This Official Everything Is Okay Alarm

We're fine, yes, for those of you who aren't on Teh Twittermajob or Teh Instagramamajig and therefore missed my HOURS LONG, hurricane-related, compulsive-shopping bender, during which I purchased approximately four dozen mismatched pieces of vintage Depression and Indiana glass, because apparently I am That Person now, That Person Who Collects Mismatched Vintage Glass And Gets Like, Scary Into It. 

OMG PLATES OMG BOWLS OMG CANDLEHOLDERS HOLY SHIT IT'S A GODDAMN CREAMER OMG.

A warning to anyone contemplating spending the holidays with us: I am now obligated to cook approximately 35 different side dishes, including stuff that will fit in a "pickle dish" or "celery plate."

(That aren't, like, plain pickles or celery. BECAUSE THAT WOULD BE WEIRD.)

(Not weird: Anything else I just typed.)

(Shutit.)

(It runs in the family.)

The kids slept in the basement, just to be safe. Although technically I should say they "slept" but only a little, after several hours of a live re-enactment of Beyond Thunderdome II: The Lost Tribe of Stir-Crazies. 

(I'm technically supposed to be "reviewing" the Furby for a holiday gift thing, but Noah won't let me put batteries in it because he's afraid it will grow up mean. The Furby 2012: it's an attractive yet vaguely creepy paperweight!)

Meanwhile, Giant Ikea Carrot kept Ike company in the Pack-n-Play. 

Anyway, that's about all that's happening here. Our power is on, our cars and house are undamaged, our streets are full of leaves but no flooding, and I am really, REALLY hoping I can send a couple certain children back to school tomorrow because really. Enough togetherness. It's time for me to spend some quality time trolling eBay and Etsy for the perfect vintage soup tureen. 

I hope everybody else reading fared similarly, and that y'all are okay and fine and up to your usual weirdness too.

 

NOT THE BEEEEEESSS!

Okay, so I'm guessing we're only a few hours away from being plunged into hurricane-related darkness and Nick-Jr-less misery, so I'm typing as fast as I can to get this entry done and we all nkow nothing goood kan com of thsi. You stay classy, East Coast! (And safe. That too.)

On the opposite end of the weather spectrum, Friday was a beautiful day. Almost unfair, even, that such a perfect fall day was ruined by intrusive thoughts of "I don't trust that tree over there" and "I need to go buy bread and canned goods and booze and a generator-powered TV."

The entire neighborhood was playing outside. The parents milled around and chatted about the weather, packs of little boys tossed up armfuls of dry leaves like confetti, and Ike chased after every toy that did not belong to him because fuck his boring-ass toys, that's why. 

I intercepted him during a crazy toddler run towards the street and put him back down on the sidewalk, but about halfway through the process he started screaming. And I mean: SCREAMING. Louder and more indignant-like than a usual "mo-ooo-ooom stop thwarting mah dreeeeamzzz!" whine-fest. This was more like, "mo-ooo-ooom how dare you immunize me against poliooooooo!" screaming.

When I set him down, I realized there was a bee on the back of his sweatshirt. I quickly swiped it off, then smushed that fucker flat on the sidewalk with my shoe of mama-bear justice. Ike continued to howl at the top of his lungs.

Ah, shit, man.

I pulled up the back of his shirt and sure enough, he'd been stung. Twice! 

And I realized I did not have the faintest idea of what to do. Three children, zero bee stings. UNTIL NOW. IN A WORLD. WHERE JUSTICE AND INCOMPETENCY MEET. ONE MOTHER. WILL FACE. Etc.

My choices were, basically, to whip out my phone and start Googling, or throw myself on the mercy of the crowd of my neighbors in hopes that someone else knew what to do. 

"BEE STINGS! BEE STINGS! WHAT DO YOU DO FOR BEE STINGS!" I started shrieking. "THE BABY HAS BEE STINGS AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M SUPPOSED TO DO!"

It takes a village, y'all. 

Two different parents went running towards their doors and back inside.

