The first friend Alexander made on purpose was at the playground. The friend's name was Marshall.
His name alone was portentious, the sort of thing one might expect in a novel, and we didn't even discover it until his mom called him to go home for snack. Marshall also happens to be the name of the man who determinedly introduced me to my husband (Brian declined to meet me on several occasions) and is Xander's godfather. Obviously, Marshalls play no small role in our life. In fact, the homily at our wedding was even about Marshall and his plan. I'm not sure, but Marshall may have been compared to God. . .
The Marshall at the playground, however, was energetic, kind, and four years old. Alexander thought he hung the moon. Xander watched from afar as Marshall led a wild band of preschoolers up and down the playground equipment, each child brandishing a branch as a weapon. Once the older children left, Marshall sought Alexander's company. Alexander, ever socially savvy, did not betray how starstruck he was to have this big kid's attention. (I'm more than a little worried that Alexander's social smoothness predicts future school popularity, a sticky web of drama, betrayal, and heartbreak that I thoroughly opted out of for my entire educational career and thus for which I have no parenting preparation.)
While Marshall chatted with me, he also lovingly minded Alexander: holding his hand while he went up a step, bracing his back as he was in danger of pitching backward, showing him how to crawl through an especially long and scary tunnel. Alexander, for his part, ran after Marshall excitedly, watched eagerly as he jumped, ducked, and swung--all things Xander can't wait to accomplish--and babbled incoherently but pleasantly about what a nice time he was having.
Even though Alexander offered no meaningful conversation or physical challenge to the interaction, an endearing if fleeting friendship had clearly sprung up between the two boys. Alexander marveled at everything the bigger boy could do; Marshall, I can only imagine, enjoyed having someone so obviously in awe of his accomplishments and for whom he could care. (Everyone likes a protege, after all.) This temporary, afternoon-at-the-playground friendship is a hallmark of childhood and I quietly celebrated it as heralding the dawn of Xander's social consciousness. I am also relieved that he has any sort of social consciousness; I was the child who hoped desperately that no one would come to play with me and if some foolhardy child tried, I was apt to smack them. (I in all honesty walloped a classmate upside the head (with a toy pot!) in kindergarten for her brazen assumption that she could join me in the play kitchen. She later went to a school for gifted children, so I take comfort in knowing I caused no lasting damage.)
But back to my son. (The blog really is about him, I swear.) He apparently was such a good playmate that before leaving, Marshall gave him a sweet kiss on the head. Alexander squealed in excitement. (Once Marshall was out of earshot, naturally. I told you: socially savvy.) A similar situation played itself out this afternoon on a playplace at Midwestern mall: Alexander, despite a complete lack of linguistic skills, became fast friends with a three-and-a-half year old boy who was there with his grandmother. Interestingly, this little boy had a younger sister much closer to Xander's age; she was eleven months. Alexander ignored her like one might a crack in the wall.
He has a history of turning a blind eye to children his own age. One of my dear friends has a son a mere three weeks younger than Xander. While Xander is well enough acquainted with this little boy to play with him on occasion, he also consistently treats him as he does much younger children, patting him on the head and pushing him thoughtlessly aside. Already, Alexander has expressed a clear qualification for his playmates: size. He wants a playmate that he can match, stride for stride, who won't fall over when Xander gives him a push--who even may push back or use words to protest. Alexander wants someone with similar energy (boundless) who will challenge him. As a very active and very physically advanced thirteen-month-old, Xander has to look to a higher age bracket.
Big Baby Truism #3: A good playmate his hard to find.
Might Alexander have similar taste in playmates if he weren't so big? Possibly. Would older kids give him the time of day if he were of typical size? I venture to say no. Even though preschoolers can clearly tell that Xander is, in their words, a baby, the fact that he can and wants to do many of the things they do makes him more appealing. Plus, kids this age love to try to teach others what they already know. Alexander is a willing student and the older ones don't feel as worried about hurting him. Even though I have heard many moms of these older kids warning, "Watch out for the baby!" when play gets rough, the kids all pragmatically assess that Xander is not nearly as breakable as the smaller (though similarly aged) babies crawling and toddling about. The big baby dilemma is that other children of the same age are not necessarily a good physical match for a big baby--especially a coordinated and gregarious big baby.
I am on constant alert when Xander is socializing with kids his own age. Even a gentle nudge such as the other children give each other constantly is much more powerful and devastating, even when all Xander means is a nonverbal, "I want to get through here." His size also connotes aggression and anger to the other moms. (A whole separate truism, to be sure.) Bigger, older kids remove Alexander's physical advantage.
