Sodor Peaks

When we last visited the Lynchian-like Wonderland that is the stupid wooden train set in Amy's basement that she is obsessed with beyond all that is good and decent, things were bleak. Track shortages had left gaping holes in the railway line. A labor dispute over the protected marshlands had shut all development down on the northeast side of the island, Sir Topham Hatt was blitzed out of his gourd, and Thomas had met his evil twin, Samohto Monteban, who repeatedly foiled his plans to be a Really Useful Engine. Usually by Not Working Together and Getting the Job Done Fast Instead of Right. Tsk tsk, Samohto!

Since then, massive infrastructure investments have been made, as well as a move towards renewable energy in the form of a windmill. Al Gore even visited the island for a ribbon-cutting ceremony.

Things were looking up.

Unfortunately, the windmill contract ended up in the hands of organized crime, who quickly began producing "flour," and yet the children of Sodor regularly went without bread or birthday cakes.

The crime syndicate did manage to get the work stoppage lifted, but then quickly converted the marshlands to a scrap yard, where vehicles often ended up under mysterious circumstances.

"Fuck all of y'all," said local law enforcement. "I'm getting off this rock and going to Boca."

After that, nobody even bothers to fish the bodies out of the lake anymore.

"The sign says 'No Fishing'," said Thomas sternly. "We mustn't break the rules."

The other engines all agree that Thomas was one dumb shit, but are too busy fighting for the "flour" delivery job to care about dead bodies.

Tolls skyrocketed. Deforestation further threatens the island's ecosystem.

Thomas tries to keep smiling, but at night he cries a lot.

Heavy concentrations of lead have created a population of depressed and suicidal hermaphroditic dairy cows.

And there's some REALLY weird shit going on at the Olde Genetics Mill.

Yes, things are still bleak on the Isle of Sodor. Is Samohto behind it all? Can he be stopped? Can Thomas and Al Gore save the day?  Will James and Gordon ever stop being so fucking cross all the time? And which, if any, of these photos are staged, and if they were NOT staged, whose imagination should we be most concerned with, mine or Noah's?

Find out in the next installment of SODOR PEAKS: CHOO CHOO CH'BOOGIE WITH ME.

(Okay, I'm gonna take full responsibility for this one, and yes, I am very ashamed of myself.)

Revelations

I hate going to the dentist. Oh, how I hate going to the dentist. I went for a cleaning last week and wriggled and twitched uncomfortably through the poking and the scraping, my tongue constantly and involuntarily getting in the way, while I fixated on the bulb of the overhead light, hoping that my dry burning eyeballs would distract me from what was going on in my mouth.

The hygienist pulled out the polishing toothbrush and I cringed -- this was the worst part, I always thought. The WORST.

And like every cleaning before, I realized that it wasn't -- that it actually barely bothered me at all.

When I was very little, that vibrating doohickey made me cry. I had to be physically held down in the dentist chair for years. It made me scream and kick and flail and gag. One time I screamed so much I threw up all over myself -- just like Noah did after the nurse restrained his hand for all that time on Monday, squeezing out drops of blood after a completely painless finger prick.

Just like Noah. 

If I order a sandwich, it cannot contain any of the following: lettuce, pickles, raw onions.

I like lettuce, pickles and raw onions. But I can't eat them on a sandwich.  Last week in a fit of laziness I took Noah to McDonald's. He won't eat fries (he doesn't like crunchy-outside-soft-inside things), or nuggets (same thing, only worse because it's meat), or apple slices (are you soft or are you crunchy? make up your mind, fruit!), so he dipped his fingers in the caramel sauce and drank some milk. I figured that it served me right, but dammit, I was in the mood for a burger. I ordered a quarter pounder with cheese and forgot to ask for no pickles.