I thought, maybe, they were going for whatever necessary first aid equipment was necessary, but it turned out they were both going to check Wikipedia.

A mom emerged with an ice pack while a dad ran back out to confirm that yes, the Internet says to put ice on it. And to remove the stinger, if possible.

There was no stinger, just some swelling, but nothing horrific. Ike settled down and stopped crying, and I was instructed to go inside and put some itch stick on the stings, don't worry about getting Noah from the bus stop, we'll get him, the baby is okay the baby is okay poor baby. 

In the end, Ike's brush with bee stings turned out to be less of a big deal than Ezra's overly dramatic mosquito bites (OMG and ZOMG), and the welts faded completely after a couple hours. 

But I am telling the story anyway because I can add "bee stings" to the long list of things I have freaked out about unnecessarily, but am now an expert in. Bee stings = ice pack, itch stick, put some wine on it. The more you know, *rainbow jazz hands*, THE END.

PS:

 

GIFSoup

Bait and Switch. BAIT AND SWITCH!

On the other end of the Halloween Drama Spectrum, Noah walked into Target a few weeks ago and calmly and casually pointed at an Anakin Skywalker costume.

"That one," he said, like a perfectly regular kid who has never flipped his everloving shit at the mere mention of dressing up. 

It was one of those hugely baffling, come-from-nowhere breakthroughs that I no longer question. Just shut your mouth and hand over the credit card, Mom, lest you say the wrong thing and accidentally rip open the fabric of the universe anew.

I planned to take Ezra to Party City yesterday, hoping that maybe a non-Green-Ninja alternative would look more attractive in person. If that failed, we could pick up some poster paint and take another crack at a homemade costume, using the adorable cardboard ninja tutorial that a bunch of you linked to in the comments that I had somehow missed during HOURS of Google-fu for all things DIY Ninjago. (Though I was deeply doubtful that Ezra would tolerate wearing a cardboard box for more than five minutes no matter how cool it looked, and our attempt at the homemade ninja scarf was already a documented disaster of GET THAT OFF MY HEAD OFF MY HEAD OFF MAH HEEEAAAAADDDD.)

(So basically, he wanted a Green Ninja costume but did not actually want to wear a Green Ninja costume. Thanks for making so much sense, four year old!)

Before we left, it dawned on me that I hadn't actually tried any of our toddler-sized costumes on Ike yet, but was just sort of assuming we'd have something that fit. Probably better double-check that thesis, brainiac. 

So I gathered up the sad little green karate suit and hauled out our box of hand-me-down costumes: Monkey! Steve from Blue's Clues! Random alien monster thing! Obi-Wan and Baby Yoda! 

Hold the phone. Obi Fucking Wan and Baby Goddamn Yoda. 

Lesson learned: Never underestimate the power of the words "If you wear this, I will buy you a lightsaber."

Of course, THIS costume is technically at least two sizes too big for him, but since it's a cheap-as-hell piece of mass-produced shit, there's no hemming or seams: Just cut off the extra fabric and you're done.

Now THAT's a level of Do-It-Yourselfieness that I can handle. 

Now I just need to figure out a costume for myself. I'm thinking Sexy TIE Fighter or Slutty Jabba the Hutt. 

The DIY Green Ninja Costume of Fail

So. As you may have gathered from the million and seventeen point two times I have mentioned it, my children are pretty obsessed with the Ninjago series from Lego.

(Well, Noah and Ezra, anyway. Ike seems on the fence about it. On the one hand, you can't actually ride on any of the Sonic Raider Dragon Chopper Skull Truck Whatever The Hell things, unlike our ancient neglected Cozy Coupe which is getting a late-in-life chance at love again. He especially enjoys driving it off the step into our living room, Thelma-and-Louise style.)

(On the other hand, he very much enjoys chewing on the small rubber tires that come with many of the Lego vehicle sets and then multiple like rabbits throughout my house. If you ask him "What's in your mouth?" he'll obediently spit out an entire slobbery set of four.)

