HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DB

And a post . . . 'cause this kid has taught me a lot!

T-Minus . . . 30 Days . . . Give or Take

Well . . . I am shocked to look at the calendar and discover we are approximately a month away from Demon Baby's 5th birthday.

Five years.

The glorious news is this means kindergarten in the fall. Though he tells me--DAILY--that he will NEVER go on the yellow school bus and leave me. I am both delirious with anticipation of some silence and me time. And horribly sad. My last little bird is leaving the nest. Albeit from 8:00 to 2:00.

Five years.

Five years of hilarious escapades. Of collapsed ceilings and broken vacuums. Of syrup thrown off the second-story landing and dogs fed Raisin Bran. Of my diamond ring ending up in the dog's water dish, and more crayon on my walls than Crayola could ever imagine. [DAMN them!]

I have loved this child as fiercely as a mother can. I have fretted over his little idiosyncracies. I have shed a LOT of tears of frustration. I have prayed. A lot. I have yelled in my weak moments, and cheered him on in the great moments.

And I decided it was time to change the name of the blog. I'm not sure yet. I'm thinking Wonder Boy and Me . . . but we'll see. He's not a Demon BABY anymore. But he is pretty special.

And for any long-time readers, it's a reminder. Time flies. Kiss your loved ones. Hug your kids. Ignore the crayon and even the syrup on the walls. Because SOMEDAY your baby will be a boy. And then before you know it . . . a man.

[P.S. And the top picture? Me TRYING to take our family Christmas pictures. It was a freezing cold day. December 20th to be exact. And he is barefoot and running around on the frozen ground. That says it all. I suppose I'm lucky he wore pants.]

Games with Demon Baby

As you can imagine, Demon Baby doesn't play games like other kids. His games are weirder.

Take Trivial Pursuit. He takes out the game board. He hands me cards. I make up questions, like, "What is 3 + 5?" or "What sound does a cow make?" When he gets the question correct, he gets a wedge. When he fills the round wheel, he gets to make a wish. (His rules, not mine.)

Last night, he filled the wheel in record time (I was too tired to invent challenging questions).

"I get to make a wish now."

"All right. Go ahead."

MINUTES later, his eyes were still closed.

"That's a long wish."

"No, just a hard one."

"Well, what are you wishing for?"

"Guess."

"All right, to be taller?" (Common wish for him.)

"Nope."

"For a toy?"

"Nope."

"Do NOT trot out the baby brother wish again. Please."

"Nope."

"I give up."

"I made a wish for you."

"For me? What kind of wish?" (A little teary-eyed, then panicky that he might wish for TWIN baby brothers or something.)

"I wished for you to get a unicorn."

"A UNICORN?!"

"Yeah."

"Um . . . wow. I am touched. Um . . . do you think I LIKE unicorns?"

"Everyone likes unicorns. They're cool. I think you should have one. It would make you happy. A pet unicorn."

"All right. But you know? Having you as my Demon Baby makes me happier than having a unicorn, so if the wish doesn't come true, you know, that's okay."

"Cool. Next wish? A pet giraffe for you. Trust me. It will make you really happy."

"Great. But maybe just wish for a laundress." (I'm just saying . . . )

Santa . . .

So Demon Baby had a lovely Christmas. He got an electronic guitar, Legos, a Nintendo DS, Ninja pants (black fleece pants from Old Navy, God bless them they make a pant he will wear at times), a large coloring book, and assorted other presents. Oh, and a lifelike baby bear. It makes noise. You feed it a bottle. It moves.

"WHAT?!" he asked when he opened it.

"It's a baby bear that moves," said I, thinking he wasn't quite sure.

"Santa is out of his mind. He brought me a GIRL present!!!!"

"It's not a girl present!" I shrieked in outrage.

"Is too! What am I supposed to do with THIS? GIRLS feed bears with a baby bottle."

"That is incredibly sexist. BOYS CAN TOO." Hoping to avoid an international incident, I hurriedly said, "Open another present."

