To raise a child -- whether said child has Downs or not -- is to sign up for a lifetime of constant surprises, I think. Some surprises are awe-inspiring. Some are unpleasant. And some are more far-out than anything Rod Sterling could've ever cooked up.
Looking back at the past week, Ava's first birthday seems to have been a starting gun of a sprint toward maturity. She's suddenly picked up on the series of motions to nursery song her Daddy and I sing to her repetitively throughout our day, even showing an understanding of simple rhythms by clapping in time with us. She's currently attempting to interpret "Itsy Bitsy Spider" through finger motions she can perform. Crap, I'm a fairly dexterous gal, but I can hardly preform the motions smoothly myself! Just watching her attempt to mimic what we're doing tickles the tar outta me.
On the flip side of the coin, her desire to please seems balanced with a very strong drive to play with what she wants, when she wants. If I'm in the process of changing her and she decides she wants to play with a tube of ointment sitting at the edge of the table, she will roll through whatever mess is underneath her in order to get close enough to swipe that tube. If I try to gently wrestle her back into changing position, she will blast me with those trademark lungs of hers and very often pitch a kicking, shrieking FIT!
This kinda shocked me the first time she did it. It wasn't that I expected my daughter to be naturally perfectly behaved all the time; I was just shocked that she was already learning to pit her will against mine by throwing a true toddler-style temper tantrum.
What Miss Tootlebritches didn't count on was this: when it comes to addressing the onset of tantrums, I am of the Andy Griffith school of parenting. I just looked on calmly while she whipped herself into a frenzy, waited until she looked over AT me to check and see if I was waiving a white flag yet, and then calmly asked her, "Whatcha doing?"
She'd wail and give her best forehead-wrinkly Beaker face.
I cocked an eyebrow.
She'd give one final holler. "MEH!"
I'd say, "Just let me know when you're done."
*snif*
And then I'd wipe two little tears from her red eyelashes, sit her up, and kiss her when she was calm again. Then I'd put whatever she wanted back where it was --even if it was within her reach -- just so she could learn that there are some things she will have to learn to resist just because Mommy Said No.
Seems to work pretty well so far.... All the better if she's well-rested.
To balance out all this, she's become....well, I wouldn't say picky about food, because she'll try almost anything on MY plate. She absolutely will not tolerate baby food anymore, as of this week. She'll eat veggie bits, pasta, freeze-dried fruit, tomato bits from chunky salsa, cereal, and paper napkins, if we're not careful. But she won't allow me to put a spoonful of baby mush in her mouth, even if it's laced with ThickIt. She gags something pitiful, then puts her foot down by refusing to unhinge her jaw for anything other than what she can pick up and place in her mouth herself.
I secretly think that once she got a mouthful of MawMaw Mills' cooking, there was no turning back. She's been begging off little bits of marinated pork chop and butter beans ever since. This quick shift to big people food just shocked me. Makes me nervous, of course, so I chop and shred everything into wee bitty bits, but of all the food she tries, she unconcernedly rolls it around in her mouth, giving it all a thorough gumming before she swallows.
For someone without a tooth in her head, she sure can tear up some pig.
No comments:
Post a Comment