The downside, of course, is that Xander can only offer so much to a playmate two or three years older than himself. He can't talk. He has no concept of imaginative play. He is not going to teach the child anything new. And playing with his own peer group is, of course, important; children his own age are going to be his primary source of friendship and company for most of his childhood, so he needs to know how to interact with them. Parents pose another interesting obstacle. Many are hesitant to allow their children to play with a child of Xander's size because they fear for their child's safety. Also, they are often put off by Xander's appearance--he looks like a one-year-old but he's so. . .BIG. They aren't sure how to categorize him and it makes them nervous. I can't tell you how many twitchy mothers have asked me, "So. . .how old is he?" as though nervous about how I might answer. ("Six months!" I imagine myself saying, cruelly, just to watch her eyes bug out.)
And I feel for Xander. Play is work for children, we are always told (though pleasurable work, to be sure). Play with children his age is an extra measure of work for Alexander because he has to use extra caution: don't move too fast, touch too hard, or raise a hand (even in triumph--other mothers faint. That Godzilla of a child is going to TKO my son!). I think at least one reason he enjoys older kids is that so many restrictions are removed. For once, the other child is the one taking an extra measure of care.
All children can benefit from a variety of playmates, but big babies need them without question. Since a larger-than-average child is a curiosity, hopefully potential friends will abound. Thankfully for me and for Alexander, kids are much less critical and suspicious than their parents. The title of this entry occurred in the church nursery, where a toddler, realistically assessing Xander's size, declared he was not a baby. But she didn't mind. It's a good example to follow.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Saturday, November 12, 2011
I wonder if the warranty covers weight gain.
The array was so dizzying I nearly had to sit down.
I'm barely on the brink of the Exersaucer/Jumperoo aisle at Babies'R'Us and already the colors and patterns are so overwhelming I'm wishing for some dramamine. Determinedly, I push the cart into this sensory attack and try to begin to sort out which cloth-and-plastic contraption will best amuse my baby.
Choosing toys for an infant is worse than picking out a gift for a relative you have never met. At least with a relative, the person has a history of likes and dislikes and could even (if necessary) provide a cogent summary of needs and desires. (If, I suppose, you are the type of person who assigns short-answer questions to relatives, which, as an English teacher, I happen to be.) An infant is more like a Martian than a human relative. I imagine myself having to choose a gift for an alien visitor and having far more luck choosing something appropriate for his spaceship than having any accuracy picking something that will delight my son. For one thing, he is fickle. For another, novelty is its own present, which every toy has. . .and loses.
I should mention, at this point, that this episode happened when Xander was nigh four months old. He was not, as you might imagine, riding in his infant seat in the shopping cart, blissfully asleep. He was not doing this because he was already longer than his car seat and and too big to fit inside the harness. Yes, the seat he is supposed to ride in, rear-facing, until a year. (Or how 'bout two? Clearly, the AAP has not met my son.) No, he was dangling rather uncomfortably from his front-carrier, trying to simultaneously punch me in the face and kick me in the pelvis. But this is not a post about car seats--that will take at least two or three entries. This post is about my unrequited love for Jumperoos.
Xander has been kicking his legs since well before he was born. In the early weeks of his life, he had trouble sleeping because those legs just. . .wouldn't. . .stop. . .KICKING. By four months, with excellent trunk and neck control, I thought he was ready for a Jumperoo. He could kick and kick to his heart's content, get some exercise, and spend some time not breaking my back: a win for everyone! So I found a (small) window in his eating schedule and staggered into the retina-assaulting baby exercise aisle.
So many models! So many colors! So many toys! What theme did I enjoy? Which garish assortment of colors would be least offensive in my living room? Did I want one that played music when he jumped? One with friendly forest animal friends? As I studied the placards with the specs of each Jumperoo, I made a disheartening discovery.
The weight limit.
The weight limit on every Jumperoo was 24 or 25 pounds. At his four month check-up, Alexander was 21 and change. At his average rate of three pounds per month, I could expect him to be done with the Jumperoo in. . .three weeks. Not worth $100, certainly. Not even worth the $60 I could spend on Amazon or at the consignment store. My heart fell. No Jumperoo for Alexander.
The Jumperoo is not the only thing he has done without, but the list would be long and laborious. More telling are the things he has outgrown far too early: his bassinet, his bouncy seat, his infant car seat, his front carrier, his Exersaucer. . .Each one sent to the baby toy graveyard (our storage unit) long before Alexander had left the developmental stage the item was meant to service.
Baby Truism #2: Always check weight limits.
I'll admit that one of my keys to success and, simultaneously, my fatal flaw is my undying commitment to following the rules. (I'm the person who nearly has an attack when someone doesn't take a number at the deli. . .even when no one is waiting. The sign says, "Take a number"!) Still, I don't honestly believe that a baby item will fall to bits of kindling (or whatever the plastic equivalent is) the moment my child is an ounce over the weight limit. I realize that these limits are very likely low-balled as part of the manufacturer's bid not to get sued senseless. However, I'm no fool either: I know how much downward force my son would exert on a Jumperoo, and I know that force only gets greater as he gets heavier. I'm not really interested in making him a test subject/crash dummy to find out exactly what the "smashed to bits" limit is on baby stuff.
