My Natural Born Talent. Let Me Show You It.

Hey! Remember when my mom gave me that big stack of embarrassingly preshus mementos from my childhood? And I was all gung-ho with the scanner for a few days there, on a gleeful stretch of self-mockery, until I guess I got distracted by something shiny (or maybe my toenail polish, or wondering where I got this bruise from, or the construction of that pneumonic burrito delivery device) (I mean, have you tried applying for all the necessary patents for shit like that? It's a bureaucratic nightmare.) and...wait, what was I talking about again?

Oh right! The scanning and the bag o' relics were promptly forgotten about for awhile there. Until today! 

 

Now, I've already shown you my very, very first attempt at short-story writing, but this little book...well, this was EPIC. This was my MAGNUM OPUS. This was a coloring book my six-year-old self procured during a family trip to Arizona, but each picture faced a blank page, designed for you to write a story or poem or something about the picture. (The pictures were by artist Ettore DeGrazia, and I believe this was purchased at his gallery's gift shop, where I was suddenly struck with the realization that I WAS AN ARTIST AND MUST CREATE ART, THEREFORE SOMEBODY BETTER BUY ME THIS COLORING BOOK AND THOSE COLORED PENCILS RIGHT THIS MINUTE BUT MOM I NEEEEEEEED THEM.)

Judging by the range of handwriting abilities, I worked on this thing for YEARS. Later pictures are written in cursive, while my earliest attempts were...well. MOAR LIEK DIS:

 
Click to embiggen. You know, in case you'd like uh closer look at all those butiful frieworks. 

 

Or that graet and lovly oringe horse! Otherwise you might be forgetting this time that is not to be forgot. 
 

 
The green pencil doesn't scan very well, so here's a translation:

Angels!
Mary!

Jesus!!! (The most important!)

Colors. Beuty!

This is
Fabuluos!

I wish you
could always
see such
Beuty!

(The End)

I distinctly remember going back to put in those extra exclamation points and MOST IMPORTANT! caveat out of Protestant guilt because some of the pictures seemed possibly kind of Catholic. 

 

The Christmas story, according to a highly religious first grader. Jesus, God Son, was born this one time and he will not ever again be born, but we will still have Christmas which will be like the day Jesus was born only we will not have him born. Got it? Good. Now gimme some presents already. 

 

In my own pre-politically-correct defense here, the name of the painting ACTUALLY IS "Dream Horses and Lovely Indians." However, I cannot explain why I the consistently misspelled "lovly" all those other times and also why I was telling stories in my lame valley girl style already: They are sitting there like, "I wish something would happen, like I dunno, dream horses or some shit, like, OMG, look up, LOL!"

THE END!

(Actually, not really. There are quite a few more pages, in which I attempted to take a more literary approach to "real" story writing, with actual named characters and varied narrator voices. Also: a talking mule. I don't know either, but I am sure as hell going to inflict it on the Internet-reading public anyway.)

The (sick-as-a) Dog Days of Summer

Noah doesn't go back to school until next Tuesday. SeeyooooNextTuesday, is how I feel about that, especially since we received a good dozen letters stating that the first day was August 30, TODAY, before we got a letter saying that haaaaa, suckers, the preschool students start a week later. You were punked! Hope you weren't doing some kind of calendar countdown with your stir-crazy kid or anything. 

We attended the school's open house on Friday, even though Noah will be in the same classroom with the same teachers and most of the same kids, but hot damn, that was a good hour of SCHOOL-LIKE ACTIVITIES in a spot that was NOT OUR HOUSE, so we were going and we were going to enjoy every damn minute of it. 

And we did! Until we all got sick, thanks to our glorious reintroduction to community toys and community germs. I spent most of the weekend complaining about "allergies" until I woke up this morning like: Oh. Not allergies. Plague and pestilence, more like it. 

The previous three paragraphs were brought to you by Advil Cold & Sinus. Not like, sponsored post money brought-to-you-by, but like, my head is stuffed with cotton balls that were possibly soaked in a little booze before someone mashed them into my ears brought-to-you-by. Yes. That kind.

Mmm. Boozy cotton balls. That's actually kind of intriguing. I shall write it down on my list of Terrific Ideas I Came Up With While Drunk Or Medicated. Right under Swiffer duster suits for cats (double-sided) and building a burrito-sized pneumatic tube between my house and Chipotle. 

