but he didn’t hear me because he was prompting Little Boy to do turns around the trail. Little Boy was staring at him, unmoving.

“Go on, now, turn!” the instructor said, and Little Boy slid straight down the slope. “Gotta work on those turns, Mom!” he called to me.

We reached the bottom of the trail and promptly boarded the ski lift to take the same trail. Another gander at the slalom racing seemed to inspire him, because on the next run, Little Boy was in fine form, taking small, tight, fast turns the whole way down. We passed the ski instructor and his charge, who watched Little Boy with a new respect.

“Not bad! How old is he? Five?” the instructor asked me.

“Three,” I said, flashing a proud grin before racing to catch up with my future slalom star.

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By Meredith – March 4, 2012

Pajama Day

On Wednesday, a sign appeared on the front door of Little Boy’s preschool, saying “Pajama Day, Friday February 24.” I somehow managed to retain this information in my mid-term memory so that on Friday morning, after taking off Little Boy’s pajamas and giving him a quick wake-up shower, I presented him with another pair of pajamas to put on.

“Today, you get to wear pajamas to school!” I announced in my isn’t-this-crazy-fun voice.

He looked bewildered. “No! No pajamas in school,” he said, wriggling out of the towel and collapsing defiantly on the bath mat.

“Little Boy, everyone will be wearing pajamas, all your friends!”

“No pajamas in school!” he declared, looking at me as if I lost my mind.

After 2 minutes of negotiation, I was able to get the pajama top over his head and his arms in the sleeves — a tricky process, when the other party is unwilling. I put him on my lap and pulled on his underwear and the bottoms. He insisted it was too cold outside to wear pajamas, that he couldn’t do “center” and “circle” in pajamas and finally pointed out that I wasn’t wearing pajamas. He found the whole thing to be ridiculous and I think he suspected he was going to do nothing but sleep at school.

(Ironically, he never wore pajamas in Ethiopia; children sleep in their regular clothes. I’ve heard of other adoptive parents having difficulties getting their kids into pajamas, but he took to the idea right away.)

The whole morning — over breakfast, in the car — he protested the fact that he was wearing pajamas: “Too many people not wearing pajamas!” (In Little Boy speak, “too many” means “a lot,” so I think he was trying to say that no one else at his school would be wearing pajamas. I think he thought I was setting him up for social failure.)

We arrived at preschool around 8:15. Before 9am, all of the older kids congregate in the Kindergarten room (so that kids from four classes can be supervised by two staff members). We dropped off his bag in his classroom then walked to the Kindergarten classroom. I could tell he was a little apprehensive about wearing pajamas, and was a little surprised that a 3 year old could be so self-conscious.

And then we entered the Kindergarten classroom, and Little Boy looked around to see 15 other kids in their pajamas! He was greeted by his teacher, who was also in her pajamas! A wide smile — probably the first one of the day — broke out across his face. He hugged me and gave me three big kisses on my cheek before running over to play with plastic dinosaurs with three of his pajama-clad friends.

In the afternoon during pick-up, he went through the drawn-out process of saying goodbye to his friends. It doesn’t happen everyday, but sometimes a kid from his classroom will give Little Boy a hug goodbye. Another kid sees that and wants to give Little Boy a hug, too. This ignites a firestorm of hugs from all the kids, who line up to give hugs. The last hug was from a little boy from Korea, who was the only child not wearing his pajamas (everyday, he wears a button-down shirt with a sweater vest — I think his parents aren’t into the casual look). As we walked out the door, Little Boy pointed to his friend and said with a hint of scoff, “He wearing no pajamas.”

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By Meredith – February 25, 2012

Peril and Ice: Skiing in NH

After Little Boy’s first big skiing vacation in France over New Years, his nascent skiing skills have since been sharpened by a half-dozen day trips to the piddly mountains of Massachusetts. For a 3-year old, Little Boy has a solid snowplow, decent turning prowess, great balance, stellar endurance, and most importantly, a liking for the overall skiing experience. So for President’s Day weekend, we decided he was ready for New Hampshire skiing in all of its icy, frigid glory.

