What Happens In Vegas...

...is all fun and games until someone falls off her heels and tears a ligament in her foot. I know that's not actually how the slogan goes but YOU GET MY POINT.

It's not a particularly exciting installment in the (ongoing, endless) saga of Times Amy Fell Down, chapter four thousand and twelve. We were on our way to dinner and I tripped. I didn't even trip ON anything, like faux quainty cobblestone or a pile of money. There were no stairs. We were walking on nice, even carpet. I was completely sober. I simply cannot manage to walk and talk at the same time anymore, and down I randomly went, twisting my ankle all to bloody hell and taking my dainty wounded pride with it.

The restaurant hostess was kind enough to vacuum seal some ice in what appeared to be a sous vide bag and I balanced that on my foot during dinner, because nothing was going to stand in my way of stuffing my damn foodhole.

And thus fulfills my life-long dream of meeting Joël Robuchon, winner of ALL TEH MICHELIN STARS, while gritting my teeth in pain because my ice pack has fallen off. Bonus points for being barefoot at the time. 

After dinner, my foot had swollen up to an alarming size and was many shades of delicious purply bruise. I couldn't walk on it at all, though I did try because EMBARRASSING. Jason helped me hobble a few feet before security noticed the barefoot girl quietly and involuntarily sobbing and intervened. They gave me a wheelchair and I promised them that I would not sue them, I swear, the fall was the result of my own legendary dumbassity and nothing more. I sat at a kitty-cat themed slot machine and signed an incident report and then tried to tell jokes to my security escort/wheelchair pusher the whole way back our room for some reason. Like I needed him to think I was cool, because suuuuure.

Later, after elevating and icing my foot failed to bring down the swelling or the pain, I spent five hours at a Las Vegas emergency room and that was...well, that was pretty sobering and not at all funny. It was understaffed and overcrowded and the man next to me spent two hours rocking back and forth, picking at face scabs and trying to convince the nurse practioner that he "lost" the pain medicines he'd just been given at a different hospital. He did not seem to be alone in this particular complaint.

(Around hour four of our wait a nurse offered me an pain pill and I accepted it, but I tried not to seem too jazzed about it.)

The whole experience gets a zero stars, would not recommend. We got back to our hotel around 4:30 a.m., so I'm now at a level of jet lag/time zone confusion that I never thought was possible. I can see through space and time and clocks no longer exist. It's pretty trippy. Also maybe I need a nap. 

But hey! I did not break my foot, just like all the other times I did not break my foot. I tore a ligament, which is the dramatic way to say "it's just a really bad sprain." I get to spend the rest of my vacation on crutches and an air cast, doing...I don't know. Figuring out how to not walk all that much. Sitting down whenever possible. Finding restaurants that are not buffets.

Wild and crazy times in Vegas, man. Wild and crazzzzy times. 

Spring Break, Parental Abandonment Style

Usually, during spring break, we just end up kicking around at home, trying to get work done as usual as our children slowly, surely descend into stir-crazy insanity from the break in routine. I believe by day three of last year's break Jason and I were hiding from them in a closet, whispering desperate promises to NEVER DO THIS AGAIN. Next year we would take them somewhere, anywhere, as long it was outside of our house and offered a reasonable number of activities, particularly of the "tiring kids out" variety.

We looked into Disney and other family-friendly vacation spots and were stymied by either the price or the fact that Ike would be too young to really participate or remember any of it. (And SORRY, if I'm shelling out the big bucks for a magical family vacation Y'ALL BETTER REMEMBER IT, even the parts you spent crying because Mommy refused to buy you cotton candy for breakfast. Here, stand next to the vendor and direct your wailing at the camera so I may preserve this preshus memory forever.) The timing for a big family vacation was off, maybe next year when Ike's a little older. So how do we kill a week this year?

Then Jason's parents spoke up and floated the idea that hey, they'd really like some time with the boys and wouldn't mind us coming up for the whole week. Maybe you two could get a few days away while they watched the kids for us because oh hey wait, what are you doing?

JASON: I'm buying plane tickets to Vegas, that's what I'm doing.

So yeah, I'm abandoning my children to the care of the grandparents next week and taking a completely selfish grown-up vacation to Las Vegas (AGAIN, though not at all work-related this time).

I have a giant heap of reasons why I do not feel guilty about this. See: they love their grandparents, my in-laws have more energy and more interest in daily trips to playgrounds and museums than I do, we got a really good deal on the airfare and hotel, we'll be back in time to still spend a few with them before school starts again, we'll take them to the beach later this year, etc. etc.

