Adequacy

So yesterday was not really a good day. Honestly, it started the day before, when the babysitter left. 

Ezra cried.

No, he wailed. He toddled after her as she opened the front door, his arms outstretched and his face crumpling. She stepped outside and he pounded on the storm door and howled. I picked him up and he tried to push off my chest to lunge after her. She waved and blew kisses at him while looking at me like, "oh God, I'm SORRY," while I tried to smile and put on a brave face even though oh God, this SUCKS.

Of course, he got over it fairly quickly -- 10 minutes, tops, but the sting of his preference, of him wanting nothing to do with me even after hours apart, definitely set me up for a crappy sitter-less Tuesday. Nothing I could do was enough. I wasn't fun. I was distracted and impatient and bored and scoldy and naggy. I hated everything that I heard coming out of my mouth, because it was all so damn negative. 

Don't do that. Stop that. Put that down. No, Ezra. No, Noah. Not right now. In a minute. STOP THAT.

So then my one Big Activity of Fun was a disaster of epic freak-out proportions and left me generally irritated and feeling sorry for myself and wondering when, exactly, I'd gotten so BAD at this. 

AND ALSO, WTF: A part-time nanny comes a few days a week and keeps the laundry done and the kitchen cleaned and the kids happy and entertained and on schedule and they freaking LOVE HER...and I manage to turn this incredibly great situation into a PROBLEM. Because she's BETTER at this than me. 

Because I got my feelings hurt by a TODDLER. Who likes to eat BATTERIES.

*kicks a rock*

*eats the rest of the pudding*

Spare me the dramz, lady.  

I did attempt one last ditch effort at Special Fun Specialness, with a screening of the original Star Wars movie. Noah routinely asks for the Star Trek movie now so I figured he should see the one that harkened back to MY childhood, back when I was a Star Wars fanatic, before those blasted prequels ruined EVERYTHING, oh my GOD, I don't want to TALK ABOUT THEM,  I'm going to my ROOM, and I need more PUDDING.

Noah was not impressed. Apparently the Trekkie genes won this round.

 

I'm trying to do better today. It's really all you can do, right?

Proof is in the something

I thought making chocolate pudding would be fun. Noah and I would do it together, just us, during Ezra's nap, making up for a morning of too many cartoons followed by boring, tortuous errands and Mommy Not Being Any Fun Because Mommy Was Really Caught Off-Guard By Spring Break And All This Damn Time To Fill. His occupational therapist would be so proud of me, I thought, for coming up with an easy activity that involves some pouring and stirring and touching sticky things and I was so sure he'd be tempted to at least taste the pudding or lick a spoon and I even promised him chocolate chips, for God's sake. And then he realized that the chocolate chips were going in the pudding, for God's sake, what are you DOING, woman, and then I stirred them up and asked him to lick the spoon and it was messy and all too much and I should have backed off and I didn't and offered him the spoon again and he panicked and screamed at me and cried and I was like, for God's sake, IT'S CHOCOLATE PUDDING but that didn't help and I'm typing this from my room and he's in his room and everybody is mad and stressed out and I'm sorry, Noah, I really just thought making chocolate pudding would be fun. 

Currently Accepting Post Title Suggestions, Because Man, I'm Boring

NOTE: I have spent the last two hours waiting for something more interesting to happen that would either bump this post out of publishing contention or make this post vaguely interesting in the least. Clearly, my life is bone-thumpingly dull and I need to embark on more zany adventures over the weekends. I'm thinking of becoming a spy. Or an Ultimate Fighting Champion. Or switching from Blockbuster to Netflix. SOMETHING'S GOTTA CHANGE.  

Things I Wish I'd Taken Photos of This Weekend:

Ezra approaching our friend's three-month-old baby with repeated squeals of BAYBEE! BAYBEE! and then hugging and kissing her. With tongue.

Ezra sitting on a different friend's lap and enthusiastically stealing Indian food off his plate and declaring it YUMMEE! YUMMEE!