When I took a bite it felt like someone was scraping their fingernails on a chalkboard. Only the chalkboard was inside my skull, right between my ears. And so I, a nearly 30-year-old woman who prides herself immensely on gourmet cooking and adventurous dining, spat out a bite of hamburger onto a tray and picked the remaining pickles off.

I was the last one in my class to hang upside-down from the monkey bars and I hated sports so much I would cry when I was forced to participate.  Field Day was my own personal circle of hell. I couldn't run very fast or jump very far or kick or throw or hit a ball in pretty much any sport.

It was okay though, because I was girl. I was supposed to be cautious and prefer books and quiet toys.

I refused to wear turtlenecks for years. They gagged me. I would pull and stretch on the necks because I was sure I was choking. Eventually my entire body would start freaking out and...I don't know, but I still remember that desperate itching, like the fight-or-flight instinct kicking in and I would have to pull the shirt off, and those brief seconds while the elastic-y neck was over my face I thought I was going to die.

I remember that feeling because it came back a few years ago, when I started having panic attacks. My panic attacks always included gagging -- the feeling that I was not getting enough air. I was choking. I was being strangled. My chest was being crushed. I was drowning. Jason would shake me, force me to focus on the overhead light, and remind me that the only thing stopping my breathing was me.

I talked about this feeling in therapy a lot. We tried to dig for the reason -- some childhood trauma, perhaps? The older brother who wrapped a telephone cord around my neck? Who kept my torso trapped between his knees that one time until I cried? Did he maybe do other things that no one saw and I don't remember? Think about your other brothers, your neighbors, your uncles, find someone to blame for the way you are.

Looking back and connecting the dots like this is both helpful and frustrating. On the one hand, I outgrew most of my ticks, or at least learned to deal with them. I don't like the dentist, but I go. I use an electric toothbrush every day. Twice a day! I can wear a turtleneck if I want to. Which I don't. But I could! I played tennis in high school and even got pretty good, and while the thought of playing volleyball at the beach still fills me with a sense of dread and you-people-be-crazy-how-is-that-fun, no one is forcing me to play volleyball at the beach these days. I absolutely cannot ski, which breaks Jason's heart, but he loves me anyway. I eat a wide variety of foods and textures and there are worse things in life than pickle-less hamburgers.

On the other hand, Noah got all this stuff from me.

Even if your childhood is all-around pretty okay, you still want your own children to have an easier time than you did. You still want to correct whatever mistakes you think your parents made, and you still want your children to excel in the areas you lacked.

I'd love for Noah to be good at sports -- I don't care really, but let's face it, it just makes life easier for little boys. Jason would love for him to ski, although at this point we'd both be happy if he'd just let us drag him around the floor on a towel without howling in terror.

I'd love for Noah to eat more foods, to let us brush his teeth and rub his face. I'd love to hold his hand while we walk instead of carrying him everywhere, out in public and up and down stairs. I'd love for his first memories to NOT involve puking in a doctor's office because someone is doing something to you that drives your brain crazy in a way you can't explain.

I still hope all those things can happen for him -- he's so young -- and obviously we love him regardless, completely as-is.

Find someone to blame for the way you are. Well. Hi. Here I am. 

I'm really sorry. But it'll be okay in the end.

Yes, I Have Been At This For Two Whole Years

Noah finally had his two-year checkup today, because of reasons that had nothing to do with me forgetting to make the appointment, oh no no noooo, and you know what I did?

DO YOU KNOW WHAT I DID?

I gave him a sippy cup of milk. BEFORE his shots. BEFORE his blood test for lead. BEFORE the nurse started squeezing out drops of blood from his finger, one by one by one and then STAB STAB STAB in the THIGH THIGH THIGH* and yes, he screamed until he puked up the milk all over us both.

I had two (2) baby wipes with me. The nurse handed me a bucket and the paper towel from the baby scale and left, probably wondering why the hell I even bothered to show up, why not just send the fleet of nannies in, for all the practical parenting knowledge I clearly possessed.

Milk. I GAVE HIM MILK. Good God.