We left Saturday morning, after a flurry of activity that involved a madcap search for various skiing gear that hasn’t been used since last winter (e.g.., my helmet, Mr. P’s XC skating boots). For some reason, the only toys Little Boy wanted to take were stuffed animals, which he rarely plays with at home (unless he’s binding them together with rubber bands or hauling them over chairs with makeshift pulleys). He carefully arranged them on his lap and promptly fell asleep.

Road Trip (Born to Be Tired)

He awoke as we were exiting the highway for the 20+ minute drive to Waterville Valley Nordic Center. I tried explaining that today, we weren’t going to do our normal skiing; that Mommy and Daddy would be skiing on little skis on little trails in the woods, and Little Boy would get to sit in a sled. He didn’t fully understand this until we arrived and showed him the pulk that we rented:

Probably the only smile in the Pulk

He was game, at first. Unfortunately, the XC conditions this winter are dismal, and we couldn’t access the best parts of the trail system without taking a shuttle. So we stuck close to the Center, taking turns pulling the pulk, which was tricky. On uphills, it was predictably laborious; on downhills, the pulk would push you faster, so much so that I declined to take it downhill for fear my abductor muscles couldn’t muster the requisite power to brake. This didn’t bother Mr. P and he headed his usual full speed; I could see the bright-blue sled zooming through the trees.

So it shouldn’t have surprised me, after one steep downhill, when I turned around to see the pulk arriving to a stop on its side and to hear a screaming Little Boy from within. We hurried unzipped the cover and pulled him out. He was fine, of course, but terrified. It took some convincing and bribery to get him back into the pulk after that.

Pulling Daddy in the Pulk

Mr. P's Turn

After a few hours, we got back in the car and headed north to the Hampton Inn in Littleton, which offers a pretty sweet Ski and Stay package that we took advantage of last year. Plus… a pool! A jacuzzi! We practically had to drag Little Boy out of the pool for dinner.

For our discounted lift tickets, we could choose between Bretton Woods and Cannon Mountain, so we decided to go to child-friendly Bretton Woods on Sunday and then hit treacherous Cannon on our way back on Monday. It took Little Boy a few hours to warm-up to the idea of skiing; he kept asking to go back to the hotel to play in the pool. I finally made it very clear that we were there to ski, that if we went back to the hotel now we wouldn’t go to the pool but take naps, and that we would go swimming after we were finished skiing. He then relaxed and started get into skiing. We found a nice Blue trail with lots of little snow bumps on the side (he loves “jumping”) that ended at a mid-mountain lift that never had a line. This kept us occupied for two full hours, and then we headed back to the lodge for a quick snack before the final hour:

People watching at Bretton Woods

Cannon Mountain is an intimidating mountain. The terrain is steep, icy, and filled with lightening-fast experts (Bode Miller learned to ski there). Some of its Blue trails make me quake. I was unsure about taking Little Boy there, but it really is a great place to ski, with its terrific views, wooded trails, and friendly folks. My big mistake was letting Mr. P take his snowboard, which meant I had to take Little Boy between my legs on steep trails that he didn’t want to do by himself. Skiing with a small child between your legs is fine on the bunny slopes, but on an icy, narrow Blue trail at Cannon Mountain, it’s a little hard on the muscles.

So there I was, headed down a Blue trail hunched over Little Boy between my legs — which were screaming in agony — as I took long turns across the trail, trying to avoid large spots of ice. Everything was okay until, well, we were coming across the trail and my shaky snowplow wasn’t slowing us down enough to safely turn, so I decided to ski the little uphill on the side of the trail in hopes we’d come to a stop. As we ascended the bank on the side of the trail, I quickly realized we weren’t going to stop and would continue into the trees if I didn’t act. In a split-second, I let go of Little Boy and pushed him safely into the snow before trying to turn myself away from the trees. That’s how I ended up with my left ski hooked onto a bush as I dangled  helplessly upside, half-laying on the snow bank. Luckily, the only person there to witness this fiasco was Mr. P, laughing uproariously on his stupid snowboard (he later said it was like watching “America’s Funny Videos”). He comforted Little Boy before freeing my ski from the bush, allowing me to drop face-first into the snow. Before I could demand it, Mr. P offered to go to the car and get his skis. But oh… that incident will surely become a family skiing legend, told and re-told over pizza after long days of skiing fun.