Things I'm Glad I Didn't Take Photos of This Weekend:  

Ezra barfing up said Indian food all over said friend's lap.* 

Things I Wish I'd Taken Video of This Weekend:

When the girl directly in front of us at a Ben Folds concert (who viewed the entire concert via the screen on her camera, as she was way more interested in filming shaky-cam, far-away video of the concert instead of I dunno, just watching it), got approached by club personnel during the encore and made to delete every. Single. Video. That's Alanis-Morissette-quality irony, right there. Also, a total justification of my fear of Imaginary Authority Figures. They are watching you, and they WILL yell at you. They are also like, teenagers, and therefore doubly scary. 

Things Jason Probably Wishes He'd Taken Video of This Weekend:

Me, having multiple spastic fangirl moments over every song Ben played, because this one's my favorite! No, this one is! No, wait, oh my God! TOTALDORKWAD.

Things I Wish I'd Taken Better Quality Photos of This Weekend:

Noah, scaling a rock wall at a playground for the first time, like it was totally no big thing.

 

 

*Secondary back-up testing at a lab confirm that Ezra's glucose levels are completely normal, yet the child continues to mess with my mind on a daily basis. He can also open child-proof medicine bottles. We're very proud. 

The Friendship Jungle

Noah's friendship with the little boy next door continues. Though it's only been two weeks and I'd already have to describe it as "rocky." 

On  the other hand, the confidence boost was almost immediate -- Noah excitedly goes outside in search of Other Kids, and is bitterly disappointed when they don't magically appear. One day a couple of (much older) kids rode by on their bikes and Noah greeted them with boundless, innocent joy: "Are you here to play with me?" They (very kindly) admitted that they were not before pedaling off, leaving Noah behind and his little heart melting all over the sidewalk. 

"They didn't want to play with me," he said quietly. He looked at me with his big brown eyes and I felt my chest clench, but I felt weirdly prepared for this moment. Like I'd been expecting it, ever since Noah marched up and knocked on our neighbor's door. Kids are mean little bitches. Even when they don't mean to be. So I calmly explained (over and over) that those kids were just so much older and were allowed to go different places and probably already had somewhere to go or maybe it was just time for them to go home and eat dinner. Eventually I just suggested he come back inside for a cookie.

(Jason would later ask, as we drove through the neighborhood on our way out for dinner, if a certain group of kids we passed were the kids in question. "Who should I run over?" he asked, only kind of jokingly. Look at me! Being the reasonable, appropriate one! I hereby win at both scraped-up knees and hurt feelings.)

I was less prepared for the next day. 

The little neighbor boy (let's call him Sammy) (who is six) came over after school and knocked on our door. Noah was delighted, and I was too, more than a little bit. Sammy's mother asked if I could keep an eye on him while she picked up her husband from work, so Ezra and I headed outside to play in the general (but non-helicoptering) vicinity. 

The boys were playing so nicely I let Ezra wander a bit, up and down a path that runs behind our house. We bumped into another young family whom I have been stalking for a good year now in pleasant (but so far mostly one-sided) attempts at friendship. We chatted and chased our toddlers around and I finally got a stab of GUILT GUILT GUILT SOMEONE ELSE'S CHILD HAS NOT BEEN IN MY LINE OF SIGHT FOR 10 MINUTES NOW AND THIS IS HOW YOU END UP ON THE NEWS, ASSHOLE.

We headed back and I saw Noah standing by our front door. Sammy was sitting in front of a stone wall on our corner, peering around before hiding completely. Hide and seek! I thought. I wonder if Noah is playing the right way or the Noah Way. 

"What's up, Bud?" I asked him. "Whatcha playing?"

He opened his mouth and a telltale string of utterly indecipherable nonsense fell out. She there no inside play scooter friend tomorrow, or something similar.  A sure sign that he was upset or confused or overwhelmed. 

I sighed, guessing that Sammy's inevitable rejection of his younger, kind of oddball playmate had come, and pulled on my Armor of Being Reasonable and Suppressing the Urge to Give Another Child What-For. 

But when I approached Sammy I realized that he was crying.