*Noah and his thighs are, by the way, only 28 pounds. He's gained 18 pounds in his whole entire life. I gain and lose that much every other holiday. The doctor has ordered Pediasure and butter, STAT.

**Hey, you know what else I did today? I looked out the peephole on our front door because Ceiba was barking, barking like HALP HALP WEEZ BEIN INVADED and I saw...branches. Branches! Like from a Christmas tree! Like someone had marched up to our door and left a Christmas tree propped on our stoop and oh hell, we did not order a Christmas tree, and who ORDERS Christmas trees, is that even possible, and what are the odds there's a phone number attached to that Christmas tree that I can call and complain about this unauthorized Christmas tree delivery? Or should I just keep the Christmas tree? I mean, we do need a Christmas tree. But stealing a Christmas tree? What's next, swiping mangers?  BB gunning inflatable reindeer? Oh God, what the fuck am I supposed to do with this fucking tree?

It was like my own personal pile of pallets. For five whole minutes, which is when I opened the front door and realized I was looking at the Christmas wreath we hung up over the weekend. The end.

Tod Tod Tod Tod Tod Toddlerville

Despite the occasional blogging-friendly pratfall, I actually do consider myself a fairly competent adult. I can make it through most days without serious injury, I juggle and meet multiple deadlines on a regular basis and I know how to open and close my stupid asshole stroller.

But there's something about New York that turns in me into a bumbling, fumbling idiot. I get on the wrong train! I trip on the sidewalk! I compulsively over-tip cab drivers! I walk around with the tags from my inside-out underwear sticking out of my pants all day!

This week's trip was no exception.

Noah and I left DC on Sunday, smack dab in the middle of prime napping time. Even with Union Station's priority boarding for families with young children, we barely found seats in time. I had our suitcase on my back, the diaper bag slung over my torso and I was dragging the stroller by the shoulder strap behind me while I desperately tried to hang onto Noah by his armpits while he howled and the entire world and several Amtrak employees judged but did not help. I shoved him on the train first -- by God, ONE of us would make it to New York -- and begged and panted to him to please please please follow Mama like a big boy.

When we found seats at last Noah was utterly delighted by the whole choo-choo-ness of the experience. For about a minute, which is how long it took him to realize that choo-choos actually involved a lot of SITTING instead of...I don't know...strippers and Cristal.

He screamed. SCREAMED. I heard the nerves of every fellow passenger in the car grate and felt their burning hot hatred as I fumbled to boot up my laptop while frantically begging Noah to hush and promising my endless iTunes supply of Blue's Clues episodes if he would just STFU.

It turned out that only one episode of Blue's Clues had downloaded correctly, for some reason. A 50-minute special called Meet Blue's Baby Brother. Which features 1) Joe and not Steve, 2) live-action puppets, 3) PUP PUP PUP PUP PUP PUP PUPPYVILLLLLLE!

We met Blue's baby brother a lot this week. Noah was completely pacified as long as it on, although his headphones meant he had no real awareness of the volume of his voice (not that that's a real great skill without headphones, durrrr) and would shout ACLOOOOOO!out of nowhere at the top of his lungs. I hate Blue and I hate her baby brother and I hate Puppyville and Alphabet City and all things bright and primary-colored.

He did not nap, obviously. He fell asleep in his stroller in Manhattan, while we waited in line for a taxi.

The whole real point of our trip was to spend time with my nephew Nicky, who is 19 months old. (Nicky's big sister, by the way, is 19 years old, and my brother-in-law is telling that to as many people as he can for the next two days before Nicky turns 20 months old.) So of course the boys ignored each other most of the time.  But whatever. PRESHUS FAMILY MEMORIES. LET ME MAKE THEM FOR YOU.

