Shannon Phillips

Just now Robin came up to me laughing his head off. “What?” I asked him.

“Farted!” he burbled. “Funny!”

It’s hard to remember now how eager I was for him to learn to talk, for the day when we could have real conversations. He talks now—really talks: he speaks in sentences as often as not, although he still tends to be economical with words. But the content of his conversation is not quite as sublime as I had maybe been imagining.

Nights around here have continued to be difficult. Davy still isn’t sleeping for more three hours at a stretch, and Robin almost always wakes up too, needing cuddles. I wrote Nina a few days ago:

After another round of sleep-fail last night I’m resolved to get Davy his own crib. He’s so unlike Robin—he really doesn’t like to be crowded when he’s asleep. Here’s what happened last night, which was absolutely a typical night:

I put Robin to bed at around 8:30. Robin insists on being cuddled to sleep—he won’t go to bed unless there’s someone lying down with him. Once Robin was asleep in his own bed I moved over to our
bed. Meanwhile Sam was bouncing the baby to sleep. When Davy was asleep Sam laid him down beside me, making sure to position him so he had plenty of room in the bed.

This arrangement worked fine until nearly midnight, when Sam decided that he’d like to go to sleep himself, and moved the baby over to the center of the bed, causing him to wake up and cry. I nursed him and Sam bounced him and I nursed him again, and we eventually got him back to sleep, but from midnight to 2am he slept fitfully—waking up periodically to squirm and cry before drifting off again. As a result I got almost no sleep during this period.

At 2am Davy woke up crying and didn’t go back to sleep, so I changed him and was giving him another feeding when Robin woke up and started calling “Daddy, bed–Daddy, bed, please.”

“Are you going to get in bed with him?” I asked Sam.

“Yeah, in a minute,” Sam mumbled, and promptly rolled over and went back to sleep.

“Daddy, bed, please,” Robin chanted. “Bed, Daddy, bed.”

“I’m feeding the baby, I can’t go over there,” I said to Sam, who snored deeply.

“Bed, Daddy,” said Robin, and then, apparently deciding that if the mountain wasn’t going to come to Mohammed that Mohammed should go to the mountain, climbed out of his bed and came over to ours.

At this point I shook Sam ferociously and said rather grumpily, “He’s up now, are you happy?”

“What?” said Sam, startled. “Huh? Robin, what are you doing out of bed?”

Then Sam and Robin went back to lie down in Robin’s bed, and Davy got Sam’s half of the bed, which made him perfectly happy, and everybody slept soundly until 5:30, when Sam’s alarm went off. Then the baby wanted another feeding, and Sam got up to go to work (feeling all achy because he spent half the night sharing a twin bed with a three-year-old). Afterwards me and the kids all went back to sleep until a bit after 7, when Robin woke up. This counts as “sleeping in” and as a result I’m actually fairly well rested today, on a relative scale, even though I haven’t had more than three hours of consecutive sleep for…oh, as long as I can remember.

Last night, though, was different! I was having an allergic reaction to something, so we went and got some Benadryl (I haven’t had any allergy problems since we moved into this house, but apparently there’s something in the air right now). It knocked me out like a light and I went to bed at 7:15. Sam put Robin to bed and ended up sleeping with him all night, with the result that Robin didn’t wake up and Davy slept well. I still had to get up and feed him every three hours, but with the Benadryl’s influence I fell asleep again immediately afterwards, and when we all got up a full twelve hours later I felt…amazing. It’s not even noon yet and I’ve done a load of dishes, three loads of laundry, taken out the trash, swept the floor, scrubbed the stove, and cleaned out the refrigerator—all in between things like feeding the kids, changing diapers, and playing with dinosaurs. I don’t even recognize myself. I’ve been sleep-deprived for so long that I’d forgotten what having energy feels like.

In retrospect, this also probably also explains why I was sick for six weeks the past couple months. I’ve been completely exhausted, of course I’m going to have trouble fighting off or recovering from illness.

Another thing that’s got me off-kilter today is that a new family has moved into a house at the end of the street, and they’ve got three bullmastiffs in their yard.

I don’t have a general problem with the bullmastiff breed. I mean, it’s not like they’re pit bulls. But I have a problem with these three dogs.