In other news, here are some photos of my son eating his dip-dips, better known to grown-ups who do not talk like high-pitched toddler-like idiots all the time as chips and salsa. 

 

 

 

 

 

I know. That wasn't really all that exciting. But after you've spent a few years with one child who demands that his food look and/or taste no more daring than Elmer's glue, this new one is still kind of a novelty. 

Golden

My post about Noah and the little boy next door was a finalist for Blogher's Voices of the Year. Karen Walrond provided a gorgeous photo as its "inspired by" companion piece for the art gala and charity auction at the conference -- I posed like a total dorkwad next to it so Jason could take a terrible photo of me posing like a total dorkwad next to it, and someone asked me if I was the artist. No, I said, but pointed to the tiny fine print underneath that said my name and post title. I wrote that.

The nominated posts weren't actually there or printed, so she asked me what the post was about. I struggled to sum it up concisely, and in a way that would make sense with the stunning visual of the delicate, high-flying kite in the photo. Another little boy gave my son a second chance to rise above his challenges, or something like that.

Noah never got a third chance, unfortunately, with that particular little boy. After the newness of his younger playmate wore off, and his general curiosity about our house and What Interesting Toys It Might Possibly Contain was satisfied, Sammy quickly lost interest in Noah, and tired of his attempts to tag along when he had other friends over. Their last real encounter ended with Sammy and another boy actively working to confuse Noah and ditch him, essentially -- they'd take off down the sidewalk and run behind the block of townhomes, into Sammy's backyard and house. They'd then wait for Noah to figure out where they went...only to run back out the front door and down the street once he showed up to knock on the backyard gate.

Sammy's mother saw me comforting Noah -- he was crying, of course, and it was the most fucking brutal hamburger grinder of a parenting moment ever -- but there really wasn't anything to say. Her seven-year-old didn't want to play with my four-year-old. We'd both known it would come to this at some point, eventually.

I coaxed Noah into our own backyard with promises of ice cream and firecrackers. At one point I swear I saw Sammy and his friend peering through the fence as Jason and Noah played with those obnoxious little Pop-It noisemaker things, but they didn't ask to come over. 

The only times we've talked to Sammy since is if he comes to the door to retrieve his soccer ball from our yard. Noah still calls him "my friend" and holds out hope that an invitation to play could still come any day now. It's not.

All in all, a total bummer of an end to that nice story I wrote that one time.

***

We had our second playdate with Miles yesterday -- a little boy from speech camp this summer -- at the splash playground. His mother and I corralled Ezra around, comparing notes on the other two and their various test results and quirks. We laughed about the 1970s clip-art still being used by the speech and language evaluators today -- like our children have ANY idea what a big boxy desktop computer or rotary telephone are -- and the fact that it was humanly impossible for any male child to resist walking into certain arched fountains crotch-first and say something like HEY LOOK MOM I'M PEEING. We talked about their troubles getting repeatedly outbid on homes in our neighborhood, because she and her husband want Miles to attend our elementary school. 

And I noticed that Miles and Noah were -- in fact -- playing together. Not just sort of...existing somewhat in the same sphere of space, but playing together. Games. Things that required talking, negotiating, taking turns. Tag, at one point, I am pretty sure. Then hide-and-seek inside the biggest maze-like fountain. 

As we left, the boys walked hand-in-hand back to our cars, skipping and laughing and chattering away about nothing in particular, and Noah didn't seem bothered at all by Miles occasionally bumping into him or dragging him in one direction or another. I tried to remember any time Noah had ever voluntarily held another child's hand and couldn't. I tried to swallow my dorked-out excitement at the thought of the boys attending kindergarten together, or being able to walk or ride bikes to the other's house. I couldn't.

When I got to the car I realized I should have taken a picture of them, of that moment. I kicked myself for a few minutes while I buckled the boys in: dammit. 

Noah sighed contentedly from the backseat. "I had so much fun with Miles. I love Miles. Miles is my best favorite friend in the whole in tide world."

And I realized that someone else had already taken that picture for me, after all.

A Golden Day by Karen Walrond 

There's No Crying In Blogball

It's been brought to my attention that my last couple posts have made a somewhat extraordinary number of you cry. At work, or other embarrassing places/occasions to be caught crying. Obviously, I assume MOST of you are exaggerating for the sake of affect (takes one to KNOW ONE, if you know what I mean), but I guess I do need to take some of you at your word and apologize for all the virtual sucker-punches, and promise that there will be nothing of the sort in today's entry. 

