No call from the doctor yet, because of course. After briefly convincing myself that the lump was probably going to explode at any second, filling my skull with oozing deadly aneurysm cancer (it's a thing) (that I made up), I have since circled back to "it's just a cyst, dial it down, moron" and calmed down significantly. This concludes today's up-to-the-minute coverage of Amalah's Weird Ear Lump Thing.
Anyway, what we really need to discuss is my drama queen of a toddler.
Ike is 16 months old now, and has apparently decided to get a head start on his Terrible Two-ing, because OH MY GOD, the dramatics. The dramaaaahhhhhtics. They are at teenage girl levels around here.
Every set of photos I take now contains AT LEAST one or two random, out-of-the-blue meltdowns, usually bookmarked by happy, smiling photos snapped a few seconds before and after.
PROBLEM: I have just realized I am not standing directly next to the thing I want to be standing next to.
SOLUTION: Burst into momentary, hysterical tears, then walk four steps forward to the thing.
PROBLEM: My mother has just politely requested that I not eat the cat food.
SOLUTION: Throw self to floor, pound fists and kick feet like a big goddamn tantrum-y cliche.
On Sunday, we let Noah choose the day's activity in honor of his birthday. (We're having a party in a few weeks, because I am awful and lazy and making Noah and Ezra have a single joint party, something I'm sure they will complain bitterly about for many blessed years to come.) He put our money right where our big fat mouths are and chose Chuck E. Cheese, aka Thanks Son, Why Don't You Just Stab Our Brains With A Screwdriver Instead?
Ike immediately found the one sole toddler-sized ride and began demanding tokens. (Who taught him that these rides move if you put money in them? WHO? Was it you? Asshole.)
And the mascot-based brand-loyalty assimilation was quick.
But unfortunately, so was the ride.
OMG I'M NOT BOUNCING ANYMORE AND I HAVE JUST NOTICED CHUCK E.'S DISTURBING LACK OF A LOWER BODY THIS IS THE WORST 30 SECONDS OF MY LIFE.
And last night, while attempting to document Ike's ring-stacking abilities, I instead ended up with the following series of preshus memories, all in under a single minute's time:
STAGE ONE: Disaster!
STAGE TWO: WHAT IS EVEN THE POINT ANYMORE IT'S ALL GONE SO WRONG
(If I'd only been shooting video, I would GIF the SHIT out of this.)
STAGE FOUR: Defeat. Utter, heartbreaking defeat.
Not pictured: Minutes after I managed to coax him up off his face and get him back down to a woeful-sniffing level of sadness — via a bribe of apple juice — he took a swig from his cup and promptly thwacked his head on the wall behind him and started the whole rage-cycle all over again.