A bullmastiff is totally capable of ripping a three year old child to shreds in seconds, and these particular bullmastiffs are obviously convinced that their job is to scare away anybody who happens to get too close to their property. Unfortunately, “too close” includes the sidewalk, and in particular a stretch of sidewalk that we walk down twice each day—once to go to the park, and once to come back.

They’re behind a wrought iron fence. A wrought iron fence that has lots of gaps in it. And my three year old is CRAZY about dogs, ADORES them, wants nothing more in his whole soul than to get up right next to them and pat them and be licked by them, and when he sees three bullmastiffs leaping around behind a wrought iron fence and barking their heads off—barking a message that to an adult human translates very clearly to “Put a toe on my property and I will FUCK YOU UP”—what he thinks is “Ooh! Doggies!”

It just makes our daily walk a lot more stressful. And that family has a kid (an older kid, but still) living there, too. Why on earth would you want three big angry aggro dogs in a house with kids? It’s senseless.

I guess I knew it had to happen sooner or later, but I’ve been dreading the day that Robin learns how mean other kids can be. He’s nothing but the soul of sweetness himself: I think since he doesn’t see other kids regularly, he’s always just delighted to get a chance to play, and he’s very friendly and downright eager to share his toys. Today when we got to the park there were a bunch of other little boys—two just about his age and one littler. Robin was thrilled and immediately grabbed his truck and trotted over to the nearest kid, offering to share.

However this little boy was shy, and his dad commented that he has the same truck at home (it is quite popular around here), so Robin’s maneuver wasn’t the successful ice-breaker that he’d intended. The other boy—his name was Owen—wouldn’t say “hi” even at his dad’s prompting, and in fact kept turning to put his back to Robin. This was fine; I just explained to Robin that Owen was feeling shy and suggested that we move on.

So Robin took his truck and went up to the other little boy, who was playing in the sandbox. Robin smiled and held out his truck. The other boy scowled and threw a cup full of sand straight into Robin’s face.

Robin wailed, of course. His eyes were crusted with sand and he immediately rubbed them, which only made things worse. The other parents made their horrible little monster say he was sorry and then hastily packed him up and left the park, possibly because I might have murdered him if he remained within reach. It was just awful. My little boy was being so friendly and so nice and here he was, hurt for no cause, just because some other kid was a little jackass.

I got the sand out of Robin’s eyes as best I could, and assured him over and over that he’d been good and I was so sorry for what had happened. And he bounced back, as three year olds do. Owen’s dad came over and commiserated, and the littlest boy—who, as it turned out, was Owen’s little brother Patrick—came over to show Robin his ball. So Robin played with Patrick for a bit, and watching them Owen got over his shyness, until by the end of our time at the park Owen and Robin were running all around like the best of friends. In fact as we were getting read to leave Owen said, “Maybe I could have a playdate with Robin?” And his dad agreed that sounded like a good idea, so I gave him our phone number. So it all ended well for Robin, but it was a pretty difficult episode nonetheless.

I hope Owen’s dad does call. (He does in fact have a name of his own, which is Michael, but his slot in my brain is “Owen’s dad.”) Owen was a real nice kid, and his birthday is within a month of Robin’s, and his family lives nearby. It would be awfully nice for Robin to have a neighborhood friend.

Exciting news at the Phillips household! We have put down a deposit, and are on the waiting list to bring home an American Mastiff puppy from Capell Creek Kennels when the next litter is born. The puppies won’t be born for a couple of months, and won’t be old enough to bring home for a little while after that, but: we are going to get a puppy!

We visited the breeder last spring and spent a great day getting to know her dogs. Our favorite of the pack was Molly, so when I saw on the website that Molly is expecting, I started lobbying hard for a puppy. Robin, of course, is highly enthusiastic about the idea as well.

We did a lot of research into various dog breeds, and settled on the mastiff because: a) they have a great reputation with kids, b) they have a low prey drive, meaning that they get along well with smaller animals like chickens, and c) their exercise needs are moderate—unlike a Lab which really needs to run every day, a mastiff is happy with a long walk. From the breed standard:

The American mastiff is a combination of grandeur, good nature, and gentleness. Dignity rather than gaiety. They are neither shy nor vicious. The well trained American Mastiff is calm, controlled, and confident. Understanding, patient, and loving with their family, especially children. They are generally aloof towards strangers. A well-socialized American Mastiff is friendly yet sensitive and alert to changing situations. They are not aggressive by nature but will defend their family if necessary. They respond to threats with judicious warnings and courageous action if needed.