Apres-ski Coloring

Moose!

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By Meredith – February 21, 2012

Coloring

For a long time, coloring was an activity that held little interest for Little Boy. I would place paper and crayons in front of him, and he would scribble for a few minutes before looking around for something else to do. I also tried watercolors to no avail; he liked to squeeze play-dough, but looked at me blankly when I showed him how to make shapes to form animals. This perplexed me a little, as I thought kids just naturally loved these activities, but he showed such a preference for toys that could be manipulated that we figured he was just an engineer, not an artist.

An early childhood education expert with whom I work told me not to worry; coloring just sort of “clicks” within children. One day they’re scribbling indiscriminately at the paper, the next day they’re actually drawing objects. I’m not sure exactly when this switchover happened for Little Boy, but about a month ago we were making a card for someone, and he picked up a crayon and drew a circle flanked by little lines coming off the side. “Sun!” he told me, and I was so surprised I hugged him and expressed a full minute of amazement over his beautiful purple sun. I brought out more paper and he draw pictures of people, animals, and cars — real pictures, not the usual frustrated scribblings.

Now we color almost everyday, and he has started to show interest in the cache of coloring books that he has received as presents over the past year, realizing that all the pictures are devoid of color because he’s supposed to provide it. Yesterday morning, as we bustled around getting ready for the day, he sat quietly and studiously with a coloring book and his box of crayons (which, pre-coloring, he used to enjoy dumping out on the floor — now, a new respect). I looked over his shoulder and saw this:

Heavens. I can only imagine how a child psychologist would interpret this. In defense of Little Boy, I don’t think he intended to make this as violent-looking as it comes off, and I don’t think he has the underpinnings of a sociopath, but heavens.

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By Meredith – February 17, 2012

It’s Coming

We were at Drumlin Farm, enjoying a balmy winter day that was beginning to show signs of dusk. Little Boy had spent a solid 2.5 hours romping around with two friends, running and laughing in between visits to the cows, pigs, goats, sheep, and chickens. The other parents and I gently nudged our excited crew to the parking lot; engaged in a game of tag, Little Boy needed little prodding up the steep hill to the visitor’s center, as he raced in hot pursuit of his friend, exuberant and dogged.

When we reached the visitor’s center, Little Boy suddenly stopped running and pointed to the door that leads to a hallway of bathrooms. “You need to go to the bathroom, honey?” I asked, walking casually, a little winded from the brisk walk up the hill.

He nodded, his eyes wide. I opened the door and ushered him towards the family bathroom. When I closed the door, I felt a little hand gripping my left arm. I looked down to see Little Boy jumping lightly with a pained expression on his little face.

“You okay, honey? Shinty? Caca?” I asked, using our Amharic potty words.

He stared at me, his hand still clenching my arm, his facial expressions fluid and emotional. Then, in a hoarse voice several registers lower than normal, he whispered, “Caca’s coming.”

I immediately began pulling off his pants and got him on the pot just in time. I’ll tactfully end the story right here, but man. That was the most terrifying thing I’ve ever heard come out of Little Boy’s mouth. It sounded as if he was suddenly possessed by a demon, like the little girl in The Exorcist. The caca demon.

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By Meredith – February 5, 2012

French Vs. American Parenting

The buzz in the P________ household last night was about a Wall Street Journal article that declared French parenting to be “superior” to American parenting (here). The author is an American mother who lived in France and wondered why French children are impeccably behaved in restaurants, playgrounds, and in the home (a phenomenon that I have witnessed repeatedly in France) while American children quickly fall apart under any sort of stress and misbehave and/or tantrum. She concludes that American children are overindulged and aren’t given firm boundaries. (BTW, a quick scan of this article’s comments reveals that the majority of WSJ readers don’t take kindly to being compared unfavorably to the French and react with lowbrow, pop-culturally informed comments about “cheese eating surrender monkeys,” socialism, and, my favorite, “French kids as [SIC] so well behaved that when France is invaded we have to send our ‘poorly raised’ kids there to save them.”)

