At 17 months, Lucas still isn't talking. Oh, he has spoken some: cheese, da (dad), key (kitty), up. But most of these words have since been retired leaving only the occasional hi and dow(n)!, the latter of which he uses primarily to discipline our keys when they get out of line. Don't get me wrong, he's by no means a quiet child. He babbles constantly, animatedly even, in a language I can only refer to as "Lucanese." It sounds a bit like yodeling punctuated with an occasional, self-appreciative laugh. I, of course, am convinced that something is horribly wrong, while my husband is convinced that I'm horribly worried for nothing.
I just find it ironic, I guess, that my child is a late talker. Anyone who has met me can attest to the fact that it's hard to shut me up once I get going. To underscore my point--when I was in the third grade, we put on a play called "The Case of the Missing Parts of Speech," and I was cast as the adverb "Too Much." My costume? A rainbow t-shirt and bright orange pants. You can recognize an adverb if you really try. It may help you if you notice that they often end in l-y! In high school I won all kinds of speech contests (with real trophies!) and even the community theatre's drama scholarship. But my kid? No talkie.
So basically now I'm just sitting around (getting fatter and) waiting for his verbal explosion, rumored to hit most kids around the 18-month mark (18 days away and counting). In the meantime, people do their best to pacify me with stories about their own late-talking toddlers, but mostly I just nod and smile politely. Too vivid are the sounds of my niece's perfect little voice. Sure, she's 4 months older than Lucas, but her words have always been clear, even early on-- "Baby!" "Kitty!" "Mommy!" And then there's Jim's boy, Noah, who is also 4 months older than Lucas. He not only knows his muppets, "This week he learned to say 'Bert' and 'Ernie' in the same day!" and his numbers (except for "2" apparently), but he has also graduated into the world of, "Fuck!" and other expletives.
I do find some comfort in the fact that otherwise Lucas is an excellent communicator. He waves, points, signs "All done," goes to his highchair when he's hungry, taps the fridge when he wants his sippy cup of milk, delivers a shirt to the cat when he wants us to dress it (another story entirely). And he is excellent at following directions--loves to put his own used diapers in the Diaper Genie, walks back to the crib at naptime, fetches random items on request, helps to put on his shoes, and so on. It's just that whole talking thing he doesn't quite get. Not yet, anyway. Not quite yet.
27 November 2006
12 November 2006
My Kingdom for a Toilet Lock
I'm not saying that I would kill for one exactly, but at this point I think I've comfortably worked my way up to "mame," "disfigure," and possibly "torture."
What I want is an old school toilet lock. The kind that somehow (I would tell you exactly how but--oh, that's right!--I can't FIND one) hooks under the rim and clamps down on top of the lid. The only kind we have been able to find in stores is a version that simulaneously attaches to both the tank and lid using suction cups. Suction cups. This seems like a great idea until you remember that--hey, how 'bout that?--the real reason one is supposed to use a toilet lock in a home with young children is to keep said children from drowning in toilet water. And they want me to keep my toddler from drowning using a highly developed system whereby suction cups act as the chief prevention mechanism? Riiight. Ron bought us one: It was successful for nearly 24 hours before Lucas figured out that if he wiggled his little finger around and hooked a nail under the edge of the top suction cup that he could easily pry the thing off. Brilliant. So obviously that whole idea went down the crapper, so to speak.
Not that I am afraid of Lucas drowning in the toilet. That's not my motivation here. But I would love--LOVE, mind you--to be able to get ready in the morning without either a) applying makeup at the vanity while holding down the toilet lid with my foot or 2) engaging in a version or versions of the following conversation:
"Lucas, close the lid please. No. No! Close it. Close it please. Thank you. Good boy!"
[Obligatory clapping. Lucas begins to peel small pieces of toilet paper from the side of the roll, as we have locked it down with a special device designed to prevent him from unrolling it entirely. He sneaks these one at a time under the lid and into the water.]
"Lucas no... wait...oh, okay. That's okay. Yes, toilet paper goes in the toilet. Yep, good job buddy."
[I hear splashing and glance down to see that Lucas has reached his right arm into the bowl and is gleefully swirling the water.]
"Oh! Lucas! No. NO! That's yucky. YUCKY," I emphasize as I pull his arm away and close the lid. I grab him around the waist and hoist him up just enough so that I can rinse his hand off in the sink. Then I dry Lucas with my free hand while he whines and I explain that Mommy's sorry but we don't put our hands in the yucky water. I put him down and hand him a squeaky purple bath toy. It might be a frog.
[Suddenly Lucas reaches all 8 of his arms in different directions, simultaneously grabbing my hairbrush, comb, etc. and attempts to slip everything into the toilet.]