(BAM! SUNRISE SUNSET! MAGIC BABIES! PERSONAL GROWTH AND SHIT! GRAINY iPHONE PICTURES BECAUSE MY REAL CAMERA IS BUSTED! BAM BAM BAM!)

(What? No good? Not doing anything for ya? Oh well.)

Let's see if I can inspire some different emotions today. First up...

ANGER

I finally typed "Mockingjay" into Google this morning to figure out what the freaking frack everybody was talking about on Twitter yesterday, and what exactly we're giving away on Mamapop today. Spoiler alert! It's a book! Now here is my dilemma:

1) Take all of you at your word that it's omg!thebestthing!ever! and start the series at the beginning, looking for all the world like a shameless fad-follower and hopeless behind-the-timer, especially since I'll probably finish the third book riiiiiiight when the "thing that is massively popular" backlash begins and nobody will want to talk with me about it or care that I read it because oh my God, you're still TALKING about that? Whatever, loser, we've all moved on to that OTHER young adult book series that everybody is reading now. Man, you can't even manage to stay hip among the book nerds. 

2) Be the one to up and START the "thing that is massively popular" backlash, on the grounds that I allowed myself to get sucked up into that whole Twilight nonsense, which ended with me reading a book about vampire c-sections and werewolves falling in love with vampire hybrid toddlers, consumed with shame over...well, a lot of life decisions, but namely the one involving me dragging my pregnant ass and child to the bookstore to explicitly buy that horrible, terrible book in hardcover. 

3) Anger just about everybody in the world by comparing the Hunger Games series to Twilight, because they are so totally different, you giant ignorant asshole, for a zillion different reasons that I will outline for you now. 

(PS. Also, Jacob IMPRINTED on Renesmee. Totally different than falling in love. STOP MAKING JACOB SOUND CREEPY.) 

I decided to go with number 3! I bet it worked!

SCORN

Speaking of shameless fad-following, I bought myself two (2) packages of ZanyBandz last weekend. And then promptly lost them. I last saw them on the dining room table, after I opened them and carefully selected the cutest assortment of colors that matched my outfit, AS ONE DOES, WHEN ONE IS A MATURE, FULLY-FORMED ADULT-TYPE PERSON, but then they vanished soon after that. I'm thinking the babysitter moved them, but I am too embarrassed to ask her about whether or not she moved my ZanyBandz, as this would entail:

1) Admitting to a 24-year-old that I purchased ZanyBandz,

2) Admitting that the ZanyBandz were not actually intended for my children, in case she assumed they were and put them in a toybox or something, 

3) That I care about the whereabouts of said ZanyBandz, and care DEEPLY, and have basically been driving myself crazy all week looking for them, as I'm only admitting defeat days later, and

4) Possibly finding out that she threw out the ZanyBandz, not realizing that a brightly-colored pile of misshapen rubber bands were like, a THING, an IMPORTANT THING, and being forced to smile and assure her that it's okay, I don't mind, because seriously, I'm not going to be an entitled asshole boss about ZanyFuckingBandz.

And yet:

1) I kind of can't help but wonder if damn, bitch stole my ZanyBandz!

Anyway. If you're not feeling particularly SCORNFUL yet, perhaps this will push you over the edge: One of the missing packages of ZanyBandz was the "Moonlight" collection, which includes hearts, wolves and vampire fangs. 

(PS I was actually thinking of True Blood when I bought them. And I bought them IRONICALLY. And yes, I'm totally judging myself for suddenly caring so non-ironically about their whereabouts.)

JEALOUSY

 

I have a snack, and you don't.

GENERAL MIND-FUCKERY

This one is really more for Ezra. I took this photo today to hold for future discussions about faith, reality, Santa, the Easter Bunny and the idea that none of us are really unique special snowflakes. Also that mothers are tricky, sneaky bastards:

 

LAUNDRY DAY IS A CONSPIRACY! EVERYTHING YOU LOVE IS A LIE! THERE IS NO SPOON!

PITY

Wait, have you not even been READING this entry? You MUST be feeling all kinds of superior to me by now. I'd suggest you go back and re-read it but I already promised that I wouldn't make anybody cry today. 