Well, here it is about 10 days post Christmas. And guess what he carries around 24/7? His baby bear. And when he leaves the house to do anything, guess who is handed the bottle and told to keep up feedings, kiss it, tuck it in, wrap in in blankets and otherwise mother a fake baby bear?

Yeah. More work load for me.

But it seems Santa knew what she was doing.

Hug Your Children; Tell Someone You Love Them

http://ericaorloff.blogspot.com/2009/12/just-for-today.html

Demon Baby in Love

Demon Baby is in love.

Our next-door neighbor is a lovely woman, a good four decades+ older than Demon Baby, and a very attractive, warm-hearted lady. And she is the object of Demon Baby's affections.

I'm not sure how it started. How does any young man's heart turn to love? But he started slipping out of the house and running next door, ringing her bell, and then dashing down to the chair near her driveway to wait for her to answer. Then they would, in his words, "have a chat."

For a couple of weeks, that was all he would do. She would sit on her stoop and he would talk to her. At first, he was mostly shy, but then he started opening up.

Sometime around Halloween, he discovered she had leftover chocolate bars (she does not have children). So he finally took the big step and went INSIDE her house.

Now, every day, faithfully, he visits her. He draws with chalk. They "chat." He even watches TV there. I keep waiting for her to firebomb my house . . . I mean, surely she has work to do (she works from home). But she says he is an angel there.

Now, the upshot of all this? Love does strange things to a Demon Baby. Now, all I have to do is say, "Look, if you don't go to bed on time, tomorrow you can't visit next door." Suddenly, it's lights out.

And the other thing? He is so full of pride that he has a friend who appreciates him just the way he is. He comes home beaming each day. What a gift this woman is giving him.

And me. It's just a little window of peace each day.

Cold Hands, Warm Heart

I don't know if I have ever mentioned it on this blog, but I have Crohn's disease. I think I've had it since my teens, but I didn't get my diagnosis until I was almost 30 and lay dying in a hospital ER. My journey with the disease has been largely painful and definitely challenging. I was told not to have more children after my first. Well, I'm a mom of four . . . so . . . ups and downs and challenges and prayers. But here I am. Still fighting the fight.

However, lately, I have not been doing so great. It doesn't appear to be Crohn's so much as sort of the side effects (immune system). Each day, I run fevers. Needless to say, this can get exhausting. So I try to get into bed around 7:00 each night in my pjs and my children are all very solicitous. I have been to the hospital twice this week, and I know they are sweetly concerned. Even Demon Baby.

However, being a Demon Baby, he has found a USE for my illness. Hence, this conversation last night at bedtime.

"I'm going to snuggy in with you."

"Great."

"I'm freezing."

"You're only in underwear. It's nearly winter."

"I don't like clothes."

"I know."

"I don't like pajamas."

"I know."

"I like snuggling."

"I know."

He burrowed down next to me, under the covers. And then proceeded to lift my pajama shirt and stick his ice cold feet on my BELLY. I almost jumped out of bed!

"What are you doing?"

"Warming up my feet!"

"They're icicles!"

"Yes, but you are hotness!"

"Hotness?"

"Mama, when I touch you now, you are burning hot. I figure why wear clothes if you can just heat me up."

At that he pressed ice cold hands to my face. "See? You are my hotness."

"I have to admit, your cold hands feel good on my face, but I could do without icicle feet on my belly."

"It's just until you heat them up."

He snuggled closer. "Are you always going to be hot from now on?"

"I don't think so. I think the doctors will fix me."

"Do you really have to go to the hospital tomorrow?"

"I do."

"Will you take me with you?"

"I can't, Buddy."

"Well, when you come home, I will put my coldness on your face and make you feel better."

Oh, I could have done without the hospital this week. But you know, if you're going to have to be sick, a personal popsicle makes things all better.

This Is Unexpected

Demon Baby has decided he wants to study ballet.

That sound you hear?

The Four Horseman of the Apocalypse.

That other sound?

His father shrieking.

Me? I'm looking into classes.

In the meantime, it occupies him for an hour a day, listening to music and spinning, leaping, and so on.

And for the record, this is like Alvin Ailey modern-dance sort of ballet, I think. The kid seems to have a natural affinity for the athleticism.