As a French citizen (and a Canadian citizen, and recently an American citizen, though of his 3 nationalities he is most proud of his French), Mr. P was a little smug about this article, though I quickly pointed out that all its recommendations should not be applied to adopted children, at least not in the first year. According to the author, French parents don’t play with their children and teach them to play independently because they are not “obsessive” with their families. I agree with this philosophy whole-heartedly, but for adoptive parents, play is one of the most important ways to build attachment, expose language, and teach desired behavior. In our case, when he first came home and suddenly had numerous cars, trains, legos, and blocks at his disposal, Little Boy how no idea what to do with them. We’re slowly weaning Little Boy off direct Mommy-Daddy play and he is more content to play by himself as long as we’re nearby. Which is good, because after spending countless feigning excitement over pushing around cars, piling blocks, and constructing train tracks, I’m so ready to retire from being a playmate.

By virtue of being first-year adoptive parents, I admit to toeing the line of hyperparenting. Yet, a quick glance at any restaurant, supermarket, playground, or preschool playground tells me that Little Boy is generally more well-behaved then his peers. He may whine quietly to us if something is amiss, but listens to us if we tell him to wait. And I think Little Boy has attributes that, according to the article, French parents instill in their children that American parents don’t: Self-control, the ability to wait, and an attention span.

And to test this, we did our own version of the Marshmallow Test, the famous 1960s study about how children delay gratification, which is discussed in the article. Basically, a child is left in a room alone with a marshmallow for 15 minutes after being told that, if he doesn’t eat the marshmallow, he can have two marshmallows when the researcher returns. Only 1 in 3 kids could do it, and the majority lasted only 30 seconds. Years later, the study found that the good delayers were better at concentrating, reasoning, and handling stress.

So, last night after a virtuous dinner of whole-cooked red snapper (which Little Boy ate zealously), green beans (which he ate reluctantly), and cheese (which he simply relished), I plopped a small dark-chocolate truffle in front of him. “If you wait to eat it until Mommy is finished the dishes, you can have two chocolates,” I said.

“Two chocolates?” he repeated joyously. “I want two!”

“Then wait,” I told him, and he nodded. I went into the kitchen to help Mr. P clean up. We peeked into the dining room and saw Little Boy craning his head towards us, the chocolate still sitting inches from his hands.

“I’m going to go be the devil,” Mr. P said, walking into the dining room. “Little Boy, you should eat the chocolate! Why wait? Eat it now. Yum!”

He shook his head, firm. “Mommy said I wait, I have two chocolates!”

It was then that I knew he could hold off for the second chocolate indefinitely, but I still waited 6 minutes before placing the second chocolate in front of him and praising him for waiting. All of this was entirely unscientific, of course, and can probably not be attributed to parenting at all but rather the lack of it — one year in a well-run orphanage, though not recommended, teaches infinite patience. And Little Boy reaped the rewards of his ability to delay gratification, savoring each micro-bite of chocolate truffle before looking at me pleadingly and uttering his most favorite word: “Television.” Sigh.

Independent play, albeit in the dining room

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By Meredith – February 5, 2012

Little Pitchers

There was a time when Little Boy couldn’t understand a single thing that Mr. P and I said to each other. This was good for us, because probably 75% of the time, we were talking about him. Not unkindly, of course, but frankly: his progress, his development, his proclivities; what we could do to combat sleeping issues, eating issues, behavior issues. Of course, Little Boy is doing fantastic, but parenting an adopted child requires a lot of our attention and energy, so it was sort of good that we could sit at the dinner table and discuss him to our heart’s content while he sat next to us, oblivious.

Then, he began to catch words. “School?” he’d repeat. “Swimming?” “Bicycle?” Certain buzzwords, like “doctor” “shot” “pizza”, I began to spell out rather than ignite any contention.

Now, his language has progressed to the point where we have to watch what we say. Last night at dinner (Kashi vegetable pizza with a side of mashed spinach and onions), I was putting the last piece of pizza on Mr. P’s plate and told him, “If it’s too big for you, you can give some to Little Boy.” Little Boy’s eyes lit up.

“Mommy said you give me pizza!” he declared triumphantly to his Daddy. And he was so delighted with Little Boy that he did.

