Chuck Effing Cheese

Guess what! We went to Chuck E. Cheese yesterday.

It went super well.

Oh fine, Noah actually did have fun -- his own Noah-ish kind of fun; the kind that involves just sort of wandering around aimlessly and suspiciously, perhaps occasionally deigning to go down a slide....

Pausing, of course, to read the Toddler Zone Safety Guidelines on the wall first.

Or to play with the boring toys that other kids ignore in favor of the ones with GIANT SMASHING HAMMER THINGS...

Seek the tomb of a knight a pope interred? WTF?

Or to watch the giant singing rat from a respectful distance...

Hey now! You're an all-star! Get your game on! For $20 in tokens, go play!

Or to just be the all-around most serious child ever to set foot in the place...

Did everybody here get their Kid Check hand stamp? Yes? Good.

He liked sitting in some of the rides, but freaked out if I put a token in and made it move or light up or do absolutely anything at all. It was kind of sweet, though, the way he would frantically sign ALL DONE ALL DONE and then run off in search of more stationary fun, like a row of HIGH CHAIRS WHEE AWESOME!

So I took our tokens and played some skeeball. Maybe a lot of skeeball.

I got pretty good.

Total winnings: 615 tickets, including a few ill-gotten ones since we got there right after they opened, and apparently the games all shoot out a strip of tickets when they get turned on (dirty!), so we casually wandered around and collected all the extra tickets. We scored about 85 tickets this way, which is enough for a very small harmonica or four Tootsie Rolls.

My 615 tickets got me some kind of rubbery choking hazard that sort of resembles a lion, a Spider Man coin purse because Noah clearly needs something to keep all his dollah bills and bizness cards in, and a hard pointy plastic dinosaur that is now his most cherished possession ever and the reason for the photo at the top of this post. He kept dropping the dinosaur behind the TV cabinet and then weeping over the loss, then I would retrieve the stupid thing only to have him intentionally drop it again. And then he would cry. Because. He dropped the toy he wanted. On purpose. Over and over. Again.

(What was I saying about two? What?)

Chuck E. Cheese. Guaranteed to moderately amuse your child, bring out the compulsive gambler/skeeball hustler in yourself, and leave both of you cranky and overstimulated for the next two days straight. Oh, and the pizza might give you the bends. Maybe. So I've heard.

(Ugh.)

Hey kids! It's Camel Toe Dance Party USA!

Happiness is a Warm Squirming Toddler Kicking You in the Kidneys

I have a confession. It's a very naive and doom-inviting confession, but since I'm battling some blogger's block and have nothing else to talk about (unless you'd like to hear about the shield bugs currently infesting our home and just how many I've got trapped in the hand vac), I am going to say it anyway.

I like two. I like two a lot.

Granted, we're only a week and a half into two, and I know two has plenty of time to become truly terrible, but right now? Two is delightful. Charming. Hilarious. Fun.

(Hmm...is the sky looking a little...fally....perhaps?)

I can't help saying it. I'm blown away by how much fun Noah is these days. I don't know if it's because the sign language and speech improvements have catapulted us out of the realm of EH EH EH EH EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE tantrums and into hello, Mama, might I trouble you for some juice, and perhaps your assistance in getting my choo choo train out of the toilet? or just because of this HUGE explosion of personality, imagination and oh my God, this kid has my sense of humor. Everybody watch your bra straps.

I'm discovering that not only do I love him -- and there are still days when my skin positively hums with how much -- but I also really, really like him.

Sure, we have a lot of NO. We have SO MUCH NO. Surplus NO, shipped in by the truckload. (The way he says NO has even changed in the past couple weeks -- he says it with feeling now, as if he's offended by your very question.)

But we also have a sweet, sensitive and polite little guy, who blows kisses and knows the sign for love and still wants to cuddle and play with my hair. And then he wants to run around and laugh and squeal because when he's happy, he feels happiness with his entire body, from head to toe, and damn, he's one happy two-year-old.

Bring it on, two. Bring it on.

And Now Back To Our Regularly Scheduled Mocking of Me

God, but we are dorks.

So we went back to New York this weekend. So we saw Rent again, for the second time in two months. So what, you wanna fight about it?

We didn't sit quite so near those people this time, although I did get to overhear the charming story of how a Renthead met her boyfriend? In the line? And he was a Renthead? And they've been together ever since? And they've seen the show like, way more times than you? What?  No, he's not here today because he had to work? At the Gap?

I heard this from seven rows away. It's like I have a nerdsense. A very, very hypocritical nerdsense.

"Honey, your boyfriend is gay," I said to no one in particular, my voice serious and bitter from experience with boys with a deep love for musical theater, but then Jason shushed me and correctly pointed out every casting change that's been made since August, based solely on the Who's Who page in his Playbill.

"On second thought, you should probably marry him."

(More bathroom action over at the Fall Shopping Guide, written after 40 minutes of running around the hotel room going, "I need a post! I need a post! Shit!" I talk big talk about working best in a crunch, but I am really so full of crap sometimes.)

Conversations With Members of Our Homeowner's Association Who Keep Ringing the Doorbell During Naptime

No, I will not be attending the annual meeting. We're going to New York for a few days and...

