Naked Baby Syndrome

This wasn’t like the time my mom told me I was a pain in the ass to feed as a child. No, it wasn’t like that at all because I always knew that one day the same thing would happen to me, and then it did, and I was like, Sweet Jesus. Karma, you are one bad-ass Judy. This time, there were no warnings or secret whisperings that it would happen to me. Sure, I had heard about it. I knew other people that it had happened to. And occasionally I paused to wonder if Thumper would one day develop it, but the worry would pass and I’d go on with my comfortable existence. That is, until a few weeks ago when I noticed Thumper starting to pull off her shorts at bath time. I suspected that it was about to happen, I just didn’t know it could happen so fast.

A few days later, I was at my parents' for a family barbeque. When I called Thumper for dinner, my topless child bounded into the room. We all giggled and I laughed it off saying that the tank top she had been wearing was too big and probably made it easy for her to wiggle out of. Fifteen minutes later, she was in only a diaper. This was fine with me, as long as the diaper stayed on. I don’t mind baby nakedness, I just don’t want to be responsible for cleaning the pee out of my parents’ carpets. Five minutes after that, my dad alerted me to the removal of the diaper. As I put it back on her, my sister-in-law told me about our friend’s daughter stripping in the middle of the night and peeing all over the bed. We laughed, and internally I hoped it wouldn’t come to that for us.

But of course after Thumper was in bed for the night, Dawson went to check on her and sure enough, she was naked from the waist down and sitting in a crib full of pee. We changed the sheets, put her down again and then checked on her awhile later. Again, naked from the waist down, sleeping in pee. And so began the Naked Baby Syndrome.

For the next few days it seemed like everywhere we went, every time we turned around, another piece of Thumper’s clothing disappeared until there was nothing but a bare bum running around and peeing all over our stuff. Everyone kept commenting that she must be ready for potty training. I had a hunch that that wasn’t the case at all. The hunch I had was watching Thumper scream when we tried to put her on the potty naked. So I did what any modern mom would do, and called the doctor looked it up on the Internet. I read a bunch of articles suggesting that in some cases, Naked Baby Syndrome is not about potty training at all. For some kids, it’s just about asserting more of their new-found independence by being able to take off their own clothes. I instantly knew this was the case for Thumper. Just that morning, she had whipped off her shorts, then brought them over to me and asked me to put them back on. She had also made a game of regularly undressing her dolls and Barbies and making me re-dress them. So I did what any modern mom would do, and did exactly as the doctor Internet instructed.

I started giving Thumper twenty minutes of “nude-y time” every day where she is allowed to be as naked as she wants. If she wants to wear a shirt but no pants, fine. If she wants to wear only a diaper, great. If she wants to be full-on naked, okay. The hope in doing this is that it gives her a chance to practise taking off her clothes and she gets to decide exactly what to take off, thereby making her feel like she is in control. And if you have a toddler, you know very well that the only thing toddlers want more than your attention and an abundance of Disney-related possessions is full control. The only two rules for nude-y time are that naked babies are not allowed on the carpet, and if the naked baby has to pee or poop, she must sit on the potty.

Having figured out the reason for Thumper’s Naked Baby Syndrome, I felt confident that I could get it under control. Not only did I implement nude-y time, but I resigned myself to the fact that it wasn’t going to be an instant fix. I knew there was going to be a transition period. So for the first week, I waited outside of her room at nap and bedtime, going in every few minutes to either stop her from taking off her clothes or to put them back on for her. I could tell that most of the time, Thumper was just looking to get a reaction out of me. And although there were times where I was ready to give her one, I managed to not make a big deal out of it. It usually only took 4 or 5 times of doing this before she tired of the game and fell asleep. It was repetitive and frustrating at times, but eventually it worked.

So naturally, afterward I felt all triumphant and victorious. Suck it, Naked Baby Syndrome! I WIN! And let me tell you, I seriously needed this win because I am losing the dinner battle hard and suffering a slow and cruel death as a result. It’s worse than the death by time-outs. I also caught Thumper trying to climb out of her crib the other night. Lucky for both of us, she got stuck halfway and couldn’t catapult herself over the edge. At any rate, it seems I’ve got trickier problems on the horizon.