A Letter To My Baby

 
 
Dear Ezra,

Today is not any sort of official milestone or marker -- you're 22 months and nine days, if we're counting. You're almost two, if we're giving out the simpler answer to folks at the supermarket.

"Wow," they say. "Such a big boy."

Which makes me laugh, because I'm sorry, it's increasingly clear that your big brother got the height in this family -- the long lanky limbs and the giant feet -- and that you are our solid-but-pint-sized 7th-percentile-for-weight scrapper, much to your constant frustration. 

Noah's hand-me-down orange Crocs that are still a tad too big = the only shoes you want to wear. You're right in between the combo sizes but I tracked down a sized style and bought them for you. They are red and blue, because I could not find orange, although I promise I looked. I TRIED. You were pleased for a few days and then revolted, violently. You scream and tantrum every time I try to put any other non-orange-Croc-like shoe on your foot. You climb up the stairs just to dramatically slide back down, as if that will help convey the depth of your displeasure better than all the crying and tears and beating of the floor with your tiny angry fists. "Shuhs!" you wail, pointing at your feet. "SHUHS!"

The drama you create about those shoes makes me shake in mine when I think about you as a teenager. 

(Though if Doc Martens come back into fashion, you totally have my permission to wear them. Your Nana wouldn't let me, because she wasn't always like she is now, with the spoiling and stuff. Also L.A. Gear sneakers. Man, I wanted a pair of those. So never mind. I kind of feel you on the shoe thing, and once I finish this letter I am going back on Amazon to find you a pair of orange Croc knock-offs that fit, SO HELP ME GOD.)

None of Noah's hand-me-down shoes fit you yet -- by the time he graduated out of baby booties he was easily two shoe sizes ahead of you. To this day, I don't think he's ever really expressed a strong feeling about footwear, or been so fascinated with trying them on, like you are with everything in the hand-me-down box. You stomp around in sneakers and snowboots and backpacks, thoroughly enamored with anything and everything that is in store for you juuuust around the next growth spurt corner.

Because you are such a big boy. 

 

You are *thisclose* to potty training, once we figured out that you preferred to stand up, like DUH, that's how the other menfolk in this house do it, MOM. You picked out Toy Story 3 underwear. but they're still too big for you. I'm sorry.

You talk *somuch* and all the time. It surprises people, I think, to hear you chattering away and managing to get your point across even if your pronunciation isn't quite where you want it. "Hi!" you say cheerfully to everyone you see. When they smile and ask you a question you don't have the answer to, you merrily change the subject. "Backpack! Ball! Outside! Doggie! Shuhs!" 

 

You eat *somuch* and all the time. It still shocks the hell out of me, watching you eat with a spoon and dig into bowls of hot salsa with tortilla chips and enthusiastically try anything and everything that you see us eating. If you don't like something, it's usually nothing that a little Dip-Dip won't solve, because you will eat ANYTHING and EVERYTHING if you have some kind of sauce or condiment to dip it in first. And yes, you call them Dip-Dips, preferably ones that come with Chip-Chips, and yes, I am physically unable to call ketchup anything other than Dip-Dip on the first try now. And seriously: the amount of guacamole you can put away in one sitting is mind-blowing, mostly because I haven't the faintest idea where you're putting it all.

You are such a big boy.

 

You kick the soccer ball across the living room. "GOOOOAAAL!" you say.

You watch us walk up the stairs and attempt to climb up after us. "WAIT WAIT!" you say.

You busy yourself with your play kitchen while I make dinner, mimicking my every stirring/tasting/preparing move. "YUMMY," you say, while offering me a plate of whatever wooden-food masterpiece you've created.

My God, you're such a big boy. 

  

Every night, after your bath, you pretend to follow us into your room...right before switching directions and running into Noah's. "Night night!" you say, climbing into Noah's bed and pulling up the covers, though sometimes you go in headfirst and we walk in to see your tiny bare butt sticking out. Last night you weren't feeling very well and went to bed early, so we figured we'd let you stay there and see if you actually slept or started destroying Noah's room the second the door closed, like one would EXPECT an almost-two-year-old to behave on his first night in a big boy bed.

You stayed. You slept. You cried when we put you back in your crib. Daddy mumbled something about the old toddler bed in the basement but neither of us feel as ready for that step as you do. I'm sorry.