And not just crying. CRYING. Tears, bloodshot eyes, snot. He'd been crying for awhile. 

I panicked briefly before remembering that I could, you know, TALK to this kid and possibly get real answers. 

"Noah hurt my feelings," he said. "Noah said he didn't want to play with me. And that he wasn't my friend anymore." 

I opened my mouth and tried to reel in my own string of indecipherable nonsense in the wake of my shock. Here I'd been crouched and ready for Noah's hurt feelings, but was COMPLETELY unprepared to hear that it was my child who had just casually broken the heart of another. 

I called Noah over and tried to get him to look at Sammy and tell me how he thought he was feeling, and if he had said anything that would make him feel that way and Noah seemed entirely baffled but dutifully apologized, with words and sign language. 

"Okay!" Sammy said brightly. He wiped his face and jumped up and they took off down the block on their scooters as if nothing had happened.

Oh. Right. Kids. Resilient little buggers. 

A few minutes later, after eavesdropping a bit, I figured out what had most likely happened: Noah wanted to play inside. WITH Sammy. While he'd managed to correctly convey this invitation once before, he was having trouble today and was resorting to more canned phrases and responses than usual. He didn't want to play outside on scooters anymore but jumbled the message, swapping "you" for "outside." When Sammy got upset, Noah pulled out a response that matched Sammy's mood: "You're not my friend anymore." (He often says this when he's upset, regardless of the context. He's even said it to his toothbrush a couple times.)

Noah tried again, though, and did better the second time. The boys were still playing inside when Sammy's mother came to get him. I figured I better explain what happened in case it later got worse in the retelling. Injuries or Major Tears seemed worthy of a full report.

"Why did Noah say that?" she asked. I caved and gave her the nutshell description of...you know, ALL OF IT. 

"I really don't think he meant it," I said. "He's so happy to have Sammy as a friend. He just has trouble sometimes getting the right words out."

And...well. Guess who else went to speech therapy. And early intervention. And gets occupational therapy for fine motor skills at school. 

I wanted to hug her, but we just smiled at each other while Noah and Sammy hugged their goodbyes instead. 

"I'll play with you next year, okay?" Noah said.

Sammy looked at me and smiled. "I think he means tomorrow. So I'll come back then."

On Being Your Own Boss, Except When You're Not

Spring break arrived early this year, just to mess with me and my Productivity Skills and All The Very Important Bullshit That I Do. (New column up at The Stir, too. Word.) I've got over a week of All Noah, All The Time ahead of me and I really hate to admit this but the last hour and a half I've spent playing some incredibly convoluted game of Thomas trains has robbed me of a decent portion of my will to live. 

I tried distracting him with a puzzle so I could check my email but he was so displeased at my failure to applaud each and every correctly-placed piece (but oh my God, it's a 100-piece puzzle! At least let me hold my applause until you finish a general area or match up a complete set of fish eyeballs!) that he abandoned it in favor of lying on the carpet and whining to an invisible teacher that "Mommy isn't playing with me the right waaaaay and she isn't shaaaaring and it's not faaaaair and she hurt my feeeeelings and isn't my friiiiiiiiiieeend anymore." I'm wondering how many preschool-caliber insults he's got left before he realizes that Ms. Beth is not here to referee, and also that I snuck out of the room 10 minutes ago. 

I will say this: Noah takes his train-table play scenarios very seriously. They're basically a G-rated version of my own Days of Isle of Sodor Peaks As The Roundhouse Doohicky Turns, though they involve a lot more 1) going around and around in circles, 2) crashing, and 3) I don't know what else, the plot was a little complicated.

 

Something about windmills, I think.

Anyway, I have some puzzle assembly to supervise and an already more-than-healthy sense of self-esteem to nurture. He's figured out that I'm not downstairs anymore and is currently howling "STOP FINISHING YOUR WORK RIGHT THIS MINUTE" at me. I better listen before I get put in time-out, or something. 
 

Drinking Problem

So. Internet. People of the Internet. YOU THERE. I need to know something.