ANYWAY. While there are easily 4,230,402,293 different building sets and minifigures to buy at this point, Lego has not expanded the line to include stuff like party favors or Halloween costumes. You know, because responsible consumerism and un-stifled creativity and also to be a tremendous pain in my ass.

Ezra started asking for a Green Ninja Halloween costume in August. August! Which gave me plenty of time to ignore that request and assume that he would TOTALLY move on and chose something else closer to Halloween. 

When he continued to insist on a Green Ninja costume in September, I gave in and started looking at our options. And lo, they were not good. He had no interest in any of the non-green ninja options. He could not be talked into a t-shirt and headband. Someone on Etsy made a nice-looking one, but wanted $150 for it. And while a single mass-produced unlicensed knock-off costume existed, it was 1) not particularly convincing (read: ugly as butt), 2) pretty expensive for a cheap-looking polyester unitard, and 3) ALREADY SOLD OUT ALMOST EVERYWHERE.

Goddamnit. 

Eventually my feeble peanut brain started working out a plan. I could buy a white karate uniform and dye it green. He could wear Noah's old green belt. I found a trick for turning a t-shirt into a ninja scarf. Add a gold-handled plastic pirate sword from a local costume shop and we were in business. Glorious, DIY craft-blogger business. 

(BECAUSE YEAH THAT'S JUST SO AMALAH.)

I shopped around until I found a 100% cotton karate uniform since that seemed more likely to dye evenly than one with polyester or nylon. This meant ordering it directly from some random martial arts website instead of Amazon, and it took FOREVER. When it arrived, I was concerned that the size chart had been a little...misleading, because it seemed awfully small for something that was supposed be a 4T. It fit, but only just. But there was no time to wait for an exchange to arrive, so as long as it didn't shrink, it should work. 

(FORESHADOWY FORESHADOWING.)

Ezra's school is having a Halloween party this Friday night, so it was time to finally execute my World's Greatest Mother Nobody Tells My Kid He Can't Be The Green Ninja Foolproof Plan.

I dyed it twice: the first application colored it beautifully and evenly, but was a bit on the lime-y side. Another dye bath deepened the color, but it still wasn't quite in Authentic Green Ninja Territory. It didn't even remotely match any of the half-dozen green t-shirts I rounded up from Ezra's closet, and clashed terribly with Noah's green belt. 

But still. I held out hope that if I could just get all the pieces on Ezra together that it would be convincing enough. That he'd be okay with just going as the Greenish Patchwork Ninja. Worst case, I figured, I'd have to spend the next couple days gluing or sewing some extra embellishments on it to better match the stupid minifigure.

Noah took one look at the sad pile of karate suit and announced, "That doesn't look like the Green Ninja." 

Ezra heard this and looked at the suit, then me, then repeated, "That doesn't look like the Green Ninja."

"What do you mean? Of course it does! Don't listen to Noah. Let's try it on."

We tried it on. 

It had shrunk. MASSIVELY. A questionable 4T was now a definitive 2T. The sleeves hit Ezra just past his elbows, an inch of belly showed above the waistband of the pants...which were of course way, way too short for him anyway. And all the various ties and drawstrings were now a weird bright blue color and completely distracting because there wasn't enough fabric to hide them anymore.

I started to attempt the cool t-shirt-as-ninja-hood trick, but at this point Ezra was shrieking and pulling at the too-tight everything and demanding I take it all off, he didn't like it, he didn't liiiiiiiiike it. 

So the bad news is that I have no costume for my kid and two days to come up with something. (I don't even have any workable hand-me-downs, as Noah was in full-on costume rebellion at this particular age/size, and apparently last year's chef costume is too big of a step down in awesomosity after months of Green Ninja promise.) After showing Ezra every possible option — Red Ninja! Black Ninja! Batman! Spiderman! Sexy Spiderman! — on Amazon Prime, I think he may be warming up to Captain America, or at least an overpriced polyester unitard version of him. WHATEVER.

The good news is that I now may very well have the perfect toddler-sized costume for Ike.