The good news is that at this point Alexander has no idea that he has missed out on anything. He is not, as far as I can tell, emotionally scarred by being moved to a crib at six weeks. (My emotional scarring, on the other hand. . .) However, the day will come. My day of reckoning as a big kid was when I no longer fit on the Playplace at McDonald's. However, like car seats, that is a post unto itself. (I'll need tissues. It was a tough day.)
A few weeks ago, Brian and I picked out a riding toy for Xander's first birthday. Our main qualification? Not colors, not features, not obnoxiousness level--weight limit. We got one good to fifty pounds. Since Alexander is somewhere in the 33 range, I think we're good for a month. Or two.
I'm barely on the brink of the Exersaucer/Jumperoo aisle at Babies'R'Us and already the colors and patterns are so overwhelming I'm wishing for some dramamine. Determinedly, I push the cart into this sensory attack and try to begin to sort out which cloth-and-plastic contraption will best amuse my baby.
Choosing toys for an infant is worse than picking out a gift for a relative you have never met. At least with a relative, the person has a history of likes and dislikes and could even (if necessary) provide a cogent summary of needs and desires. (If, I suppose, you are the type of person who assigns short-answer questions to relatives, which, as an English teacher, I happen to be.) An infant is more like a Martian than a human relative. I imagine myself having to choose a gift for an alien visitor and having far more luck choosing something appropriate for his spaceship than having any accuracy picking something that will delight my son. For one thing, he is fickle. For another, novelty is its own present, which every toy has. . .and loses.
I should mention, at this point, that this episode happened when Xander was nigh four months old. He was not, as you might imagine, riding in his infant seat in the shopping cart, blissfully asleep. He was not doing this because he was already longer than his car seat and and too big to fit inside the harness. Yes, the seat he is supposed to ride in, rear-facing, until a year. (Or how 'bout two? Clearly, the AAP has not met my son.) No, he was dangling rather uncomfortably from his front-carrier, trying to simultaneously punch me in the face and kick me in the pelvis. But this is not a post about car seats--that will take at least two or three entries. This post is about my unrequited love for Jumperoos.
Xander has been kicking his legs since well before he was born. In the early weeks of his life, he had trouble sleeping because those legs just. . .wouldn't. . .stop. . .KICKING. By four months, with excellent trunk and neck control, I thought he was ready for a Jumperoo. He could kick and kick to his heart's content, get some exercise, and spend some time not breaking my back: a win for everyone! So I found a (small) window in his eating schedule and staggered into the retina-assaulting baby exercise aisle.
So many models! So many colors! So many toys! What theme did I enjoy? Which garish assortment of colors would be least offensive in my living room? Did I want one that played music when he jumped? One with friendly forest animal friends? As I studied the placards with the specs of each Jumperoo, I made a disheartening discovery.
The weight limit.
The weight limit on every Jumperoo was 24 or 25 pounds. At his four month check-up, Alexander was 21 and change. At his average rate of three pounds per month, I could expect him to be done with the Jumperoo in. . .three weeks. Not worth $100, certainly. Not even worth the $60 I could spend on Amazon or at the consignment store. My heart fell. No Jumperoo for Alexander.
The Jumperoo is not the only thing he has done without, but the list would be long and laborious. More telling are the things he has outgrown far too early: his bassinet, his bouncy seat, his infant car seat, his front carrier, his Exersaucer. . .Each one sent to the baby toy graveyard (our storage unit) long before Alexander had left the developmental stage the item was meant to service.
Baby Truism #2: Always check weight limits.
I'll admit that one of my keys to success and, simultaneously, my fatal flaw is my undying commitment to following the rules. (I'm the person who nearly has an attack when someone doesn't take a number at the deli. . .even when no one is waiting. The sign says, "Take a number"!) Still, I don't honestly believe that a baby item will fall to bits of kindling (or whatever the plastic equivalent is) the moment my child is an ounce over the weight limit. I realize that these limits are very likely low-balled as part of the manufacturer's bid not to get sued senseless. However, I'm no fool either: I know how much downward force my son would exert on a Jumperoo, and I know that force only gets greater as he gets heavier. I'm not really interested in making him a test subject/crash dummy to find out exactly what the "smashed to bits" limit is on baby stuff.
The good news is that at this point Alexander has no idea that he has missed out on anything. He is not, as far as I can tell, emotionally scarred by being moved to a crib at six weeks. (My emotional scarring, on the other hand. . .) However, the day will come. My day of reckoning as a big kid was when I no longer fit on the Playplace at McDonald's. However, like car seats, that is a post unto itself. (I'll need tissues. It was a tough day.)
A few weeks ago, Brian and I picked out a riding toy for Xander's first birthday. Our main qualification? Not colors, not features, not obnoxiousness level--weight limit. We got one good to fifty pounds. Since Alexander is somewhere in the 33 range, I think we're good for a month. Or two.
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