"No, Lucas. NO! Hey! [I grab as many of the aforementioned items as I can and toss them into the empty bathtub and out of harm's way. I would put them in the vanity but it is safely child-proofed, meaning that it would take an adult approximately 5 minutes to break in, and right now I don't have that kind of time.] We don't put those things in the toilet. Those are Mommy's. Not for Lucas. For MOMMY."
And a version of this continues until I either give up the task at hand or assume the lumberjack position (leg up on the john). Shutting Lucas out of the bathroom altogether is only a viable option if I don't mind listening to, "Uh! Uh! Uh!" outside the door the whole time or, the other option, outright crying and the muffled thud of a sixteen-month-old throwing himself against the door. I am so jealous of my husband for being able to take a 15 minute shower 5 mintues before bed, well after our toddler has called it a night. No wet hair or second-day hair issues to contend with. No hair drying or styling. No makeup to apply. And he's currently sporting a beard, so no shaving to deal with. No facial regimen to keep up. No moisturizing to complete. Not to mention that if he needs it, he has the ball cap option. He would probably argue that this is a gender-neutral opportunity, but come on. In that case I might just as well raise the white flag & roll over.
So the quest for the lock continues. In the meantime, I am a lumberjack (and, for the time being at least, I'm okay). No really, I mean it.
What I want is an old school toilet lock. The kind that somehow (I would tell you exactly how but--oh, that's right!--I can't FIND one) hooks under the rim and clamps down on top of the lid. The only kind we have been able to find in stores is a version that simulaneously attaches to both the tank and lid using suction cups. Suction cups. This seems like a great idea until you remember that--hey, how 'bout that?--the real reason one is supposed to use a toilet lock in a home with young children is to keep said children from drowning in toilet water. And they want me to keep my toddler from drowning using a highly developed system whereby suction cups act as the chief prevention mechanism? Riiight. Ron bought us one: It was successful for nearly 24 hours before Lucas figured out that if he wiggled his little finger around and hooked a nail under the edge of the top suction cup that he could easily pry the thing off. Brilliant. So obviously that whole idea went down the crapper, so to speak.
Not that I am afraid of Lucas drowning in the toilet. That's not my motivation here. But I would love--LOVE, mind you--to be able to get ready in the morning without either a) applying makeup at the vanity while holding down the toilet lid with my foot or 2) engaging in a version or versions of the following conversation:
"Lucas, close the lid please. No. No! Close it. Close it please. Thank you. Good boy!"
[Obligatory clapping. Lucas begins to peel small pieces of toilet paper from the side of the roll, as we have locked it down with a special device designed to prevent him from unrolling it entirely. He sneaks these one at a time under the lid and into the water.]
"Lucas no... wait...oh, okay. That's okay. Yes, toilet paper goes in the toilet. Yep, good job buddy."
[I hear splashing and glance down to see that Lucas has reached his right arm into the bowl and is gleefully swirling the water.]
"Oh! Lucas! No. NO! That's yucky. YUCKY," I emphasize as I pull his arm away and close the lid. I grab him around the waist and hoist him up just enough so that I can rinse his hand off in the sink. Then I dry Lucas with my free hand while he whines and I explain that Mommy's sorry but we don't put our hands in the yucky water. I put him down and hand him a squeaky purple bath toy. It might be a frog.
[Suddenly Lucas reaches all 8 of his arms in different directions, simultaneously grabbing my hairbrush, comb, etc. and attempts to slip everything into the toilet.]
"No, Lucas. NO! Hey! [I grab as many of the aforementioned items as I can and toss them into the empty bathtub and out of harm's way. I would put them in the vanity but it is safely child-proofed, meaning that it would take an adult approximately 5 minutes to break in, and right now I don't have that kind of time.] We don't put those things in the toilet. Those are Mommy's. Not for Lucas. For MOMMY."
And a version of this continues until I either give up the task at hand or assume the lumberjack position (leg up on the john). Shutting Lucas out of the bathroom altogether is only a viable option if I don't mind listening to, "Uh! Uh! Uh!" outside the door the whole time or, the other option, outright crying and the muffled thud of a sixteen-month-old throwing himself against the door. I am so jealous of my husband for being able to take a 15 minute shower 5 mintues before bed, well after our toddler has called it a night. No wet hair or second-day hair issues to contend with. No hair drying or styling. No makeup to apply. And he's currently sporting a beard, so no shaving to deal with. No facial regimen to keep up. No moisturizing to complete. Not to mention that if he needs it, he has the ball cap option. He would probably argue that this is a gender-neutral opportunity, but come on. In that case I might just as well raise the white flag & roll over.
So the quest for the lock continues. In the meantime, I am a lumberjack (and, for the time being at least, I'm okay). No really, I mean it.
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