Poor kid. BUT SOMEONE MUST SUFFER AS I SUFFERED FOR THIS DAMN THING.

This Is the Birthday That Never Ends

After a few years of convincing our children that a visit from Grandma and Grandpa totally counts as a birthday party, we decided that we owed them a wee bit of a blowout. 

And so in accordance with our local traditions, we set two dozen or so children loose in a local inflatable thunderdome for a couple hours. 

Not to brag or anything, but this was THE birthday party to be at, at least between the hours of 1:00 and 2:45 pm. The next party started at three and was probably pretty much the same.

Slides, climbing, jumping, bouncing and the sounds of shrieking sweaty children hurling their bodies in every direction because everything is soft and squishy and WE ARE INVINCIBLE UNTIL SOMEBODY FACEPLANTS ON THE CARPET.

(So not kidding about the sweaty part. By the end of the party the children all looked like they'd just run through a car wash.)

Ike, who is — surprise, surprise — turning out to be absolutely FEARLESS, charmed our party hosts into taking him on every piece of equipment approximately 100 million times. After awhile they were just tossing him down the slide free-fall style while he shrieked in delight. 

After a couple hours it became clear that everybody was in dire need of a shitload of sugar.

Luckily we had some on hand. 

So. Okay. We decided on two cakes because 1) it would let us cover both sides of the oft-brutal chocolate vs. vanilla debate, 2) I was not sure I wanted Noah and Ezra crowding and elbowing each other just inches away from open flames, and 3) the bakery described these as "two small rounds," so why the heck not?

They ended up being easily twice as big as we were expecting, but also twice as BADASS AWESOME LOOKING.

Every little boy in attendance (and several of the girls) shrieked at the sight of GREEN NINJA CAKES and I was like, WINNING AT PARTIES AND PARENTHOOD. OR AT LEAST ORDER FORMS AT BAKERIES. 

(Ten minutes later one of those boys pointedly ask me why Noah "chose" to put a bunch of lame erasers in the goody bags, which of course were something I chose, so all coolness points were obviously immediately lost.)

(Though nobody can take away my awesome they-don't-make-licensed-Ninjago-party-merchandise sticker-application skillz.)

We killed one whole cake and about a third of the other. All the leftover slices are vanilla, which of course means they are naturally part of a balanced breakfast. 

So now the High Birthday Season is officially over around here. Until June, anyway, but luckily Ike still doesn't know that many people. Except Grandma and Grandpa. Those guys know how to party. 

Also:

Noah is in heaven. I am in some heavy-duty reinforced combat boots and mourning the official loss of the last uncluttered surfaces in the house. They belong to the Legos, now. Save yourselves. Have some cake.

So Long & Thanks For All the Fish

I used to wonder when we'd be "done." After the speech therapy? Occupational therapy? After the mock preschools, special preschools, summer camps, kindergarten or...? 

I don't even know what I thought "done" meant. No more therapy? No more IEP? A final ruling out of SPD, PDD, ASD, ADHD, AFLACDIAFOMGBBQ? A child with no label? A child who is "cured" and "easy" and "totally predictable" and "not such a quirky little amped-to-11 question mark?" 

Obviously, duh. Bless my precious little heart, I just wasn't that bright. Noah is who he is, he will always be who he is, and we will always — ALWAYS — do everything we can help him be the best Noah he can be. You know, like we do for all of our children. (It's not like non-SN kids simply raise themselves with a little help from a pack of neighborhood dogs, after all.) There is no "done," really. 

But we are done with occupational therapy. His therapist is moving on to a new job, after all. We're not transitioning him to someone new, because really, it's time. It's a good stopping point, and he's ready. His final session was yesterday, full of hugs and high fives, Chipotle gift cards and a book Noah wrote for Ms. M__ called The OT Teacher From the Black Lagoon. 

I also used to think that when we were "done," I'd spike a football and celebrate. No more driving! No more waiting rooms! No more insurance hassles and bills and appeals! Look at my kid and how far he's come and how awesome he is! Party on Thursday afternoons! BOOYAH, BITCHES. WE'RE OUT.