I'll try to make a YouTube video.

In the meantime, in a life of many speechless moments with Demon Baby, this one caught me off guard.

I like that in a person.

Zen Mama

I never intended to be a mother of a Demon Baby. My other three children are very creative and wonderful and . . . calm. Oldest Son walked in to the house from high school yesterday and said, "I've thought about it and I think I want to be a Buddhist. I want to find enlightenment." That's Oldest Son, all right. Calm. Peaceful. Brilliant. Zen.

My other three didn't have childhoods like his, and I confess I spend a great deal of prayer time and a great deal of tears over how, precisely, to be a good mother to this amazingly wonderful HIGH-energy child, who makes me feel anything BUT zen.

This blog is full of his funny stories. But what I don't post . . . the fact that he gave up naps by a year or so old, was climbing from his crib at 13 months, and doesn't need to sleep. Some of his oddities, like needing a separate fork for all the items on his plate, and the off-the-charts tears and hysteria that can result if he doesn't have separate forks. It's not "faked" on his part. The anguish is palpable, so I spend time trying to understand the way he sees the world. I suppose that is the best I can do. And now . . . .

He has started escaping the house. And crossing the street. And going to neighbors' homes. Even at night. On nights without a moon. When it is pitch dark. So much for my showering in the evenings when the other kids are asleep. And recently? He sleepwalks.

So now I must purchase door alarms and all sorts of latches, not to keep intruders out, but to keep my child in.

Last night, I tucked him in around 9:30 (EARLY for him, since he does NOT sleep). And he popped into my room at 11:00 to watch the end of the Yankees game with me. We snuggled and he told me I was the best mother in the world. Something I wish were true, but is far from it.

"Well . . . I wish I was more patient. I'm sorry I sometimes yell at you. I guess I don't understand why you do such naughty things." (Oh, like peeing places he shouldn't, and kick-boxing his brother.)

"When you yell at me, I get angry and then it makes me want to do bad things. I have an evil king inside my head, and he sometimes tells me to do naughty things just to make you mad."

"Well, don't listen to your evil king."

"It's hard."

Oh, our conscience can be at work, even at age 4.

The blog? It really is to remember all the funny things, for the times when I want to cry. Discovering your child has left the house while you were asleep or folding laundry? That he is so fearless--even in the dark and the cold, to leave barefoot and go exploring? It strikes terror in me. I don't sleep. I make coffee and stay awake. And now, bless the man who told me where to get these alarms (Radio Shack). I don't like to use my deadbolt. Fear of a fire . . . I want the kids to be able to run out without fumbling for a lock. But now . . . along comes a special child. And so the way I used to do things has to change. The way I used to mother has changed. It is me . . . me who is walking barefoot in the dark, not quite sure of how to do things anymore.

His pediatrician said, "Would you want to medicate him?"

No. And occasionally I hear from a lurker or two to this blog who reprimand me and think all he needs is a really good spanking. I don't want to hear from you. That isn't the answer. And for me, neither is medicating the spark out of him. The pediatrician looked relieved and said, "Good. Because I just think he's a genius. Channel it."

But how can you channel something so remarkable?

It's funny to be a writer and a blogger. After I am gone, my children can read my words. I can only hope someday he will look at this and know how horribly inadequate I felt, how hard I tried, and how fiercely he was loved. He is God's practical joke. I thought I knew how to be a mother. But I have a lot left to learn. What is the zen saying? When the pupil is ready . . . the teacher will appear.

Namaste.

Demon Baby's New Career Ambition

Demon Baby, most of the time, plans to be a rock star. He wants to play guitar, and the kid has astounding rhythm. He doesn't walk from room to room. He bops his head and plays air guitar and moves like a rock star, hearing his own song. He takes "marching to a different drummer" to whole new levels.

Occasionally, he talks of going to outer space. He doesn't plan to go as an astronaut, but through magical powers, so . . . I don't know about that.

However, he has an entirely new career choice.

"So, Demon Baby, what do you want to be when you grow up?" I asked, making conversation.

"You know."

"I do know, but I thought I would check."