-Alice

Alice's (Un)Helpful Advice

Recently my friend, the Social Caterpillar, put out a call to arms bat signal plea for help. She confessed the truth about another one of her lovable yet awkward quirks that, if left untreated, could possibly do damage to the psyche of many as well as directly affect the future status of her uterus. She admitted to being horribly uncomfortable around children. Not because she doesn’t like them, quite the opposite really. She wants to be super-fun, ultra badass, always-brings-the-LOLs Auntie Caterpillar to all children she meets so that they will “cry real tears when I’m leaving.” She asked me to write a post about how to talk to children without making an ass of yourself and I said I wouldn’t mind doing so at all. I just can’t promise that I have anything useful to say. This is because I too am embarrassingly stupid around tiny humans.

Prior to having Thumper, I had zero experience with children. I never babysat when I was younger, mostly because there was no one to babysit. I’m the youngest of four, and have no younger cousins. My siblings didn't start having kids until the time that I surprisingly, but happily, found out I was expecting Thumper. So I went through life blissfully dim when it came to children. This is probably why everyone was so shocked when they found out I was pregnant. Well, that and the fact that I was known to like an alcoholic beverage or two (or seven) every now and then, as well as take off my shoes and/or cry over the inevitable piece of jewellery I’d break while consuming said beverages.

To say the least, my experience in Mommyland has been quite the learning curve. Having no reference point means taking everything as it comes and crossing my fingers that I don’t screw it up too badly. Since my child is still young enough to pronounce “you’re welcome” as “yelcome” and “grandpa” as “paca,” I have yet to encounter the awkward stage of talking to a child who can form full sentences and therefore carry on a regular conversation.  The most interaction I have with an “older” child is with my friend's son, and he’s only three.

Truth be told, I was mildly bewildered when I first started hanging out with the aforementioned friend because her son offered a lot more verbal back-and-forth than Thumper did at the time. And before him, I had never met a three year old I felt the need to impress. But the pressure was on. If he didn’t get along with Thumper that was one thing, but if he didn’t get along with me, then I would’ve had to kiss my newfound friendship goodbye. So not only am I inept at interacting with other people’s kids, but my situation may be worse than the Caterpillar’s because people expect me to be good at it since I have a spawn of my own.

Since I’ve started working in a restaurant again, I’m faced with this inadequacy on a weekly basis. Before I was a mother, it didn’t matter if I was awkward with the kids I served. I tried my best to be cheerful and engaging but I think the expression on my face usually alternated between panic and exasperation. But that was okay because when you don’t have kids, people rarely expect more than the basic pleasantries from you. Now it’s as if people think I should be able to serve families with some form of grace and poise and a level of fun-ness unattainable to those without children. Say what? Having kids is not a gateway to any of those things. In fact, it’s just the opposite. Since having Thumper I generally live in a constant state of chaos and worry, where any hint of ‘aw isn’t that cute’ or ‘we are having so much fun’ is usually marred by objects flying all over the place in unhinged toddler rage.

So to answer Caterpillar’s question of what the secret is for kid-talk, I guess I say: I have no fucking clue. Let me know when someone has real insight for you because I could also benefit from it. However, I will offer this piece of potentially helpful advice: if you think that your sub-par child-rearing skills is a reason not to have kids, then you’re wrong. An acceptable reason to not have kids is if you hate kids or are prone to punching kids. Or, you know, if you do copious amounts of illegal drugs, I would strongly suggest you work that shit out before getting pregnant. At any rate, interacting with your own kids will always be easier than doing so with someone else’s, unless you’re giving a sex talk, in which case it’s proportionality awkward either way. 

My other piece of helpful advice is to stop caring if you’re a big weirdo around kids. As long as you’re not being creepy-weird or rude, no one will judge you. Like I said, parents don’t expect non-parents to have a clue how to act because none of us did either until we were forced to figure it out when that baby was placed in our arms. I suppose I should listen to my own advice on this front. I do tend to over-worry that other people will think I’m an inadequate parent when I make a fool of myself in front of their tiny humans. But the reality is that being awkward in front of other people’s kids doesn’t mean you are or will be a bad parent. Similarly, being able to make other people’s kids pee their pants with your awesomeness and hilarity and fun-filled antics doesn't always equate a good parent. I hate to break it to you, but once that kid comes out of your vag, you will become as whacked out as the rest of us.

I'm sorry and you're welcome.

-Alice