But of course the reality is that I am a mother and feeling guilty about things is just kind of what we do sometimes.

So I feel do feel a little guilty about leaving Ike in particular; I feel guilty about how much work my mother-in-law is going to end up doing, even though she swears she doesn't mind. I feel guilty that I won't be there with my mom on the second anniversary; I even feel a little guilty about not feeling REALLY guilty. Because on the other hand, it's going to be so, so nice to get away. To sleep in and not work and walk around holding hands with my husband and eating whatever we want and seeing some shows or just hanging out on the balcony with a book and a glass of wine for hours. Oh my God, ah mah gah, ermagerd, etc.

And on the other, other hand, the trip necessitated that we finally bite the bullet and order some lightweight luggage (I bought out current suitcases well over a decade ago and they weigh close to 25 pounds EMPTY, so we regularly get nailed with weight charges now, grabble grumble air travel the worst these days garble), and they came in giant boxes. Which means the kids are totally down with the whole plan, because GIANT BOXES YAAAAY.

(I am going to miss them.)

(I am also going to sleep the fuck in so hard.)

Just Some of the Things I Pretend to Be Good At

Yesterday I got dressed up in my best guess at what 'business casual' entails these days and watched my husband give a software presentation and demo-thing at Microsoft.

(Or more accurately, I watched my husband give his presentation for the fourth time, since he rehearsed it for me three times the night before while trying to get it down to under 50 minutes, which he finally did sometime after midnight. I think. I fell asleep about 20 minutes into the third run-through.)

I sat in the back row and copyedited marketing materials and poked coworkers with pens until they agreed to contribute to the corporate blog. My phone's signal kept dropping off and Microsoft's corporate wifi doesn't play nice with an iPhone (IMAGINE!), so I ate two croissants and doodled a lot instead.

It was still all very exciting, since I leave my home office all of four times a year, as "consultant" is basically another word for "socially maladjusted hobbit." I also did not fall down, spill anything or get attacked by pigeons in the parking garage, so. Win.

Today I skipped my shower, put my hair in a decidedly not-foooling-anyone topknot and am currently bracing my nerves for Ezra's dentist appointment. He is promising to be brave but I think he is a lying dirty liar and I would pay cash money to outsource this task to ANYONE ELSE ON EARTH. Are you free around 10ish this morning to take a surprisingly thrashy four year old to the dentist? They have an Xbox in the waiting room and I will give you fancy business cards that say "senior executive dental appointment consultant" on them.

Any takers? Don't make me poke you with a pen. 

21.5 Months, Which, What?

Excuse me, but did I or did I not have a baby around here somewhere? At least somewhat recently?

We all call him Ikey now, instead of Baby Ike. It's a good compromise. He's funny and cute and incredibly laid back, one might even say downright easy, but he's also totally trouble if you aren't paying attention. He looks just like Noah, eats just like Ezra and is the only one of my children who loves Elmo beyond all sense and reason. The way he says "Mama" puts my heart through the shredder, every time. 

Everybody tells you it goes fast; it goes so, so fast; enjoy it because FAST. They tell you this when your first baby is like, seven minutes old and the idea of him ever being anything but a fussy little non-sleeping blob sounds completely crazy. You've aleady forgotten what it feels like to sleep. It all goes so fast? THAT'S FASCINATING. OKAY, TRYING TO KEEP AN INFANT ALIVE OVER HERE, BRB. 

What they don't tell you is that it goes even exponentially faster with each subsequent baby. You have a frame of reference now. You know the stages: That already-sleeping-through-the-night-newborn is nothing to brag about now (HA! N00BS!), because in a few weeks he will wake up and realize that the world around him is BRIGHT and LOUD and SUCKS.

That swaddled burrito will figure out what his arms and legs do and start rolling and scooting and general not-staying-where-you-put-him-ing. Then comes a long, hazy stage of constant injury prevention and choking hazards. Crawling, cruising, walking, falling.

Booties become shoes. Then bigger shoes. Pureed yams languish in the freezer because it's all about the finger foods and then the fork and the spoon and gimme some of your steak, plz. The pajamas that looked laughably huge just a few months ago no longer stay snapped in the crotch. He refuses to sit in a high chair or even a booster seat, his legs hang over the edge of the changing table, he helps put away the groceries and knows how to turn the TV on and how to get to Elmo videos on my phone. Mimicry gives way to independence, babble turns into conversation, and suddenly you realize you're in the final year (or maybe even months) of diapers and cribs and babyhood altogether. 