"All right then, I don't need to tell you."

"So you're still settled on rock star?"

"NO!"

"Well, then you haven't informed me. Because that was the last thing I knew you wanted to be."

"That's a maybe. Or I might do that too. But I have a totally better, really awesome job I'm going to do."

"Great! Let's hear it."

"I'm going to be the Tooth Fairy."

"All right. Great. Bring braces for your sister so I don't have to pay the orthodontist $5,000."

"Will do."

He hopped down from the chair he was standing on.

"A Tooth Fairy who also plays guitar," he said, as he bopped on out of the room.

Tastes Like Chicken

You know how . . . well, gosh, all sorts of other meats are said to "taste like chicken" (famously . . . frogs legs). The following conversation occurred last night around the fire pit in my backyard beneath a beautiful full moon.

*******************

"So maybe a squirrel will jump into the fire."

"I doubt it, Demon Baby."

"We have a lot of squirrels."

"Yes, we do, but I don't think any of them are going to go for self-immolation."

"But if a squirrel DID jump in the fire, I bet you it would taste like chicken."

"That's kind of gross, I don't want to eat squirrel meat."

"Well . . . do you know what chicken is even MADE of?"

"Chicken."

"No, birds."

"No, it's chicken."

"No. It's made of birds. Like tweet-tweet birds."

"No, it's made of gobble-gobble birds."

"Tweet-tweet."

"Gobble-gobble, cluck-cluck, cock-a-doodle-do."

"Still tastes like chicken."

****************************

So you can ponder that next time you serve chicken at your house.

Because I Can't Make This Stuff Up

I may be a novelist, but there is no way I can make this stuff up. The following is a true story. Every word of it.

***************

"Demon Baby . . . where are your pants?"

"I had to take them off."

"I doubt that. Go find your pants."

"No, I really had to take them off."

"Why?"

"They were scorched."

[Aside: as the mother of a Demon Baby, "scorched" is most definitely NOT a word I want to hear.]

"What do you MEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN scorched?"

"The fireplace is on."

"Please tell me you did not put your pants in the fireplace."

"No. I put my butt up to the fireplace."

"Why would you do that?"

In walks older sister, age 11.

"What happened?" I asked.

"He put his butt up to the fireplace glass."

"WHY? Can someone in this house tell me what is going on?"

"It's her fault my pants are scorched," said Demon Baby.

"Her fault?"

"Yeah. She told me our fireplace works on gas."

Older sister crosses her arms and rolls her eyes. "He was trying to fart into the fireplace to make the flames go higher."

*******************

Yeah. I know.

Playing Pretend with Demon Baby

This child's look says it all. He lives life with imagination and mischief.

So last night, Demon Baby and I played "restaurant." He cooked. I was the food taster. He has a lot of plastic food, an apron, a few utensils, and a play stove. He cooked me an assortment of food.

"Taste!" he commanded.

"Delicious."

"Quantify. How many stars?"

"How many stars?"

"For your review?"

"Oh. Five stars. I quantify this as a five-star meal."

"I need a BILLION lady."

"Then you better cook more food."

He went about cooking even more gourmet meals.

He fed me.

"Now how many stars?"

"A hundred thousand." (I mean, if I had to get to a BILLION . . .)

"That's better."

He cooked more. I had to feign rapture over each dish. "Delicious! . . . My compliments to the chef."

"You need to eat faster."

"Why?"

"Before a bomb explodes in my restaurant and sends us all to smithereens." (Only Demon Baby would combine worldwide destruction and playing restaurant.)

"Um . . . that's not a nice thought."

"These are not nice aliens, lady."

So I ate faster. "I'm really getting FULL, chef," I said after about a half-hour.

"I have JUST the solution for situations like these."

"What?"

"Open your mouth."

"But I'm full."

"Just open your mouth."

He approached me with his tiny pretend dust-buster vacuum. He held it up to my mouth. "This device sucks all the food out of you so you can eat again. You won't be full in about one minute. Just hold still."

So he sucked out all the food. "How very Roman of you, Demon Baby."

"It's not Roman. We just need to finish all this food before the aliens destroy our planet. It would be a shame to waste a five-star meal."