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By Meredith – February 4, 2012

Worm & Campassion

Yesterday, it was sunny and warm (enough) to head to the neighborhood playground and indulge in some bike riding and outdoor frolic. Compare this to last Saturday, when we were being blanketed by 5-6 inches of fluffy white powder that quickly vanished under subsequent warm temperatures and rain. What a sad little winter we’re having. But for Little Boy, that snow was good enough for an afternoon of sledding; on the playground’s adjoining rec field, there’s this slope (can’t bring myself to call it a hill) that takes about three seconds to descend via sled; his bouts of sledding were punctuated by little breaks to clean off the ball field’s bleachers.

Last week's snow

Cleaning the bike rack

So Little Boy no longer calls the playground “funglasses,” but “funground.” Which is really cute, of course. Yesterday he rode his bicycle to the funground while I ran behind him, our usual routine. The funground proper was soggy from rain, so we romped around the deserted basketball court, playing tag (which he initiates by yelling “no get me!” or “no get you!”) We found sticks, which we threw across the empty court. We played with the toy cars and digger that I had stashed in my purse. We balanced on the narrow concrete boundary that surrounds the basketball court, walking wobbly and jumping on/off. It was then that Little Boy spied the worm.

“Look! Worm!” he announced, looking concerned. He is fascinated by all animals but very cautious; last week while sledding, a little dog (and I mean cat-sized) ambushed him while he was sitting in his sled post-run. He freaked out, shouting “Mommy! Mommy!” as the dog yipped and jumped around him, and it took about five seconds for the tears to start. I sound sadistic, but it was a little cute, and as I quickly gathered him in my arms murmuring reassurances, I was stifling a giggle. Poor Little Boy, surprised by a 5-pound terror dog!

Anyway, I looked at the big, fat worm and immediately assumed it was dead. I mean, it’s January and this worm is laying motionless in the middle of an expanse of concrete. “It’s okay,” I told him. “I think this worm is dead.”

Of course, “dead” is a concept that Little Boy doesn’t understand, but I’m trying to casual mention it once in a while. He understands that batteries can be “dead,” but not people and animals. (Although he knows from nature documentaries that animals eat other animals. He’s constantly asking me, for instance, if monkeys eat birds, if lions eat bears, if elephants eat turtles, etc.)

“Worm is sleeping,” I added. “Really big sleep.”

This he understands, as I’ve previously told him that when it’s cold outside, some animals go to sleep. “Too cold for worm-y?” he asked.

“Yes, too cold,” I agreed. We continued walking around the basketball court on the concrete boundary, then threw some more sticks.

Then the sun came out from underneath the white fluffy clouds, and it felt so good on my face that I remarked, “Doesn’t the sun feel good? Nice and warm.”

“Worm?” Little Boy asked.

“No, warm,” I carefully enunciated. These two words “warm” and “worm” are a perpetual source of confusion for Little Boy, and our conversation quickly turned into an Abbott and Costello exchange.

“Worm-y warm?”

“Warm, we are warm from the sun.”

“Warm worm?”

“Warm, warm,” I repeated.

“No, worm! Warm?” He pointed to the direction of the worm. “Mama, come on!” He ran over to the worm and I realized he assumed that because it was warmer, the worm would be awake. I was telling him that it wasn’t warm enough for the worm to wake up when he shouted “Look! Worm-y warm! Worm-y moving!”

Indeed, ever so slightly, the end of the worm that I assume is the head was moving. Little Boy looked at me with a look of delighted repulsion. “Oh, look! It was warm and the worm woke up!” I remarked, pretending to be overjoyed. “Little Boy, we have to help the worm! We have to move him to the grass!”

“You move it,” he told me. So we retrieved our sticks and I carefully prodded the worm onto one end so its long, fat body was draped over it. I brandished the worm stick at Little Boy to invoke the squeamish outrage that I knew it would. We walked over to the grass and placed the worm under a tree, where I hoped it wouldn’t get eaten by one of the birds that had been serenading us as we played.

“Mama, we need to get food for worm-y,” Little Boy told me urgently, and began piling a pile of sticks next to the worm’s motionless body.