Since Manhattan apartments are a little on the -- ahem -- snug side, Noah and I stayed in a hotel around the corner, where Noah continued to not sleep. He finally conked out around midnight, but I woke up pretty much every time he moved because I was convinced he would fall off the bed and kept diving for his twitching foot, thinking it was his whole body going off the side, even though he was sprawled out in the dead center of the bed while I clung to about six inches of space off to the side.

I fell out of the goddamn bed around 4 am when I thought a pillow on the floor was my child's lifeless body.

Monday is kind of a blur -- I kept getting my foot tangled up in the diaper bag strap. Noah screamed his head off in a taxi so much that I over-tipped the driver even more than usual. I spilled coffee creamer all over Isabel and could never seem to get the stroller folded and unfolded or through doors and I spent 10 minutes convinced I'd lost a Sephora bag that was sitting two inches from my own ass. Isabel wanted to talk about all sorts of exciting Smackdown-related things and I think I just sat there with my tongue hanging out while Noah played with a pile of sugar.

Then it was back to my sister's place, where Noah napped in the stroller again while I tried to convince her that she should TOTALLY bring her toddler to DC for Christmas. TOTALLY. The train is NOTHING. It's EASY. We're having a GREAT TOTALLY EASY NOTHING TIME.

(I lie! I lie to my FAMILY!)

The boys finally started to acknowledge each other's presence that night, while they ran up and down the hallway outside the apartment. Nicky was not wearing pants. Noah was only in a diaper, which fell off at some point because I bought the large box of size fours, so dammit, that child will wear size fours.

They started chattering to each other -- Noah would hold Nicky's hand and shout GOOOOO! and point in the direction he wanted Nicky to run in, and then they would both run and shriek and laugh and hug and my sister and I laughed hysterically and tears welled up because my GOD, these BOYS. There's an 18-year age difference between my sister and I and more family dysfunction than you can toss a diaper at and yet here we are, with our boys, closer than ever and planning family vacations and I don't think it's a place either of us ever expected to be, but hot damn, it feels great.

My brother-in-law had the camcorder on at the exact moment my sister told us the boys had locked us out of the apartment.

"Huh," we both said.

"Seriously, you guys," my sister repeated, "They locked us out of the apartment."

"Huh," I said again.

I suddenly realized my sister was crying.

"Wait..." I said. The light bulb was starting to flicker a little bit.

My sister and her husband bolted down the stairwell to get a key from the doorman, while it finally occurred to me that yes, we were locked out and the boys were locked IN.

I sat down outside the door and listened -- I heard the sound of books being yanked off a shelf and I heard the sound of toddler footsteps change pitch as they went from hardwood to linoleum and back again.

I knocked. "Let me in, babies! Don't touch the outlets! Stay out of the kitchen! Don't open the TV cabinet! BUT OPEN THE DOOR TO THE NICE STRANGER IN THE HALLWAY."

I at least got Noah to knock back a couple times before my brother-in-law came careening around the corner with a key. My sister was a wreck; Noah's diaper was falling off again. I was like, "Eh. Are there stairs in there? There are no stairs in there. Amateurs!"

My brother-in-law physically put Noah and I on the train the next day and we met Blue's Baby Brother four more times, because it was the only thing in the world Noah wanted to watch.  Other than a stupid, stupid, STUPID trip to the dining car on the other side of the train that nearly resulted in Noah getting run over by a suitcase and my probably getting arrested for all the armpit holding/dragging/threats-of-leashing I did, the ride home was fine. Jason met us and Noah fell asleep in the elevator in the parking garage.

The end, MY GOD, the end.

The only preshus family memory I remembered to document. Huh. I wonder how that happened.

Uh. What up?

I just got back from New York, where I've been for several days now. Alone. With a toddler.

I don't even know where to begin. The screaming? The train? The 150 pounds of luggage that contained zero pairs of socks? The screaming? The getting locked out of an apartment by two semi-naked toddlers and having to explain how THAT HAPPENED, EXACTLY?

Fine. I'll start with this. More tomorrow, or...you know, ish.