I need to know that I am NOT the only wackalooned paranoid freak who occasionally gets a completely crazy random thought that comes out of nowhere but then decides to burrow in your brain and not leave, even though you KNOW it's crazy random, and eventually you're like, "OKAY FINE, I'll do something about it just so I can know definitively for sure that I'm ridiculous and don't have to worry about it anymore." And then you take said Crazy Random Thought to the appropriate authority figure, expecting to be laughed at, except that then you actually get taken seriously and the authority figure agrees with you that yes, actually, We Must Investigate This Crazy Random Thought Which Actually Could Be Quite Serious. And then you panic and die because WHAT.

Translation: About a month ago Ezra started drinking a lot. (Water, that is. Not booze. Yet.) Actually, it started off with milk. After dinner he brought me his empty cup and desperately signed "thirsty" over and over again. I gave him some milk, which he chugged as if he hadn't seen liquids in DAYS. And he then proceeded to drink two more full sippy cups' worth in about 15 minutes. I thought maybe I'd oversalted his dinner. But then it slowly dawned on me in the days afterward that WOW, this kid gets thirsty a whole lot. Desperately thirsty, too. He'd throw his body at the dishwasher and try to scale the countertop at the sight of a sippy cup in the cabinet. He'd sign thirsty over and over and over and over again. He needed water at night, first thing in the morning, water water water all the time. He'd drink as though parched and gulp and gasp, even if he'd just had a sip minutes before.

So of course, I totally diagnosed him with Hysterical Diabetes. Which is just like regular diabetes except that it is Not Real and Imaginary and you only think about it at 2 am in the middle of the night when you can't call and make a doctor's appointment, but can totally get on Google and scare the crap out of yourself.

Fast forward to yesterday, when I called to make Ezra's 18-month (!!!!!!) check-up. And I casually mentioned that heeeeeeeeeeyyyyyyy, I know this sounds crazy but... And the receptionist agreed that yes, I was probably crazy but she'd have a nurse call me back in a bit with the official diagnosis of crazy.

Except that the nurse didn't seem to think I was crazy at all. At first, yes, she did. Then she started distinctly not liking my answers to her questions. Then she said she was going to talk to one of the doctors.

Then she called me back and told me they wanted to see Ezra that day, as soon as possible.

And this is where the "panic and die" part comes in, because no. No, you were supposed to Dismiss My Fears, lady. You were supposed to Reassure Me. Then hang up on me and make jokes to all the other nurses about Mothers These Days With The Googling. 

So Ezra and I went to the doctor, where I learned how they retrieve urine samples from non-potty-trained babies. (Cut a hole in a diaper. Stick a glorified medical-grade Ziploc bag in that diaper. Stick your dick in that...okay I'm done.) The doctor came in and it was all lovely and I did this thing I do where I basically pre-emptively apologize for the negative test result and wasting everybody's time, but SINCE I'M HERE, let me tell you about how much this kid drinks.

And indeed, Ezra downed an entire sippy cup's contents while we there and demonstrated the whole parched-in-the-desert style of gulping and gasping he likes to do. The doctor's eyebrows went up and she said something like, "Yeah. No. I don't like that."

Amy: PANICDIEZZZZZZTTTTTT

But! The test results WERE negative. Resoundingly negative and normal and his urine is a wonderland of the most perfect urine ever. Which: Of course! I knew it! Seriously, you guys, you're professionals. You should know better than to listen to my nonsense.

The doctor felt we should retest in a month or so, at his next physical, unless I observed anything different, like vomiting or crazzzzzzzy wet diapers that go even beyond the amount he pees now. (Which is a lot, as you might expect.)

Two guesses about what happened last night, once we left: Unexplained puking of orange juice and a diaper so wet we had to change HIS SOCKS.

Amy: WTFFZZZZZZZZTTTTTTT

Honestly, I do think I have a pretty good gut instinct about these sorts of things, and right now my gut instinct is that I am totally being fucked with.