And then you catch a glimpse of your reflection next to theirs in a shop window and wonder when all that happened. The lines and the eyebags and the neck. And when your babies' heads came up past your thigh, your hip, your waist, your chest. When they stopped loving Elmo and calling you Mama. 

At least we're not quite there yet with this one. It'll all happen soon enough, because FAST, but...not quite yet. 

And something tells me I'll be swallowing back the "baby" part of "Baby Ike" for a long, long time, because he is. And always will be. 

Deodorant Wars: Go Home Deodorants, You Are Drunk

part one || part two || part three || part four || part five

MEANWHILE, ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE SINK:

"Listen, Samuel Adams Alpine Spring, we need to talk. Are the rumors true?

"I'm afraid they are, fellow cheesily-named Seasonal Brew. I'm in love."

"Then it's time for you to decide. Are you a beer...

...or are you a deodorant?"

MEANWHILE, IN BETWEEN THE TWO SINKS:

"We can't keep meeting like this, Alpine! It's too risky. If my brothers ever found out..."

"But I need you, Suave Invisible Solid! I need you and your extra-effective 24-hour protection! You are my everlasting sunshine! Nothing can keep us apart!"

MEANWHILE, ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE OTHER SINK:

"We know what's going on. We know and it stops now. You've changed, Suave. You used to be so simple and gimmick free and powder fresh and now you and your boyfriend and non-properly hyphenated and redundant promises ARE TEARING THE ENTIRE COMMUNITY APART."

"Listen, Suave. I am the BOSS OF YOU. I just took the word "Matterhorn" and decided it was a SCENT. Cuz BAM. I smell like ICE, WIND & FREEDOM. The mountain-forest-water tableau on my label looks suspiciously similar to that six-pack's over there and I will NOT STAND FOR IT."

"NOTHING ABOUT ME MAKES A GODDAMN LICK OF SENSE. WTF IS A WOLFTHORN AND WHY DOES MY LABEL LOOK LIKE AN ED HARDY T-SHIRT? I AM CONFUSED AND ANGRY AND APPARENTLY NOT SLEEPING VERY WELL."

"Oh yeah? I smell like ANARCHY. Bow down, all you nonsensical bitches. Check my ingredients; I bet I'm like 14% bath salts or something."

"Usually I'm the laid-back peacemaker around here but those Alpine Spring dickbags are straight up copping my roll. I'm Tom's of Motherfucking Maine Motherfucking Mountain Spring so you best step off. Sheeeee-it."

"I...uh...well, I didn't draw the little across line on the A in my name! That's pretty badass, right? There's an extraneous plus sign in my name?  Right? God, I have no idea what I'm even doing here, honestly. Can't we just go bowling or something?"

*indecipherable grunting*

"Holy shit, y'all. I think the men's deodorant industrial complex has lost its damn mind. We're not even remotely funny anymore, even though that one over there claims to smell like ooh la la lavender."

"STFU, Degree Expert Protection Motion Sense Motion Activated Freshness Sexy Intrigue Invisible Solid. You are nothing more than a goddamn tube of word salad now and everyone knows it. EVERYONE."

MEANWHILE, BACK IN BETWEEN THE TWO SINKS:

IT'S AN ICY FRESH SCENT DANCE-OFF, Y'ALL.

"No, Matterhorn! I looooove him! He wants to marry me! We're going to be together! We're going to have babies that smell like pine needles and have labels like sunshine!" 

"So no one is gonna ask why there'a a six-pack of beer in the bathroom in the first place? How much pre-gaming does the bitch who lives here do, on average? Damn. I bet she's drunk right now."

*rabble rabble rabble rabble*

"NOOOOOOOOOO YOU KILLED HIM! ALPINE SPRING, COME BACK TO MEEEEEE!"

*hurls self to death*

~FIN~

EPILOGUE:

Turns out "Ice, Wind & Freedom" smells mostly like "Generic Men's Deodorant v.122.2329.2," while "Wolfthorn" smells like "Orange Creamsicle Lip Smackers." On the other hand, "Anarchy" smells like "The Worst, Seriously, I Almost Literally Vomited Just Now Because It's That Overpoweringly Bad, Oh My God."

Tom's of Motherfucking Maine Motherfucking Mountain Spring and Certain-Dri smell like Unscented.