You are such a big boy. SUCH. A big boy. 

You are in such a rush to be even bigger, to do everything your beloved Nona does. You want Star Wars, not Sesame Street. You hoist Daddy's computer bag over your shoulder and blow me a kiss before trying to head out the door in your orange Crocs. The meanest I have ever felt in my life was the day I had to put you down for a nap when Noah had a big-kid playmate over, and I could see your heartbreak all over your tearstained cheeks because it was just too unfair for words. I have always been Mommy, and never Mama. You want a bike with PEDALS ALREADY, you want a scooter, a helmet, and the keys to the car.

  

 

But sometimes -- sometimes -- you want me to hold you and rock you while you snuggle with your blanket and thumb. Sometimes you want me to hug and kiss away the boo-boos and the frustration over That Dumb Chair Being Too High To Climb Over. Sometimes I walk into the room and your whole face lights up and you come barreling over for a hug. 

"MOMMY!" you say, because you are such a big boy.

 

Magic

Last night we took the kids out for dinner. We'd heard about a nice-sounding restaurant with a "kids eat free" night on Sundays, and we're always, ALWAYS trying to find places that fall within that elusive category of Noah Can Order A Damned Grilled Cheese Sandwich But Mommy And Daddy Can Order Something Besides A Damned Cheeseburger. This place looked like it might fit the bill. 

I missed the thing on their website about the magician, though.

We didn't know about the magician until our waiter stopped by to check in on us -- yes, yes, everything is fine! The food is delicious! Love the kids' bento-box style meals! Ezra ate every bite, including the entire section of ketchup, and Noah still cannot BELIEVE he just got a side of Goldfish crackers AT DINNER, like ARE YOU KIDDING ME, OUT-OF-CONTEXT SNACKTIME, THIS PLACE IS AWESOME -- and he told us that a magician would stop by in a few minutes to show the kids some tricks.

Uh-oh.

Right on cue, Noah started to protest and amp up into a fight-or-flight level of worry. "No magic! No magician! I don't want a magician! I don't want that!" 

Jason and I hugged and reassured, we explained and cajoled, we communicated telepathically across the table like: Get the check now. We know how this is going to end.

And then...poof! Like magic, he appeared! At our table! A magician! OMFG A MAGICIAN. 

I wish...I wish you could have seen it, you guys. I wish I'd videotaped THAT, the whole thing, so I could watch it over and over again. 

Noah wielded a blue crayon like a magic wand and shrieked with delight when it made a foam ball disappear. The magician handed him another ball that turned into two -- then three! -- when Noah squeezed it tight. Then he handed Noah a marker (uh-oh) and asked him to write his name (UH-OH) on a playing card (MAYDAY MAYDAY)...and Noah did it, along with a request to turn the O into a smiley face. He laughed some more and clapped and was thrilled and amazed with each simple slight-of-hand card trick. He asked for an encore with the magic balls and it was graciously provided. 

Ten, maybe fifteen minutes, tops. Didn't matter. That tiny deviation from the expected. A kind stranger connecting with my child, making him laugh, helping him overcome the invisible whatever without even knowing it. It felt like it turned everything around, a big fat UNDO button for all of this summer's low points. 

After dinner, Jason nudged me in the direction of the magician: "Birthday. Party. I'm not kidding. Go ask." He'd just finished performing for a mother and her son so I cut in briefly and asked for his card. That's all I meant to say, but then I realized I should probably explain why I was suddenly crying.

"Thank you," I kind of choked out, "My son doesn't usually...things that are supposed to be FUN sometimes...he gets...well, you really made our night."

He handed me his card and assured me that Noah did great. I stammered out something about birthday parties and said I would be in touch and felt kind of dumb. 

The mother at the table smiled and nodded at me. "I know," she mouthed. 

Noah got to keep the card with his name on it. "This is my magic card," he says. "The Magic Man gave it to me."

A Day Without Internet

It turns out, if I deliberately decide to stay off the Internet* for an entire day, that I am downright PRODUCTIVE. Possibly even bordering on COMPETENT. 

The first order of business yesterday was a playdate, and don't you love that while I would never betray the sacred trust of What Happens on a Playdate, Stays on a Playdate and actually TELL you about the playdate, I still feel compelled to tell you that yes, I totally fucking had a playdate, motherfuckers. I have friends and am in demand for social gatherings with other human beings. WHAT UP. PLAYDATE.