Spurt

My weekend, in bullet form:

1) I found this picture on my phone. A Twitpic from Barnes & Noble that never happened, thanks to the Escalator Incident:

  

Upon much (much) closer examination, the title of this kids' book is actually "Oh, Yuck!" and it's about...I dunno. Bugs and slime and stuff. But from a few feet away, combined with the glare, I thought it said something different.

You know, with the U-C-K? But it didn't? Har har? 

On second thought, the thing with the escalator made a much more interesting story. Thanks for the save, Ez!

2) Jason, the biggest sucker to ever wander into the sporting goods department, bought Noah a pair of rollerblades. The wheels are like, five inches longer than the shoe. He got a new badass helmet and wrist/elbow/knee pads. Jason took him down to the corner and back, while Noah shrieked, "LOOK AT ME, MOMMY, I'M ROLLERSKATINK!" at the top of his lungs the entire time.

 
3) Ezra is officially praying for dual growth spurts so he can get his mitts on all the dangerous be-wheeled options his brother owns.

4) Although speaking of growth spurts, a quick inventory of Noah's closet revealed shorts and t-shirts that were little more than hot pants and crop tops on him now, so it was time to go crazy at an Old Navy 2-for-$10 sale. Where I was horrified to discover that Noah fits into the XS size in the BOYS DEPARTMENT. I am not ready for sizes without the T-for-Toddler description, particularly when your design options on t-shirts include a) NASCAR, b) laser guns, or c) slobbering footballs with fangs. While back over in the elusive size 5T, you can still get Oscar the Grouch holding a "Please recycle" sign and stuff like "Dad Is My Hero." 

I compromised and bought plain XS polo shirts instead. And the Oscar shirt. I just won't put it in the dryer. 

5)  Then I came home and organized the boys' closets. Turns out the last time I did this, Noah was wearing 2T clothing, because it was all still hanging there. Ezra had entire drawer still chock-full of 6-12 month onesies. I can't remember the last time I put a onesie on him. Probably not since he learned to roll over during diaper changes and kick me in the stomach while frantically looking for a leaky tube of Desitin to shove in his mouth and taking time to snap something up between his helicoptering thighs meant he'd succeed in that mission. 

6) Seriously, when did they both get so big? I swear I was right here the whole time. 

A Special Year

One year ago today, I performed the Heimlich on Noah to save him from choking on a fruit bar, because he liked shoving too much food in his mouth, a common trait of SPD kids. 

One year ago, he ran away from us in public and threw multiple tantrums a day. We were preparing for his first evaluation from the school district. We were arguing with our insurance company's denial of coverage for speech therapy. He couldn't pronounce "green" correctly.  Or ride a bike, or color a picture, or make friends, or do anything that wasn't part of his rigid, inflexible routine. We lost a deposit to a Montessori school that he would not attend, because in just a few weeks he'd have an IEP through our school district and be officially placed in special education. 

Less than a year ago, I received a report from a psychological evaluation that took place at his preschool. It shook me to my core, because my son was slowly, steadily disappearing into himself and his rituals. He was withdrawing from a world that overwhelmed him. I remember putting the papers down, then folding my arms over them, and sobbing. We had to stop it. We had to fix it. 

We enrolled him in an occupational therapy summer camp, which would later lead to placing him in a terrifyingly expensive (at the time, anyway) private preschool. Both of these decisions turned out to be -- just as hundreds of commenters promised -- the very best things we've EVER done for Noah. 

Everything started changing from that point on -- we got a diagnosis, insurance approval, a plan, hope, results, success and a kid who is finally enjoying life as a kid in the world he's in. 

Noah's next IEP meeting is coming up in a few weeks, and we plan to ask that he be placed in the less restrictive immersion preschool classroom next fall -- a class of half special education kids, half typical peers, the next baby step in the path back to mainstream.

But we're also sending him back to the private school in the afternoon. And to the camp this summer. We don't even think about the money anymore. How could we? LOOK AT HIM NOW.