Instead, as we walked through the lobby and back to our car for the last time, I felt a terrible pang. This place, these people, this weekly ritual. So profoundly important to us for all these years, and now?  Done.

Done. Whoa.

And in the end, it was mostly...momentously unmomentous. Discharge report will go in the mail, okay, goodbye. Goodbye receptionist, goodbye other waiting room parents, therapists, evaluators, random employees who still know all of our names and remember when Ezra was only a baby and Ike didn't exist and oh right, when Noah didn't even really talk. For all these people, it was just an awkward wave and a...yeah, this is it, we're done. See ya around but probably not, I guess.

But also: Look at my kid. Just look at how far he's come and how awesome he is.

So thank you. To all of you, from all of us. 

She's Lump, Part Who Cares

So. Basically. Epic Post-MRI Runaround was Epic. I waited patiently by the phone for several days, because of COURSE my doctor would call me. He SAID he would call me. And no one has ever lied about calling me back in my entire life ever. I mean, except for all those times in middle school, high school and college. OTHER THAN THAT, I AM JUST BRIMMING WITH RAINBOW-TINTED OPTIMISM.

My doctor never called me. So I took the drastic step of — omfg — calling him back. 

Or...I tried, at least. This particular ENT doctor is part of a absolutely ginormously labyrinthian ENT practice, with about six locations and a dozen doctors. But only one (1) phone number. Which you call and are presented with a crazy number of automated robot options, of which zero (0) are actually related to, yanno, getting in touch with a specific doctor. Or any doctor who could review MRI results.

There was an option for leaving a message with a nurse practitioner, which seemed vaguely close-ish to the sort of human being I needed to speak with, but when I tried that I was re-directed to "Anita"'s voicemail, wherein she informed all callers that today, April 19th, was her last day of work. She wishes us all luck, and goodbye.

Shockingly, Anita failed to return my message. Next I tried calling the appointment people, since fine! You are person! Who is not Anita! Not-Anita promised to pass my message on to my doctor, but after several more days of phone silence I went on the practice's web site, found a "Contact Us" form and basically caps-locked all over that bitch.

HEY I JUST MET YOU AND THIS IS CRAZY BUT HERE'S MY NUMBER SO CALL ME OR SO HELP ME GOD I WILL GIVE YOU BAD RATINGS ON...UM...WHATEVER THE DOCTOR EQUIVALENT OF YELP IS.

Tl;dr My doctor finally called me back today! 

And it is good news (as I was mostly suspecting, since one would hope a large, super-highly regarded ENT group would not ignore a radiologist's report that "MY GOD SHE'S ONE WEEK AWAY FROM DEATH FROM EXPLODING EAR LUMP CANCER" for two whole weeks). 

The lump is NOT the weird deep-rooted sinus malformation the first two doctors thought it was (three if you count the Inventor of Accutane, who is going to be soooooo disappointed), but a more run-of-the-mill benign lipoma. 

"A fat tumor, basically," he explained. 

A tumor of fat. On the side of my face. 

I am such a sexy bitch, y'all.

Anyway, it DOES need to be removed since it just keeps getting bigger and more uncomfortable, but it will be a relatively easy, straightforward surgery instead of ...um. The opposite of that. With the whole risk of facial paralysis and stuff. So you'll probably only have to read about this stupid ear lump one or two more times, max. 

So go ahead and breath a collective sigh of relief. You've earned it!

Eat Like No One's Watching

It's easy to get a little melancholy around their birthdays...I spend a couple days going through photos and videos, watching them grow up in fast-forward mode, feeling alternately proud and wistful while absent-mindedly tugging the sagging, aging skin around my jawline over and up, like a fake facelift, because FOUR. He's FOUR. My baby is four.

So it's good know that some things haven't changed. Much. Yet.

That boy still enjoys the hell out of a good cupcake.

Chocolate cupcakes with chocolate-chip cookies on top. Young minds, BLOWN.

And there it is.

It's like a choco-riffic autopsy.