(She's probably reading this, by the way, so I will thank all of y'all to make me sound awesome in the comment section and not say anything about that time at the place with the thing. You know what I'm talking about.)

So anyway, I decided to clean the house before the playdate. (Playdate! Playdaaaate!) And I realize this is completely 1) lame, and probably 2) cheating, because there's usually some unspoken arrangement between women that we're only supposed to express shame over the messy state of our homes and one-up each other regarding our failures. 

HOSTESS: I am sorry the house is such a mess! 

GUEST: Oh no, this is lovely! You should see MY house! It's a disaster!

HOSTESS: Oh, but you should see the upstairs! It's a total pigsty up there.

GUEST: Oh, mine too! I've roped it off with police tape!

HOSTESS: I LOST A CAT IN MY CLOSET SIX MONTHS AGO.

GUEST: I HAVE AN ACTIVELY LEAKING NUCLEAR REACTOR IN MY BASEMENT.

And etcetera.

SO ANYWAY. My cleaning of the house mostly involved frantic dishwasher loading and sweeping up a thick carpet of catnip off the kitchen floor, because Max had somehow gotten the bag out of a cabinet during the night and ripped it open. I found him sprawled out and covered in the stuff that morning, high as a freaking kite. Even after I cleaned it all up, he kept returning to the scene to sniff the floorboards and chew on a nearby throw rug. 

Oh! And then I cleared off the dining room table, even going so far as to set a lovely silver centerpiece bowl out, only to realize the bowl looked kind of dumb empty. So I thought: Fruit! I shall fill it with fruit. But the only fruit we had was one overly browned banana and some pathetically shriveled-looking limes. 

I put the bowl away. I think this might be the first time in the history of the world that I successfully backed down from a Bad Idea, instead of like: I KNOW LET'S TRY SOME SCENTED CANDLES! OR TRAIL MIX! SCENTED CANDLES AND TRAIL MIX! IT'S POTPOURRI!

After the playdate, I was feeling so successfully housewife-y that I went on a cooking and baking rampage, the unplanned-for kind, where you're missing a good 25% of ingredients from every recipe but decide to improvise anyway, resulting in 1) several questionably edible results that you will decide to maybe freeze for the babysitter to microwave later, thus making it officially someone else's problem, and 2) a completely re-trashed kitchen because you've used every goddamn bowl you own and decided to do several recipes that contained eggs AND oatmeal, which is a combination you can use to repave your driveway in a pinch, I think. 

(I didn't really have a point to today's entry. By the way. In case you were waiting for one. Sometimes I stumble into a point, like, AHA! I CAN RE-TYPE A SENTENCE AT THE END THAT'S KIND OF LIKE ONE FROM THE BEGINNING AND IT'S LIKE, OOOOOH CIRCULAR DOUBLE MEANING! SO INTENSE.)

In summary: The house was clean but now it isn't again, my freezer is full of homemade stuffed shells and lentil veggie burgers for my children to reject, I dragged them both to the store so I could buy some coconut to make cookies and also bought a bottle of wine. Never made the cookies. No idea how that happened. Catnip fumes, probably. Ordered Indian food because it turned out I really wasn't in the mood for any of the healthy crap I'd made. 

Basically, MOST ACCOMPLISHMENT-FILLED DAY EVER! Going to go lie down now and get all caught up on mah gossip stories. Here is my dog and some toddler feet. 

 

*As opposed to being forcibly (FORCiBLY!) kept off the Internet by Pepco or other technology failures, because then I usually spend 99% of my time checking to see if the Internet is back? Is back now? Internet? I can haz? 

I Have a Bad Ceiling About This...

I just heard Noah say that. Or more accurately, I just heard a Luke Skywalker action figure say that to a very small Darth Vader Lego figure. 

I am mining the tired trove of My Kid Says The Darnedest Things today because that same kid managed to somehow delete the ABSOLUTELY HILARIOUS video I originally planned to post today at I am now at a complete loss because NOTHING WILL EVER COMPARE TO THAT VIDEO. It has officially morphed into the single greatest two minutes of footage in the history of humanity, I am pretty sure. It was so great that I am seriously considering packing the kids in the car right now to go back out for a reshoot, like, perform, my little content monkeys, PERFORM! Dance! Or in this case, wallop each other in the aisles of ToysRus with oversized plastic lightsabers while your parents cackle at your pint-sized choreography and dream of viral fame, HAAAAAA, it's funny because you're nerds. Already. So soon.