Demon Baby's New Pets

A jar full of worms.

There is a trail of dirt through my house that has me questioning whether Demon Baby is a little worm himself.

And for the record, he says his worms live in "soil," not dirt.

Just so you know. They're classy worms.

Romeo

So Demon Baby continues to overwhelm me with all sorts of romantic talk. I was sitting on the couch when he climbed up next to me. He said he wanted to tell me something. He leaned in close, moved my hair and whispered, "How are you my sexy lovely?"

But that's not all.

Yesterday, I was making him his favorite dish of noodles. He walked into the kitchen, hands on hips, and said, "I know the secret now."

"What secret?" I asked, stirring the pot.

"The secret of getting girls."

"Sure you do."

"No, really. It's all in the dancing."

Now, as an aside, Demon Baby has inherited from his father, who is Hispanic, true "Latin rhythm." The kid is pretty amazing on the dance floor.

"Dancing is a good way to get girls."

"But I know the trick."

"What trick?"

"You lie her backwards over your leg and you hold onto her head up in her hair and then lean down and kiss her on the mouth. The girls love it."

"You mean like dipping a woman in a tango?"

"Yeah. Dipping. It's all in the dip, Mom. That's how you get girls."

"Glad you're honing your technique at age four."

With that, he walked off and for the millionth time, I thought, Man, am I in trouble with this kid.

And Yet . . .

After the last post, it might seem as if Demon Baby has been tamed into a sweet little ball of sugary wonderfulness.

But then . . . .

The look says it all.

First Comes Love, Then Comes Marriage

Demon Baby came into my office yesterday, dressed (surprising) and soaking wet (alas, not so surprising).

"Why are you wet?" I asked.

"It's nothing."

My first instinct was to look up, since I have extensive ceiling damage from other "nothing" little incidents with water in the upstairs bathroom.

"Please tell me you didn't flood anything."

"I didn't."

"So why are you wet?"

"I combed my hair with water so I could look extra handsome."

"Well, you were very successful. You look EXTREMELY handsome!"

"Good. Because we're getting married."

"Who?"

"Me and you."

"Okay. I think I would like being married to you."

"You know how to get married?"

"Yeah. I've tried it before."

"First you find a beautiful girl. Then you make out. Then you marry her."

"Make out? Who told you about making out?"

He looked at me quizzically. "You don't know about making out? Everyone knows about making out. I'm four, and I know about making out. It means you kiss someone for a really long time. Then you get married."

"All righty, then."

"I love you SO SUPER MUCH."

"I love you too."

"Can you make me a peanut butter sandwich?"

"Sure."

Within a few minutes, he had forgotten all about the wedding. But having four kids, including one adult and one teenager . . . with an 11-year-old in middle school, I know the days of thinking I'm wonderful are numbered. So for today . . . I am engaged to a wonderful Demon Baby who is very handsome and loves me SO SUPER MUCH.

Grandma

Demon Baby has only one Grandma. Technically, he does have two, but his paternal grandmother so loathes me she cut all four children out of her life nearly 11 years ago. As this blog attests . . . I don't know how you could NOT want a Demon Baby to love, but so it is. He doesn't really know who she is or that she exists, and it is very much her loss since he is so special. Hence, in Demon Baby's world there is ONE Grandma.

So two days ago, he was my helper in the kitchen and the following conversation ensued.

"What are we making?"

"Vietnamese rice paper rolls with peanut sauce."

"WHAT are you DOING with my peanut butter [aside, his favorite food]?!?!?!?!" [second aside, there was a note of hysteria to his voice.]

"Turning it into a sauce."

"That's gross."

"You'll see. Now . . . we're going to take this leftover chicken and cut it into pieces to stuff inside the rolls."

"You know who makes chicken sandwiches?"

"No, but I'm sure you will tell me."

"Pop." [my father]

"Really?"

"Yeah, but I gotta tell you, Pop is not a good cooker. You know what he does? He puts a ton of salt on his chicken sandwiches. And he makes the counter a mess." [true.]