Rockstar Lifestyle from amalah on Vimeo.

Life. Too Boring for Words.

Wow. I did...exactly not one interesting thing this week. I...unloaded the dishwasher a lot? I hid brussels sprouts in a fruit smoothie? I wore my cute new jacket from Target and bought Noah a new hat?

Yes. All this, AND MORE! In the span of five whole days! Man, life is a crazy buzz sometimes.

Yesterday Noah and I trekked up to Baltimore to hang out with this lunatic for a while a few hours longer than appropriate straight on 'til bedtime.

Tracey and I got into a very heated discussion re: megapixels, and our differences could only be solved by blinding each other with camera flashes while shrieking our heads off.

It made a lot of sense at the time.

We were both admittedly pretty jealous of M's stylin' pink camera, though.

The original idea was to sign some important business-y work-y type paperwork for mamapop.com (I'd rather not be sued for defamation by Britney Spears' busted-ass weave, you know? It looks litigious.) and let the kiddos work on their "sharing."

Noah got his first taste of the Barbie accessories catalog and Halloween Oreos.

Step One: Lick.

Step Two: Dilate pupils.

Step Three: RUN RUN RUN MUST CONSUME ENTIRE COOKAY NOM NOM NOM.

Anyway. That was yesterday. It was nice to get a little change in scenery and sit on a different couch for awhile.

Today? We're back to our usual routine of thrilling, intellectually stimulating conversation, with a hefty side portion of dimples.

choochoo from amalah on Vimeo.

Speaking of choo choos, next week Noah and I will be taking one to New York to visit my sister for a couple days. By ourselves. Because this seemed like a good idea once. Because I am crazy. May God have mercy on my crazy soul.

71*

Last night Jason and I were snacking on some cheese -- the stinky, ooky, weirdo cheeses that scare everybody else but oh God, I could eat an entire wheel, hell, I could build a car out of them and then eat all four wheels -- and Noah came over and asked for some. He signed cheese, over and over, and would not accept our explanation that this was probably not the kind of cheese he'd like. He insisted, so Jason gave him a bite.

He gingerly touched it to his tongue, and then promptly handed it back to Jason.

"Yuck," he said, clear as day.

I wonder when we'll stop celebrating every word. When we'll just nod and shrug and go on with our meal instead of pumping our fists in the air and laughing, like holy crap, did you just hear that? I wonder when I'll move him out of the "speech-delayed, present tense" and into the "speech-delayed, past tense, can you believe this kid used to ever not talk?", and when I'll stop flinching when strangers ask him questions he can't answer (What's your name? How old are you? You must be talkin' up a storm these days, huh?) and when family members ask me what sign he's making for the millionth time.

He's catching up, bit by bit and word by word. I feel like he's the least speech-delayed kid in early intervention -- like we already have no business being there anymore, OT issues aside -- but I still can't quite shake the worry that he's still not quite where he "should" be. Even though I honestly don't even know where, exactly, that is.

Four months ago, before the "diagnosis" and signing and speech therapy, he had five words, maybe six. Today, as of right now, including "hurt" which he just said for the first time five minutes ago, he has 71. I know that because I've written each and every one down. I wonder when I'll stop doing that too, like I did with the list of signs when I realized that he basically knew every sign on every DVD.

I'm ready to let go of the labels and the worry. I'm even ready to let go of the lists.

But I'm not ready to stop the celebrating.

I kind of hope I never will.

Air of Mystery

While there are very few topics I consider off-limits for this blog, I made the random decision ages ago that I would not publicly document the potty-training process.

Thus, please accept my baffled, sort-of impressed and mostly stony silence today. I don't know what I am doing, but that boy will do anything -- GODDAMN ANYTHING -- in exchange for dessert.