Anyway, that's all ruined (GRUINED! as Noah would say) now, because he deleted the whole thing off my phone.

 

I honestly don't know how I can possibly be expected to accomplish all my vitally important Internet work under these conditions. I think I might be some kind of saint. Or superhero. Or maybe just kind of negligent.

Commercialismism

My kids have never been exposed to many commercials. Though only in the strictest sense of the word: I am fully aware that NickJr. advertises the shit out of other NickJr. shows and products under the guise of: 

"LET'S GET UP AND MOVE WITH THE FRESH BEAT BAND, EVERY WEEKDAY AT 4, YAY EXERCISE!" 

"LET'S GO BEHIND THE SCENES AT THE THEATER FOR A LOOK AT A CARTOON-TIE-IN LIVE SHOW THAT WILL COST YOU $375 AND YOUR WILL TO LIVE, YAY CULTURE!" 

"LET'S LEARN TO SAY IT TWO WAYS WITH DORA AND PROMOTE SPANISH LANGUAGE LITERACY, YAY COMING ANCHOR TERROR BABY APOCALYPSE!!"

(Ooh, topical.)

But thanks to the cable networks and TiVo, they (so far) have mostly been spared seeing the kinds of commercials I remember from the Saturday morning cartoon block, where every toy was the most amazing fucking toy in the history of the fucking universe, oh my God, go wake up your mom RIGHT NOW and start screeching about her hair grows all by by itself AND she goes potty AND she has fairy wings AND a matching purse AND a dreamhouse with a jacuzzi sold separately AND you can put GLITTER in the jacuzzi until you forget to breathe in and pass out cold on your parents' bedroom floor because GLITTERY DIAPER-WEARING FAIRY HOT TUB PARTIES WITH VERY TINY COMBINATION COMBS/MAGIC WANDS OMFG BZZZZT.

That never happened in our house. Until...Pillow Pets. 

Now, I know that those of you with young children are like, "Fuck you, I am not clicking on that video." Because you know. YOU KNOW.

For everybody else: I swear to God, this is a THING. This is the toddler/preschooler equivalent to a life-sized plush Justin Beiber with coordinating Silly Bandz woven directly into its creepy, synthetic hair.

This commercial airs after pretty much every episode of Sesame Street, and if you're like me, you're thinking: Wait, wasn't the Whole Point of Sesame Street that there weren't any commercials? Just maybe a "Sesame Street Is Brought To You In Part By Evil Corporation X Who Totes Doesn't Want To Advertise Or Anything But Just Gave Money To Big Bird Because It CARES And Shit" title card or something? 

No more, sadly. It seems that Sesame Street moved to cable (PBS Sprout) and learned a very important lesson in capitalism during a sleepover where Ernie decided to order a Slap-Chop and a Snuggie off late-night informercials and Kermit was all, LOW-RENT AS-SEEN-ON-TV COMMERCIALS ARE THE SHIT. WE'RE ALL GOING TO BE RICH.

True story.

So Noah saw the commercial for Pillow Pets. And started dropping hints about how he would really like a Pillow Pet?  Maybe Santa could bring him a Pillow Pet? Maybe a Pillow Pet could come in the mail for him? Were we aware that Pillow Pets popped out into a full-sized pillow and then went BACK to being a soft cuddly animal? I mean, DID WE CATCH THAT AWESOME FEATURE? 

I admit: We had absolutely no intention of ever buying him a Pillow Pet. Because...what the fuck. It's a PILLOW WITH A FACE. 

Until we went to the mall and goddammit, walked right freaking in front of a Pillow Pet kiosk. The Pillow Pets...IN PERSON. LIVE AND IN THE POLYESTER FLESH. 

Noah and Ezra stopped in their tracks. Noah covered his mouth, rendered momentarily speechless. Ezra barreled forward and grabbed the first Pillow With A Face he could get his hands on and promptly dropped to the floor to roll around with it, shrieking with rapturous joy. 

Jason: But, guys! Guys! There's a LEGO STORE over there! LEGOS. 

