Let's Just Call This One "Tuesday"
January 15, 2008
Yes, Internet, I fully and openly admit to coasting. Both emotionally and editorially. I have not updated since Thursday, greedily allowing the comments to build and build and pile up, checking in every hour or so to boggle at the number and inform Noah that OVER 200 PEOPLE -- WAIT 250! WAIT WAIT 271! -- give a rat's ass about the fact that he had a good day at the Mock Preschool For Children Who Can't Talk Good And Wanna Learn To Do Other Stuff Good Too.
Also? We've just been so good over here. Noah's little day of victory lifted us all -- even Noah seems to be happier and more confident, like...like he's some kind of actual human being whose quality of life is affected by his speech and sensory problems. And here I thought all this stuff was dumped on ME for the sole purpose of pissing ME the hell off. Huh.
He's talking up a storm and busting out with some fairly random vocabulary -- I guess that one time we made
mucus Christmas cookies made a fairly big impression on him, because he's constantly asking about the ROLLY PIN and COOKAYS. Mostly the COOKAYS.
"Cookay?" he'll ask sort-of hopefully, and then seconds later answer his own question, "Noooooo cookay."
And then again, JUST IN CASE HE WAS MISTAKEN ON THE COOKAY VERDICT, "Cookay?"
Anyway, it's been fun. With a decent chunk of the buzzing worry knocked out of the park, it's been a nice little honeymoon of a week, with lots of cuddles and hide-and-seek and maybe a couple living-room forts here and there.
(Oh, and one night of good-and-proper child abandonment, as we coerced the in-laws to come babysit over the weekend so we could go to Jason's company party and stay overnight in a hotel, which was also fun until 1) I was hit by the truck of What Do You Mean the Hotel House Label Chardonnay Was Not Exactly Top Shelf Wine at around three in morning, when I wanted to die, and 2) some asshole let their shrieking toddler run up and down the hotel hallway at six in the morning. Kids! They should all be kept in cages.)
It's also preschool application season around these parts, so we've been busy plastering big smiles on our faces, presenting our genius child who is a genius and...diaper? What diaper? Noooooo diaper. Please accept this check for AS MUCH AS MY COLLEGE EDUCATION COST AND PAY NO ATTENTION TO THE DIAPER.
(I told my mother-in-law how much the neighborhood preschools cost and she choked on her probiotic wheatgrass enzyme nugget and declared me to be talking much crazy talk. "Just find a little school run by a church!" she said. I told her that these ARE just little schools tucked away in church basements. But you know, NICE basements. One of them even had windows!)
(Her next suggestion was her all-purpose solution to All Our Problems: move back to Pennsylvania to live next door to them. I imagine Pennsylvania preschool prices have gone up since the late 1970s, but honestly, if we promised to move closer she'd probably be willing to start running her own preschool out of the garage. Grandparents! Their love is so easy to exploit.)
Wow. This is one hot mess of an entry. I go away for a few days and manage to completely fuck up the lovely narrative arc of my life story. (It goes something like this: Amy Faces Challenges, Amy Writes Many Words About Her Many Challenges, Amy Gets Meta About Her Challenges, Amy Either Conquers Or Gets Bored Of Her Challenges, Amy Gets Drunk And Falls Down. Repeat.)
Anyway. Us = good. Noah = outstanding. Preschools = uppity. Liver = shot. The end.