Wiggly Waffle

Middle-aged men, clad in colorful jumpers and Australian accents are jumping, dancing, and singing through my television set, transfixing my son at 6:00am. Who are these uniformed men and why do they have so much energy and why do they have so much power over my "almost two" years old boy? The Wiggles, of course.

Awaking from a full night's (if we are lucky) sleep, the boy will sometimes call for "Mama" or "Dada", but more likely, he will shout for "Banana", "Blue-berry", or his favorite"Wiggly Waffle." Wiggly Waffles are a perfect blend of his love for food and television.

My son is addicted to TV. Well, I embellish. He is not "addicted" but has a very real devotion to certain programs and characters, like Elmo and The Wiggles. Before having a baby, I thought that I would be one of "those" moms. You know the type. They breastfeed for at least 12 months, make their own organic baby food, and do not introduce TV watching to their kids until the American Pediatric Association's recommended second year of life - and then only with a strict two hour a day limit and content, of course.

My upstairs neighbor, a perfectly lovely woman, with two beautiful children, and does not work outside the home. Her youngest shares the same birth - day & year as my son. In fact my son is two hours older than her son. One afternoon, in an effort to be validated (my husband's least favorite word) by the fact that my less than one year old - at the time - liked watching certain children programs, a lot - I asked if her son does as well. Politely, and with genuine humility - she said something like ... "We try keep him away from the television. When my daughter watches TV, I take him in the other room". I was aghast.

A weakness of mine throughout my lifetime has been comparing myself to others. Friendly, non-athletic competition, has always motivated and inspired me. Spending more time preparing for an exam or completing a report for work early are types of silly things that have made me feel superior in someway. Sometimes such comparison, depresses me rather than comforts me, as it should. Inevitably thoughts like, How do they own a house in this fancy-dancey community? Or, How does she look like *that* after just having a baby? And, bingo, I start to feel badly about myself. Not healthy. Not productive. Yet, irresistible.

It is easy to compare oneself to the standard that which you think is paramount. As easy as it to try to keep up with neightbor or the uber-by-the-book parents, I try to focus on what is important. I love my son more than the day is long and would do anything for his unwaivering happiness and well-being - and, sometimes, that involves indulging a ounce or two of The Wiggly Waffle on a Saturday morning while the rest of the house sleeps.