By this point, Noah had gotten over his shock and was jumping up and down because they had the LADYBUG! The LADYBUG! Which was all he's ever wanted in the WHOLE IN TIDE WORLD, DADDY. The kiosk lady obliged (THANKS) and pulled one down from the top shelf for him, and I thought, for a second, he was going to pass out and hit the floor like a felled tree. 

Amy: I don't think Legos are going to work.

Jason: *nerdpouts, because maaaan, he really wanted some Legos.*

So guess what MY kids have! 

Full size fail!

 

Not even close! 

The whole ride home, Noah recited the commercial from the backseat, demonstrating the Pillow Pet's endless list of exclamation-point-worthy features, while Ezra buried his face in his dog version, kicking and squealing with uncontainable glee, a precocious start to a lifetime of Personal Fulfillment Through Goods As Seen On TeeVee. 

Noah took his ladybug to show-and-tell the next week, despite our subtle suggestions of things that might be smaller and/or less totally lame. (Jason: LEGOS. WTF. I BUILT YOU A WAMPA CAVE.) We were wrong about that last bit, because Noah wandered through the hall like a rockstar, with children pointing and gaping and begging to hold it, while the other parents glared at me, because really? REALLY? I nodded and stared at my feet, embarrassed that my parental weakness was so brazenly on display, in the blobby shape of a cheerful humanoid mutant, because COME ON NOW, LADYBUGS DON'T EVEN HAVE FACES LIKE THAT.

Our neighbor stopped by the other day with her much older kids, and even they couldn't resist examining the MIND-BLOWING OPEN/CLOSE VELCO FUNCTION of the mighty Pillow Pets over and over again. "It's so SOFT," her daughter marveled, stroking the polyester pelt reverently. 

Her son studied me quietly after that, sizing me up as an easy mark, and then started dropping hints about whether or not we actually played with all of our Wii games, because they didn't have nearly so many at his house, cue the big sad Precious Moments eyes.

Sigh. I know. 

I hereby present Spoiled...

 

and Rotten.

   

What It Looks Like

A lot of families, as part of the path to diagnosis and treatment, videotape their children's behavioral...quirks, I guess. Tics. Possible symptoms. Just so the doctors or therapists or evaluators can "see" what you see at home. 

We've never done that, at least on purpose. Noah's school does a lot of videotaping for therapeutic/assessment purposes, but I've always just INTENDED to capture the normal happy fun stuff. I say "intended" because if I go through old videos of Noah I'm often kind of retroactively shocked by something we inadvertently captured that's like, "THAT. RIGHT THERE. THAT TURNED OUT TO BE THING." Noah tip-toeing across the living room; screaming in terror the first time we put him on a teensy pedal-less baby tricycle; telling some great-sounding story that we would only later realize was little more than an echolalic script. 

We're still in insurance limbo. We haven't heard the results of our last and latest appeal, which will dictate whether we get to 1) file a grievance with the state, or 2) finally get a couple months' of bills paid right before filing for YET ANOTHER request for an extension of benefits, bwaaaaaaaaahhhhzzzzzzzbbbtttt etc. I also need to go back to the school district with proof that Noah does indeed regress without extended school year options, and that his fine motor skills are not the only area of OT concern. I also just need certain people to see it, to believe it.

So I've been videotaping him. 

This is Noah trying to sit still and watch a movie. This is Noah starting out like any typical, high energy kid, before his movements become less and less controlled and more and more compulsive. This is Noah after I try to curb a single stimming behavior involving his fingers in his mouth, after he's past any point of self-regulation or ability to chill the hell out. This is not Noah performing, or having fun, or being like this on purpose. This is two minutes and 17 seconds of what he's like almost all the time now.

This is Noah without occupational therapy. That's it. This is nothing. This is fixable. 

I'm not imagining that two minutes and 17 seconds of our life will magically convince anyone who actually matters to help us fix this, but don't worry. I've got more. Ho ho ho, motherfuckers.* I've got more.** 

*Not you guys, of course.

**Not all for you guys, of course. Just this one and then I'll mostly drop it. I'm really just threatening invisible insurance and IEP people with the equivalent of sitting through a 587-slide presentation on a road trip to Mount Rushmore. I AM SUCH A BADASS. MIGHTY TARZAN CHEST-THUMP!***

***Ow, that hurt.