Pierced Through the Heart

Look at me, with my teeny little sensible hoop earrings! SUCH A BADASS. That must be why I'm giving myself the stink-eye in this photo.

Here's a close-up of the new hole vs. the old-n-busted sinkhole one:

 

And my peach-fuzz sideburns. You are WELCOME. 

So, obviously, I did it! I went to a local and reputable tattoo-and-body-piercing emporium and was all, hello, I would like to be your most boring customer ever.  I almost wished there was something else I wanted pierced just so I'd seem a little less lame. Honestly, it's probably amazing that I left the shop with just the ear piercing -- I could really see myself getting a giant impulse-buy dragon tattoo, out of a misguided attempt to be polite.

***

For Mother's Day, I slept in, then had breakfast in bed, then had to wash Hollandaise sauce from the sheets, then took my own solo self shoe shopping. While I was still sleeping, Noah (with Jason's help) wrote out a large Happy Mother's Day banner. Jason then photographed them all holding it, then made a card of the picture, which they then delivered to me with great ceremony and huzzah. It was all very sweet and overly-complicated, especially when I found the outtakes on our memory card:

 

 

 

 

Noah is so very proud of that banner, by the way. It says HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY on top, and EZRA JASON NOAH underneath, and he tried very hard to draw a heart. "For love, Mommy," he told me later, when he showed me the actual banner. "I drew that for love." 

Earlobotomy

Guess what! You guys! You wanna know what I'm doing this weekend? Something I've wanted to do for ages and ages and like, forever and now I'm totally gonna do it? 

I'm getting my EARS PIERCED.

Okay, so I'm kind of messing with you there, because my ears are already pierced. Several times, actually. I think my total was...squints at ghosts of piercings past on earlobe...five. Five holes. I got my ears pierced the first time in fourth grade, even though my agreement with my parents was and had always been that I could get them pierced at 12 years old. By fourth grade, though, I was one of only two girls without pierced ears and UTTERLY DESPERATELY MISERABLE. 

I wore those little sparkly sticker things? Every day? I even kept extras in my desk because they NEVER lasted the whole day and otherwise people would know that I was just wearing STICKERS and not REAL EARRINGS because I was totally and completely FOOLING EVERYBODY, SHUT UP I WAS.

Then at home, I waged a relentless campaign of begging, pleading and probably a lot of door-slamming of the YOU'RE RUINING MY LIFE variety. I think we eventually negotiated a deal surrounding the results of my next report card, or maybe that was just a cover so my parents could get me to shut the fuck up about it already while still keeping some pride and sense of parental control intact. 

And so I went with my mom to the mall and picked out the most beautiful birthstone-ish jeweled studs and BLAMMO, I was a girl -- nay, a WOMAN -- with pierced ears. And oh my God, they hurt like all hell. 

Then the 90's...happened, and you simply couldn't show your flannel-shirted self ANYWHERE with just one measly set of ear holes. You needed MORE, and you needed an ODD number because that was the only way to demonstrate your ANGST. So I got one more, because that was all my mom would pay for. 

(Then I got a job at Sesame Place and went all hardcore with two more holes once I was of legal age to get my ears pierced without a parent present.)

(Problem was that I still lived at home. So I still totally got in trouble for that.)

Anyway! So why in sam hill am I getting my ears pierced this weekend? Because apparently I have the earlobes of an old lady. My first set of holes -- the only ones that I actually wear earrings in anymore -- were always a little on the lower part of my earlobe, and in recent years have DRIFTED. DOWNWARD. I am not making this up. The holes are mere millimeters from the very bottom of my earlobe. Any type of dangly earring accentuates the unfortunate droopy-hole problem. (And I will have you know that I was not allowed to wear dangly earrings -- INCLUDING HOOPS OF ANY SIZE -- until junior high) 

Not only does it look pretty weird, in my opinion, it also triggers one of my All Time Top 10 Irrational Fears: that my earring will somehow get ripped out of my ear and split my earlobe in half. Y'all know volcanoes are my number-one Irrational Fear, followed by getting caught up in a case of mistaken identity and wrongfully convicted of murder. 