Still, though. It does cost money, so when CafeMom asked if I was interested in taking on another blogging gig, I jumped at it. (CafeMom, as ClubMom, was actually the company that offered me my very very first paid writing job. I'm happy that my newbie bumblings from back then didn't turn them off forever.) So now, in addition to the Advice Smackdown and Bounce Back and Mamapop, I'll be writing a column every Thursday called Isn't That Special, about (shocker!) special needs parenting. I know. I'm tired of listening to myself talk too. 

But seriously. LOOK AT HIM NOW.

Music: Hey, Won't Somebody Come And Play by The Little Ones

Up the Down Escalator

So. This happened.

 

"This" is Toddler vs. Escalator. 

 

We took the boys to Barnes & Noble last night in a fit of "it's gorgeous outside! let's go someplace with the plan of spending time outside but really, who are we kidding, Noah can sense the presence of a Public Thomas the Tank Engine Train Table from within a five-mile radius!" 

Noah indeed made a beeline for the Swine Flu Comes to Sodor table while Ezra...well, while Ezra proceeded to BE INSANE. He ran down aisles, he knocked books off displays, he responded to every kid-friendly merchandise offering I made with disdain and a wicked curveball throw. He responded to Jason and my calls after him with a downright evil glance over his shoulder right before speeding the hell up in whatever direction he was unsteadily bolting towards. 

For lo, he'd discovered the escalators. I'd let him stand on one while holding my hand as we went down to the children's area instead of carrying him, and it was easily the biggest thrill of his young life. (His expressions looked something like this.) So he couldn't begin to understand why anyone in the store would want to do ANYTHING ELSE except ride on the escalators. MORONS, ALL OF Y'ALL. 

After about a solid hour of thwarting his escape plans, we were ready to leave and I granted him one last ride up the escalator. We arrived on the second of the store's three floors and I attempted to distract him with...I don't remember what. FOLLY, probably, because right then, while he was in that terribly dangerous and elusive three-feet-away-from-Mama radius, he realized there was another escalator right there.

It was a Down escalator, but of course he didn't know that. I knew that. I very helpfully told him that, which, you know, wasn't quite the deterrent you'd think. Neither was the sight of my body lunging towards him in full I WILL THWART THEE mode. 

Instead, he spun around and stepped on the escalator as quickly as he could. Which was pretty quick. Even quicker: His feet went flying out from under him and BAM. Dead-drop face-plant into the collapsing bottom steps.

Needless to say, there was blood. A lot of it. I tried wiping it away to ascertain just What We Were Talking About Here, while Jason heard the screams from the lower level and called up to find what was wrong. My response was simply to stick my own blood-covered hand over the railing and wave it around in the universal symbol of SHIT IS HAPPENING AND I HAVE NO COPING SKILLS. 

I stood there panicking for a bit, debating the upsides of 1) running to the poor cashiers and screaming gibberish at them, or 2) running back downstairs to the bathroom for paper towels.

The bathroom option seemed vaguely better, so I ran through the store with my profusely bleeding child to the OTHER escalators, breathlessly muttering "excuse me, excuse me" to everybody I pushed past, including a stand-up cardboard display for the Twilight Saga. 

(Huge props to Domesticated Gal for giving me my first laugh since the accident on Twitter this morning: If you just start yelling "the Volturi are after him!" I'm sure the Twilight fans would understand.)

By the time I got to the bathroom a salesgirl had sort-of maybe noticed that there was a child covered in blood in the store and offered to call 911 (yeah, it honestly did look that bad, even though I KNEW head injuries always look worse than they are but this was mah baybeeeeee ahmahgad) while Jason barged into the ladies room, still trying to ask what had happened. "ISN'T IT OBVIOUS?" I cried. "AN ESCALATOR ATE HIS FACE."

We bailed (leaving behind Noah's scooter and helmet, we realized later), accepted the salesgirl's offer of a spare roll of paper towels, and took off for our car. A homeless guy asked for change as we dashed by, then started mocking Ezra's screams -- Ezra lifted his face to give him a Look, and I'm pretty sure I heard the guy say something like, "OH SHIT. Okay, I'm an ass."

Damn skippy.