Yes, I already filled out our proxy.

Yes, I gave it to that guy who rang our doorbell on Tuesday.

No, I don't remember his name.

No, I don't believe he was an impostor. He had a clipboard.

Yes, I already voted for board members.

No, I did not vote for you; I do not even know who the fuck you are.

No, my dog will not shut up; she doesn't know who the fuck you are either.

Yes, that is the sound of my two-year-old who should be napping right now, thank you.

Yes, this is kind of a bad time.

No, I have not showered yet.

No, I am not wearing a bra.

Yes, that is a bag of poopy diapers right there; somebody stole our garbage can.

No, it doesn't sound like my two-year-old is going to go back to sleep, thank you.

Yes, in fact, if one of you people DO ring my doorbell one more time about this again, I will COVER our yard with plastic flamingos and extra dishwashers and plastic dumptrucks on cinderblocks and I will regularly threaten the neighborhood children with a rake, so help me God.

Taking the Monkey Theme to the Next Level

No, I didn't make him wear this at his birthday party.

But only because I hadn't thought of it yet.

DAMMIT.

Very Busy and Important

A few sessions ago, Noah's speech therapist brought him a Mr. Potato Head. She made a big whole show of how she doesn't usually bring Mr. Potato Head to children Noah's age, but Noah is just so exceptional and she was just dying to see what he did with it -- a speech so loaded with bullshit that was clearly all for my benefit since Noah figured out exactly how the toy worked in about five seconds flat -- and after she left I was immediately on the phone with my mother because OMG MY CHILD IS BRILLIANT, THE TOY IS LABELED TWO AND UP AND NOAH IS LIKE, THREE WHOLE WEEKS YOUNGER THAN TWO OMG.

(Kidding aside, that's a whole other entry I have no idea how to approach, but suffice to say: Noah is starting to creep me and Jason and random salespeople at the mall out with the smartness. The cashier at Sephora asked Noah to give him five yesterday, and Noah shot him a withering gaze, held up five fingers and proceeded to count them, like "dude, you should know this.")

(He counts in his own little alien language, that is, where one = eh and two = eh and three = eeeeeeee and etc.)

(I don't know. Is that smart? Or is he just kind of weird?)

(Don't answer that. Allow me my delusions that while I am accomplishing pretty much nothing with my life, at least I'm changing the diapers of someone smart.)

(Whenhereadshisbooks hecantellmethewhole storyinsignlanguagetoo and tellsjokes and yesterdayhereadtheword "hot" allbyhimself endbragging!)

Ahem. Anyway. My mom got him the Mr. Potato Head for his birthday. (Also, thank you to everybody who emailed photos of their kids doing the same thing with the little glasses. It appears to be a universal and timeless passage of weirdness for two-year-olds.)  This is all we have done all morning.   

He calls this one PopPop. (Sorry, Dad.)

Aaaaaaaaand. Yes. He's brilliant.

(He is also not napping right now, but is instead jumping up and down in his crib and screaming YA YA YA YA YA YA to the tune of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. Or maybe it's the alphabet song. Or Baa Baa Black Sheep. All I know is I hope he's read the weight and stress limits warning label on the crib and follows them accordingly, little Mr. Smarty McEngineeryPants.)

(A new content-to-parentheses ratio record! Yes! I knew I had it in me.)

"Links," as I believe the kids call them

Still trying to unplug on Tuesdays, more or less. Still failing, more or less, but I can't quit you, Britney. Now go put on some pants.

• The saga of my toilet paper continues, as I sort-of concede defeat.
• I've said it before and I'll say it again: always invite bloggers to your parties.
• Also this.
• And lastly, the scariest video I have ever twitched uncomfortably through:

(Part one of that video is here, if you're interested.)

And...uh. That's it! I have a long day of Mr. Potato Heading ahead of me, if you know what I mean, and I think you do, and if that's true please email me because I have no idea what I'm talking about anymore.

Weekend of Aballs, Achoochoos and Awine

Hey, guess who forgot to take pictures at her son's second birthday party?

I remember there was cheese dip, some kind of breadcrumb crisis, and I kept losing my wine glass.

There was also a really pretty cute cake, but again. Photos? What? Eh.

Noah officially owns every toy in the universe, except for the train table his brilliant parents bought for him in anticipation of a lot of train sets.

Don't worry, baby. Customer Service says you can play with your trains in seven to 10 business days. In the meantime, just look at the pretty picture on the box.

Customer Service was also exceedingly chipper despite my obvious WIGTHEFUCKOUTedness about the missing parts, even when I accused them of using Midwest accents to mask their secret Swedish identities.

Predictably enough, Noah didn't get any train sets. Apparently nobody wants to give the gift of lead poisoning these days.

Biggest gift hit? A pair of plastic glasses from a Mr. Potato Head set.

Although he is still slightly unclear on the actual concept of glasses and where they go, he won't take them off. At all. Ever.  He would also like to wear his new Thomas the Tank Engine backpack as pants and top the whole ensemble off with one of my headbands.

Who told this kid he was two? Was it you? I really wish you hadn't done that.