Irrational fear number three? The earlobe-ripping thing. 

Anyone who has ever met me at Blogher or in person otherwise can tell you that I have little to no problems with personal space invasion. I'm a hugger. I hug you; don't mind getting hugged back. I like smushing up against people when photos get taken. But so help me GOD, if I think for even a split second that you are going to touch my ears or earrings, I will fly into a crazy defensive fit because DON'T RIP MY EARLOBE I AM BEGGING YOU PLEASE.

When Noah was a toddler, we were eating out at a restaurant and I bent over to retrieve his toy from the floor. At some point he reached over from his high chair and touched my earring. I flipped out, slapped both hands over my ear and then completely lost my balance and fell off my chair. Flat on the floor. But at least my earlobe was okay. 

Okay, I KNOW. Why do I bother wearing earrings at all? Wouldn't just not wearing earrings be a good, practical solution here? 

I hear you. I do. But here's the problem with that: SHUT UP. EARRINGS ARE PRETTY.

So anyway, according to Google, the too-low ear piercing thing actually isn't that unusual, and it happens to a lot of women after awhile. And getting them re-pierced higher up is absolutely an option, at least according to all the wedding message boards I came across, because apparently once you're done obsessing over your dress and flowers and bridesmaids, it's time to start freaking out about your less-than-optimal ear-hole placement that could potentially TOTALLY RUIN THE WHOLE DAY.

Thus, I am publicly stating my intention to allow another human being to touch my earlobes this weekend and re-pierce them. Though I do have to ask: are my venue choices still really the same as before? Do I still really have to go find a kiosk at the mall or wander into Claire's and ask some surly teenager sorting prom tiaras to please punch holes in my saggy old-lady earlobes? Jason graciously volunteered to do it for me but I am distinctly Not Down with that. I told him I'd prefer a professional, whatever THAT means, though he will definitely need to come and hold my hand. 

OMG, I'm totes getting my ears pierced this weekend! Because I can! And because I feel like it and SO THERE EVERYBODY and my fourth-grade self is sooooo jealous of me right now. 

Farmville

Me: Noah, what did you see on your field trip?

Noah: Sheep! And a horse and a pig. Some baby chickens that I put into their house so they could be warm and I was gentle and did a very good job.

Me: Wow, that sounds like a lot of fu-

Noah: BUT THE BARN, MOMMY. 

Me: You saw a barn?

Noah: But it was not a big red barn. It was green and white.

Noah: *throws his hands up in the air, because what's up with that?*

Me: I'm...sorry? Not all barns are red, sometimes...

Noah: I just wanted to see a big red barn. That is all I wanted ever in my whole life!

Noah: *sighs, puts head down on the table, sighs again*

Me: Okay, um, did you see any other cool things?

Noah: *immediately brightens* 

Noah: Yeah! Somebody threw up on the bus! 

Stop Me If You've Heard This One Before

I just spent the past two and a half hours working on an post, and just when I was alllllmost happy with it, I went off in search of a different post from my archives to link to as some necessary background information. Which I found. And read. And realized that rather than being "background information," it was the EXACT SAME FUCKING POST. 

Seriously. I just wrote a post that I'd already written. But didn't realize I'd already written. I'm my own plagiarist. Or the world's most senile hack. I'm really confusing myself right now. I thought I was writing about a story that happened last night, but right there in my archives is evidence that the same thing happened a few weeks ago and I already told you about it, practically word for word. My life is in reruns and I didn't even notice. 

Anyway. Sorry for that Moment of Meta, but holy crap, that was weird. And now you're like, OKAY, SO DO YOU HAVE A STORY TO TELL US TODAY OR NOT, which is a very fair question, and I'm guessing the story of HEY ONE TIME I WROTE A POST AND THEN REALIZED I ALREADY WROTE A REMARKABLY SIMILAR POST SO I DELETED IT THE END is not the compelling sort of story you're hoping for. 