The hospital was...fun, as usual. This was our first kid-related ER visit, something that simply underscores my belief that I gave birth to two different species of children. Noah wouldn't go near an escalator until he was three-and-a-half. Ezra is going to be the child who goes joyriding down the Beltway in the neighbor's speedboat at three-and-a-half.

Ezra sat on my lap as I gave the registration desk our insurance and contact information, and two minutes into the conversation managed to wriggle around in my arms enough to thoroughly and soundly smack his head into the wall and began screaming anew. The dude behind the desk gave me a Look. I Looked at him right back, because bite me.

Once the bleeding stopped and the wounds could be properly cleaned, the doctor was less concerned about the cuts as he was about the possibility of a head injury, since Ezra' nose had been bleeding pretty heavily for awhile and he responded to the initial news that we could be discharged by promptly barfing all over the both of us. "Never mind...you're gonna need to keep him here for another hour or so," the doctor said, while handing me YET ANOTHER GODDAMN ROLL OF PAPER TOWELS.

(The good news is that the pediatric ER was equipped with DVD players! And one single solitary Elmo DVD! It was so good, we watched it three times!)

He didn't need stitches, luckily. They glued the wounds shut instead, which gives him a slightly comical uni-brow appearance (or Wolverine when combined with this morning's matted bed-head).

I think Baby's First ER Visit merits a photo. After this, though? Forget it, dude. You're on you're own. And you're taking a cab.

Once another hour passed without any vomiting, we got to go home with the even MORE fun discharge instructions to wake him up every two to three hours last night, just to make sure that he really didn't have a concussion. He ended up just sleeping in our bed because he was sad and miserable and I am a sucker for sad and miserable things who make sad and miserable snuffly noises and sleep with their butts up in the air.  

 

Anyway, he is fine, as are we, though I am welcoming suggestions on how to remove dried blood from his bangs without getting those glue patches wet. I will also accept wine. And leashes. Maybe a helmet. Or some kind of inflatable toddler sumo suit. (Or just the wine! It's okay, I'm not greedy.)

It's Like a Toy Store That My Children Haven't Visited Yet

I'm not sure there's anything more futile than spending significant chunks of time, energy and money on organizing a room that is guaranteed to get thoroughly trashed again in a matter of hours*, but damn, it's satisfying.

*Minutes if they've had frosting.

 

Satisfying in the fleeting way that Snickers bars and McDonald's fries are satisfying, but still. 

 

Jason was impressed with my preschooler art-project gallery, having been unaware that I'd gone out and bought special hangers for everything. I didn't have the heart to tell him that I'd been struck with the idea randomly at 11:30 pm and just grabbed the nearest box of thumbtacks.

 

Whatever. Thumbtacks were good enough for my New Kids on the Block posters once upon a time, I THINK they're good enough for a fleet of two-wheeled rescue vehicles that I Am Very Sure My Child Had Very Little To Do With.

 

(Though I think I hung at least one of these pictures of our house and the Jamaica house upside down, so perhaps some tape would have been a wiser choice. I get points for the airplane right? That you can make go back and forth? I thought of that all by myself. I should totes open a gallery. Or get a cookie.)

 
I'm sorry to report that the Isle of Sodor did not fare too well during the room overhaul.

 

The monorail supports were repo'd, a victim of stalled neighborhood gentrification.

 

Plus a bunch of fucking hippies moved in, with shit like wind turbines and solar panels and potable water containers, but it turned out that all they were really growing on the "living roof" was pot.  

 

"We shall rebuild!" pledges Thomas. "We have a helicopter and cranes and tank engines. Plus a will to succeed and plenty of short-length curved track and female-to-female connector bits."

 

"What we don't have," he added, "is opposable thumbs. That's really our biggest obstacle." 

He continued: "Shit."

(Kind of not relatedly, it's WTF Tuesday at MamaPop Sparkle Motion. As in, WTF Were They Thinking, or, or WTF Is With Amy &The Train Set Thing, Seriously, I Don't Quite Get These Entries & Wonder If I Missed Something.)