"Hmm. Well, I am sure it's because he can't see the counter well." [my father is blind, and when he comes to stay for a few weeks, I think it's hard because my kitchen countertops are very dark.]

"You know who is a REALLY good cooker?"

"Who?" [I was hoping for ME.]

"His mother!" [i.e., his WIFE, my mother, Demon Baby's lone Grandma.]

"His MOTHER?"

"Yeah. The lady with the white hair. Now, let me tell you, SHE can cook a chicken."

"I know. She used to cook for me when I was your age."

"You were never my age."

"I was."

"And Pop's mother cooked for you?"

I nodded.

"Did she make you noodles with butter?"

"Yes."

"And those little pizzas?"

"Yes."

"Did she give you ice cream?"

"Yeah."

"Pop's mother is the best."

"She is."

"Is she coming to live with us for Christmas again?"

"Yes. For a few weeks. Her and Pop."

"Will she cook?"

"Sure."

"All right. Just tell her to keep Pop out of the kitchen. He's too messy with the salt."

And of course, then the IRONY struck me. Here was a DEMON BABY telling me a 75-year-old grandfather of eleven was too MESSY. Approximately 5 minutes after this conversation took place, Demon Baby accidentally dumped a box of Life cereal on the floor in the family room. But at least he doesn't get salt on the kitchen counters.

Rock Star with a Demon Baby Twist

So Demon Baby wants to be a rock star. He plays on my guitar, and he plays with his brother's Guitar Hero guitar. Last night, he gave me a twenty minute performance. This entails him playing the Guitar Hero guitar, while he does an assortment of "na-na-naaaaaaaaa-na-na" guitar sounds. He moves his fingers expertly on the frets. He falls to his knees and shuts his eyes at intense moments. He does the various rock star tricks (bottom photo).

Yesterday I was exhausted. Ostensibly, I went into my room, to BED, to try to get rid of a raging headache. After twenty minutes of "na-na-naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-na" at the top of his lungs, and the acrobatics on my bed, I was even more tired (though bemused and in a better mood).

"Please, Demon Baby, just let Mama rest for a bit."

"I just have to do one more thing."

"What?"

"SMASH the guitar on the stage!!"

At which, he leapt up and began pounding it, a la Pete Townsend, into the bed.

I realized he was more riveting to watch than many bands I've seen. He was pure rock fury. He was into it. He was lost in his rock 'n' roll world.

Which is both . . . amazing . . . and a little frightening.

Music lessons are in his future. I need to channel this energy.

Chosen

Yesterday, Demon Baby was exceedingly good and VERY talkative. He wanted to help clean the house and he articulated every single thought that was in his very smart little head.

"Holy what the heck! What is in this living room?" he screamed as he cleaned up toys.

"Holy what the heck, it's the mess you made."

At the end of a long, exhausting day, I said, "You were so great today. Thanks for being such a helper. I'm really proud of you."

"I think all my meanness is gone."

"You're not mean," I said.

"Well . . . you know, my naughtiness. When I fight my brother and spit on the floor and stuff. I think that's all out of my bloodstream."

This I pondered. Where does this kid GET these concepts?

"I'm glad you are not fighting your brother anymore, and I am really glad about the spitting."

"I bet sometimes you want to trade me for a really, really good kid who doesn't spit."

"Nope."

He cocked his head at me. "Come on. What about a kid who doesn't bring worms in the house."

"Nope."

"All right, what about the time I peed in your closet."

"I could have done without that, but nope." I leaned over. "You are perfect. You are made precisely perfect just the way you are. I think it's a good thing your meanness has left your bloodstream, but I wouldn't have traded you for all the well-behaved kids in the world."

He looked pretty pleased with that answer. Then I kneeled down, eye to eye. "I know this is kind of a big concept, but I think before you were born, your soul CHOSE me, and I think I CHOSE you. And I think we're perfect for each other."

He nodded, eyes shiny. "So even if I spit, you won't trade me."

"Even if you spit."

And off he went.

I'll be honest, there are days when I would like five minutes of peace and quiet. But I do think he chose me. And I chose him. And holy what the heck, that's just the way God works.