“I don’t think worms eat sticks, I think they eat dirt,” I told him, and he ran to get his digger so we could dig into the semi-frozen ground for some dirt. It took about ten minutes, but he made a large pile of dirt next to the worm, and to our surprise, the worm began burrowing its head in the pile. It looked like it was really eating the dirt, and Little Boy was so excited and proud of himself.

Little Boy and worm (in pile of dirt)

By then, it was 12:30 and time to head home for lunch. Little Boy was extremely reluctant to leave his worm, and I assured him we’d come back to visit. The empathy he had, and the initial concerns over whether the worm was hungry, made me so happy and so sad. This Little Boy has known hunger. He doesn’t wish it on anyone, not even a worm.

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By Meredith – January 29, 2012

The Slippery Slope of Squeeze Yogurt

Yesterday after work, I took Little Boy to do our weekly grocery shopping at Whole Foods. Now that the days are short and cold, any après-school event is met with inordinate excitement by both of us. Since we can’t go to the library every night, stocking up on leeks, yogurt, and cheese becomes not a tedious errand but our Big Night Out. He gets to sit in a colossal carriage with race car stripes and a steering wheel, and I get to hanker over king crab legs and sushi-grade tuna before dutifully asking for the flounder on special.

When Little Boy was a newbie American, our supermarket trips were a struggle. Of course, it is very common for parents to have difficulties shopping with their toddlers because they demand, plead, and whine until desired foodstuff is placed in the cart. I used to have a very different problem with Little Boy; any food I put into the cart, he would demand, plead, and whine for me to remove it. (Quietly, almost politely, but firmly.) Swiss chard goes in the cart: “No, no good,” he would tell me. “It’s not for Little Boy, it’s for Mommy and Daddy,” I responded. “No good!” he would repeat, looking worriedly at the accumulating mound of green fresh food below him (a disadvantage of these child-friendly car carts is that he faces away from me). This would repeat for nearly everything I placed into the cart except for what were then his staples: granola bars, yogurt, peanut butter, and bread.  So, for the duration of our grocery trip, he would look around, constantly anxious about what hated foodstuff Mommy was going to put in the cart.

But oh! How quickly Little Boy has assimilated. His attention has turned from what I put into the cart to what I’m not putting into the cart, and he’s realizing that I’m not buying anything with a brightly-colored cartoon on the label. For example, I always buy six-packs of the organic Stonyfield Farm Yo-kids yogurt, which has pictures of real kids (albeit really white kids) smiling amid images of berries and fruit. When he first started eating yogurt, these smiling kids seemed to reassure him that this was good stuff! and he would identify flavors as being “boy yogurt” and “girl yogurt.” But now, “Look!” he’ll exclaim, pointing at squeezable yogurt tubes featuring a cartoon cow wearing sunglasses. “Oh honey, I don’t think you’ll like that,” I’ll say, knowing he would probably love it but also knowing that Mr. P would express proper European horror at seeing his son eating yogurt from a tube. And, I also find it sort of disgusting. “Look!” he’ll exclaim, pointing at another brand with squiggly cartooned kids on the label. I ignore it. I do understand his need for variety, and once I caved into the demand for the kangaroo yogurt, but he didn’t like it and Mr. P wound up eating it.

We head into the tea aisle. “Look!” he exclaims, pointy to a box of vanilla chamomile tea with a cartoon bear wearing pajamas on the label. “I want it!”

“Look!” he says, spying a box of cereal with a gorilla on it. He hates cereal and won’t go near milk, and yet the gorilla is compelling enough that he covets it.

“Look!” he says, pointing to a box of frozen waffles with Cookie Monster on it. “I want Cook-Monster!”

Look! Look! Look! Since his demands are still made in a very controlled, quiet way, and since they are easy to fend off (the word “yucky” holds great sway), I actually find them to be cute. I love how he assumes that I’ll be just as excited by his discovery as he is. But I also worry about when he is older, exposed to more Americana, and afflicted by kiddie Afluenza. I know he may eventually not want the cartoon-cow-yogurt-tubes, but direly and ardently need it. And if I teach him that whining to Mommy works, pretty soon he’ll have a wheelie sneakers, an iPad, a cell phone, and an Xbox. Really, it all starts with the squeeze yogurt.

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By Meredith – January 21, 2012