So. Let's see. Results from yesterday's adventure in exploratory potty training were...mixed, to say the least. I kind of forgot that little things like needing to leave the house really upset the process, as does taking your eyes off your child for a SINGLE SPLIT SECOND. They will sitting on the potty when you go to let the dog out, but will most definitely NOT be sitting on the potty when you return from letting the dog out. 

They will, however, be peeing. Oh, yes, they well. 

Ezra seemed a little frustrated by the end of the day so I figured maybe we'd back off and try again this weekend, or over the summer, but then the sitter came this morning and around 10 am was all, "he just pooped on the potty" like it was no big thing. So...I don't know what the hell is going on. Jesus, I once wrote an entire heart-wrenching post about something that I thought was so momentously important that I completely forgot that the whole momentously important thing already fucking happened to me already. The kid might have been potty-trained six goddamn months ago, for all I know. 

 

Wait, he's WALKING? When did that happen?

Quixotelah

So help me, I'm potty-training the baby. 

I KNOW.

Okay, so far it's technically been more of an exploratory mission to gauge potential interest, but early results appear to be promising, though the paper towel usage readouts have been...lengthy. Also: damp. But still. I think we're on the verge of a breakthrough, because the kid's got heart. He's hungry. He wants it. Eyes on the big boy pants prize.  His coach is just having a hard time with the fancy iPhone app she got to help her with the timing. Also: keeping her business/sports metaphors consistent. 

Obviously, this is not a process I shall be extensively documenting, but here is a photo that I believe demonstrates that yes, I am fully aware of how insane I sound right now:

WAT. IS THIS WEIRD? THERE'S A KID WITH NO PANTS ON OVER THERE, LEAVE ME ALONE.

A Very Good Weekend

Jason and I overthink the weekends, sometimes. We get our hearts set on elaborate outings that end up being enjoyable for all of 45 minutes but require three times the planning and travel time. 

We purposely decided not to do that this weekend, and the most ambitious activity we planned was a trip to the playground. We spent a buck-seventy-five apiece to ride the park's miniature train, which to Noah and Ezra, ranks just above everything else in the world in terms of face-melting awesomeness. 

 

For Noah, the most thrilling aspect of the train is the fact that he gets his very own ticket, that the conductor personally takes and punches a hole in, just like in The Polar Express. I especially enjoy watching this very serious transaction early in the season, when the conductor -- usually a teenage boy or retired train-loving grandpa -- is not achingly sick of his life yet and still seems openly charmed by little four-year-old boys who regard him with immense awe and reverence, because in their minds a summer job driving an electric train for the Parks Department is just about on par with being an astronaut or professional dinosaur wrangler.

 

He's a Leslie Knope in training. 

 

Ezra technically rides for free, but he was so heartbroken over his lack of a very own ticket that we splurged and laid out an extra $1.75. And it was totally worth it. 

 

The first time Noah rode this train he was Ezra's age. He cried and clung to me in terror, to the point I thought they'd have to stop the train and let us trudge through the woods back to the station. He was never, ever like Ezra, who simply accepts that things are fun because they are meant to be fun. If other kids seem to be enjoying themselves, well, he'll take that as a sign that we're NOT all going to die a fiery explosive death while being force fed mashed potatoes and finger paints. 

 

To be fair, Noah's been enjoying the train ride for several summers now. And the slides, and the wobbly bridges, and the rock walls, and the big boy swings, and essentially most playground equipment he was once too fearful or uncoordinated (or both) to attempt. (Never mind that "once" could be as recently as last month for some of the last few obstacles.) The list of things he can't (or won't) do is shrinking at an awfully, wonderfully fast clip these days. 

 

 

 
He has all the confidence a little boy his age should have, and probably some to spare. "I'm going to do it myself," he announced in the car, while attempting to buckle his own seat belt. "And you're going to be so proud of me."

 

 

 

 

And Ezra, our Fearless Monkey, looked on from his own seat as Noah successfully buckled himself in. You could tell he was so jealous, but he clapped for his big brother anyway.