***
I spent most of the weekend planting bulbs in the garden. Me. Planting bulbs. In the dirt, where there are worms and it was cold and I forgot to change my pants so I was the asshole planting bulbs in low-rise skinny jeans who every once in awhile would remember to yank down on her sweatshirt, but wouldn't take her gardening gloves off so her entire back and half of her ass were covered in dirt by the end, and honestly, what are the odds ANY of those bulbs are going to bloom in the spring? Bad. Slim to none. And I am quite bitter about it already, and I spent the morning sending real estate links to Jason, subtly suggesting that we move back into a condo, because eff. This. Dirt. Shit.

***
Speaking of Jason, he replaced the light bulb, but not the fixture.

"I wouldn't want to deprive you of blog material," he said.

Oh, and a friend came over for lunch and wanted to know how I got all that magic marker off the lamp, at which point I realized. DEFACEMENT. YOU'RE DOING IT WRONG.

***
Words Noah has busted out with in the past week or two: arm, hand, ear, hair, teeth, sock, green, cold, again, another, book, bath, bike, bee, cow, moo, clue, Steve, sit, chair, think, sad, wet, hi, yes, mine, me, my, heart, you, love.

Read the last four again, and just imagine all the fumbly, wonderful ways a two-year-old can use those in a sentence.

Moment of Triumph

"Hello?"

"The polls just closed at the Weblog Awards. I won!"

"Cool. What's your prize?"

"Uh. A solitary fist-pump in my kitchen and the hatred of several thousand people who voted for other bloggers."

"Congratulations."

"And I think I get a...graphic or something."

"Wow."

"Yeah."

"Anything else going on?"

"Noah said mirror today. And made a shh sound. And when I told him to stop saying no no no so much he switched to saying on on on."

"Whoa. Did he poop?"

"Yes. The prune juice finally helped. And -- oh, shit, I have to put his crib sheet in the dryer."

"Ew."

"Are you almost home? I haven't showered yet."

Voted for the other guy.

You still have 45 minutes to knock this blog out of the top spot at the Weblog Awards, and I recommend that you go do that.

Wow. So, okay. You guys have really strong feelings about the Eyeball Lamp. You guys really hate the Eyeball Lamp.  I mean, I knew it was ugly, and I will even admit that it does look more like some kind of odd ceiling protuberance* than an actual light fixture, but I guess I've just learned to ignore it. Probably because I've spent the last 11 months crawling around the baseboards with 12 million beige paint chips while cursing the previous homeowners and their crazy beige paint fetish and dear God why didn't we just fucking repaint the house when we moved in.

So obviously, I have just been too busy to notice the ceilings. Or maybe I am actually a little terrified that I'll have to touch up the paint around the light fixture and discover that they also bought 17 slightly different shades of white paint too.

*I don't believe I have ever used "protuberance" in a sentence before. Go me!

And now I'm ASHAMED. I've had people over to my house! I've had guests spend the night on our sleeper sofa DIRECTLY BELOW the Eyeball Lamp, in all its nipple-like protuberanceness.

I have been exposing my innermost thoughts and secrets and dreamy little dreams to the Internet for four whole years now, but now I'm all, "GAH! GO AWAY! STOP LOOKING AT MY UGLY LAMP!"

I must say, however, that I enjoyed Nic's suggestion that I decorate the Eyeball. Give it some lashes, perhaps.

It's a good start, but a little plain.

Blue eyeshadow = instant class.

But nothing quite tops blue contact lenses.

It could also be the all-seeing Eye of Sauron. Sweet dreams, friends and family! Please let us know if you require an extra pillow.

(Not including this one would put me in direct violation of Internet Law, obviously.)

A few of you disagreed with the eyeball assessment and said it looked more like a nipple, or a boob.

I'll let you insert your own "headlights" joke right here.

And finally, in honor of all the new visitors finding their way over here via the Weblog Awards, here's a visual illustration of the day I was linked on Dave Barry's blog:

It just seems fitting, somehow. In fact, it's downright poetic.