The mastiff is one of the “gentle giant” breeds, related to both the Newfoundland and the Saint Bernard, but short-haired. The American mastiff was created by an outcrossing of the English mastiff with the Anatolian shepherd: as a result they look and behave a lot like English mastiffs, but tend to be somewhat leaner and a bit more active. They also have a drier mouth than the standard English mastiff, and fewer problems with hip dysplasia. The breed is tightly controlled: we’re actually lucky to have the Capell Creek kennels near us, as there are only eleven breeders worldwide approved by the American Mastiff Breeders Council.

I am super excited about the puppy. What should we name it? So far the shortlist is: Ada, Nora, Lucy, or Dahlia (nickname Dolly) for a girl, and probably Virgil for a boy. I told my sister about the names and she observed, hilariously, that Virgil is such a dignified name that she’d find it somehow mortifying to watch Virgil poop. So there’s that to consider I guess!

Last night we bought a bottle of prosecco and set it to chill, lit a fire in the fireplace (for the first time!) and made plans to have ourselves a cozy, romantic New Year’s Eve after the kids were in bed.

Then we fell asleep at 10 pm. I guess we’ll save the prosecco for some other occasion.

Happy New Year to all! I hope the upcoming year is full of luck and splendor.

So, we all picked up colds on the plane back from Arkansas—Robin was the first to succumb and the first to bounce back, and Sam recovered quickly as well, but Davy and I have been dealing with lingering congestion and low-grade fevers. This morning when I picked up Davy I saw that he had what looked like snot coming out of his ear. We took him to the pediatrician, who confirmed that the poor little dude has an ear infection. It’s pretty common for colds to trigger ear infections in children—as the Dr. Sears website explains, “The middle ear space is also connected to the back of the nose via the Eustachian tube. In infants and young children this tube is much shorter and is angled. It is therefore much easier for bacteria to migrate from the nose and throat up into the middle ear space.”

The buildup of mucus and pus in his inner ear actually caused a perforation in Davy’s eardrum, which is why the grody stuff was coming out his ear. This is common too, and the doctor assured us that his eardrum will heal. In fact, he’s probably feeling a lot more comfortable now that the pressure in his ear has eased. So he’ll be on antibiotics for the next ten days, and we’ll see the doctor again in two weeks.

My brother Bob took this photo in Fayetteville, when we were visiting last week. I love the way it shows off his starry eyes and long eyelashes. It also kind of looks like he’s playing a guitar!

Robin had a great time helping me make this card. I cut out the letters; he applied the paste and, with some prodding (“Now we need a D, can you find a D?”) glued them down in the right order. He also provided some of the interior artwork.

Davy didn’t help a bit, but we don’t hold it against him.

Robin’s at the age where he often reflects our own words and actions back to us. Sometimes this is sweet. Yesterday I knocked the soap dish onto the floor (where it shattered) and Robin came running in to see what had happened. “Are you okay? Are you okay?” he asked. Immediately I realized: this is what I do to him! Whenever there’s a crash from the other room, I come running and the first thing I ask is: “Are you okay?” So Robin has determined that this is what you do when you hear a crash.

“I’m fine, little man, thanks for asking,” I said.

Sometimes the mirroring is not so sweet. Robin also has developed the habit of shouting, randomly but with great glee, “God dammit!” So now we are engaged in some fancy verbal footwork, trying to convince him that what we say is “Gosh darn it,” and that shouting “Gosh darn it” is waaaayyyy more fun than trifling with the third commandment—or second to the Catholics; I have just this minute learned from Wikipedia that parsing the Ten Commandments is not at all straightforward. Who knew! Anyway, we already have enough trouble with the fact that Robin pronounces the “tr” sound as if it were an F, and that he really likes to talk about trucks.

Davy likes to practice mirroring too. Smile at him, and he’ll smile at you. Coo at him and he’ll coo at you. Tickle him, and he’ll chortle with glee and wave his chubby arms and legs in the air. Okay, that one’s not mirroring, but it’s still a lot of fun.