However, he IS four years old now. So. You know.

Manners.

(Bonus flashback:)

(Aaaaaannnnndddd there's that melancholy all over again. Dang it. Somebody get me a cupcake.)

Four Going On Awesome

Today is Ezra's fourth birthday. Happy birthday, my funny little wonderful Zahbaby, and thanks for still letting me call you that.

He woke up insisting that no, he is NOT four. He is six and a half. He has been waiting his whole life to be six and a half, like Noah was. Apparently he thought once Noah turned seven, he could move into the six and a half spot, like claiming an older sibling's room once they head off to college. 

He's still a little grumpy about the whole topic. 

Which means it's time for me to queue up his favorite song in the whole word and dance with him around the kitchen to it, and then swing him around in circles until we're both dizzy. Then he'll wrap his body around my legs like a baby monkey and hug me as hard as he can, and I'll fall over, and the song will end and he'll leap on top of me and say, "AGAIN, MOMMY! I LOVE YOUR SHIRT AND THE GREEN NINJA AND NOAH AND I HAVE ON MY FAST SHOES. AGAIN!"

Works every time. 

Ezra's Fourth Birthday from amalah on Vimeo.
Ezra's Favorite Song in the Whole Word: "So Long" by Zooey Deschanel & M. Ward (from Winnie the Pooh) 

Every Which Way But Good

I. The Genetics of Crud-Covered Scrunchface

Me, circa the days when metal cabinets with sharp rusty edges ruled the earth.

Ike, circa last week.

It's awesome how they only look like me when they're acting like goofball weirdos. Awesome and telling.

II. No, But Seriously, He's Huge Now

And all day long he's like "Shhzz? Go? Shhzz? Go?" which roughly translates to "Put my shoes on, woman, and let's bust this joint."

One of these doors has to take me outside. Or at least protect somethng dangerous and perfectly sized for my mouth.

III. Call Me Maybe

Hello?

OMG YOU GOT TICKETS TO THE WIGGLES NO FREAKING WAY.

I'll be right there. Just gotta find my shhzz.

I posted that last photo to Instagram, and the comments immediately all focused on Ike's spiffy little underroos, which is actually a gDiaper, which I actually bartered in exchange for writing a post for the gDiapers blog. (Which I still have to, you know, actually do. Coming soon! Hold please!) 

Yes, I requested and received payment for writing in the form of cloth diapers and was thrilled out of my goddamned mind over the arrangement. Mommyblogging! What a country! Get a real job, and etc.

Anyway, several commenters requested a cloth diapering update, so I suppose I need to write THAT now too. I'm sure I can manage to devote another 2,000 words or so to the subject, if I try. And by "try" I mean "open my mouth and let the stream-of-consciousness fall out because blah blah diapers diapers blah."

IV. More Gratuitous Beefcake

Ike learned the sign for "baby." Which he now uses as a descriptor for children OTHER THAN HIMSELF, BECAUSE I'M NOT ONE ANYMORE, MOM.

Or possibly this is more of an arm-folded stance of disapproval at the toy-pile disaster going on behind him, because MY GOD.

V. And On That Note, SEGUE!

Do you guys know AB Chao? Do you guys know that, way back in a previous life, I didn't have a blog but she had an "online journal" and I read it religiously, because she was just so smart and funny and hey, I wonder how hard it would be to acquire a personal web publishing property of my very own? Hmm!

She's pretty much the reason I was inspired to start blogging, and the reason you are reading this. But please don't hold that against her. She didn't know. How COULD she know?

Anyway, she's also a kick-ass interior decorator/designer, and is coming to DC next month for one of her famous Dewit Design Camps. And I will be there, and you guys, I've never actually met her in person and I am going to hyperventilate and probably cry and be all, "did you ever know that you're my herrrrrro" COMPLETELY NON-IRONICALLY. Then I will ask her what in sam hill I should do about that mess behind the couch. 

You should totally come. Bring a camera. Instagram the fangirl meltdown. Feel the (creepy, Internet-based) love.