Degree Clinical+ Clean smells like my husband, because that's the only one of these he uses or probably will ever use. So, great. Anybody want a free tube Orange Creamsicle Lip Smackers-scented deodorant? It's fucking hella manly. Gots wolves on it, and shit. 

Samuel Adams Alpine Spring tastes like a lager with some lemon juice added. Is just okay, but not bad, and will get you nicely tipsy especially if you day-drink it in the name of science blogging.

Bright & Shiny & Full of Win

The meeting went just as well as expected, which is to say awesome, which to say I love everyone and everything right now. Including you! Oh, you. Come give us a cuddle.

Noah will transition to the general education classroom for math after spring break, surrounded by the nicest, most supportive team of bona fide Noah Fangirls that we've ever encountered since starting this journey over five years ago. These people looooove him and think he's amazing. And of course I tend to agree.  

I should note, in case anyone was/is concerned that we're getting rushed or pushed out of services: There is actually no change or reduction at all in the number of service hours on the IEP. As Kari explained in her comment: It's simply a placement change, aka where he will RECEIVE those hours of service and special ed support. Least Restrictive Environment; pull-outs vs. integration; etc. But the support is still there: The school is still being held accountable to make sure Noah's needs are being accommodated and that he makes progress on all his academic and behaviorial goals. He'll continue to receive one-on-one OT and be allowed extra time for tasks and testing and to leave the classroom for walks/breaks for self-regulation and he'll have personal token system and blah blah blah I'll refrain from typing out his entire dang IEP. 

This is a really good leap for Noah to take, but there is still a fully operational safety net underneath him in case it doesn't work out. And it's probably still more like "baby steps" than an actual "leap." But still BOO YAH YAY HE IS DOING SO AWESOME.

Also, because important:

This. Yes. SOON.

Pomp & Circumstance

So that...figured.

Despite all my big talk and confidence on Friday, Ezra completely freaked out and melted down at his first belt test. It was held in a different room, with a different instructor, and Ezra decided to show his displeasure with these changes by being as obstinate as humanly possible. 

"Okay, boys and girls, everybody please sit criss-cross applesauce facing me."

Ezra sits criss-cross applesauce facing the opposite side of the room.

"Everybody line up in a straight line right here."

Ezra plops himself down in a random corner, seven feet away.

"Everybody stand up."

Ezra sits down.

"Everybody sit down."

Ezra stands up.

Aaaaaaaaand ecetera. 

I pulled him aside on at least two different occasions and told him we'd need to go home if he didn't start...uh, where to begin? Cooperating? Listening? Participating? Doing everything that is the exact opposite of what you are doing right now? 

He did not want to leave. He cried and begged to stay when I offered him his shoes, which made me feel just great, super great, I'm so glad we're spending a ton of money every month for this enriching experience, but then he would re-join his class and remain completely paralyzed by stage fright or shyness or general being-four-ness. 

Luckily, the program has pretty low standards when it comes to the preschoolers, and they let Ezra stomp on his board and get a new belt, mostly to boost his confidence for next time. Hooray, everyone's a winner! 

He was clearly thrilled.

So was Ike.

On Saturday we got to experience that thrill ALL OVER AGAIN, when it was Noah's turn. And of course, since he was the one I was worried about (he's been really struggling with attention and impulse control in class lately, to the point that I wasn't sure he was going to be allowed to take the belt test), he completely rocked it the fuck out. 

Noah's test took me by surprise in another way, too: I didn't realize it would officially mark his graduation to the next level of the program, the one for eight-to-12 year olds. He's still only seven, so I mistakenly assumed that he'd kick around in the same class until his birthday. 

Nope. Starting today he'll attend the big kid class, with a new instructor, officially on his way to a real honest-to-God black belt. 

We also have an IEP meeting this afternoon.

No suspense or surprises this time, though, since I already know the team's recommendations and agree with them. Today we will come up with a transition plan to move Noah 100% back into the general education classroom by the end of this school year. 

Uh-uh. That sentence. I just typed that sentence. 

He'll still have an IEP next year and goals and specialized support in the classroom, but he will no longer be pulled out of general education.

Yes. That sentence just happened too. 

And it's the right call, as much as I kind of not-so-secretly love that Noah has essentially been getting one-on-one tutoring this year as the highest-functioning kid in a very, VERY small classroom. He does just as well in the regular classroom and he actually gets his best grades in the gen-ed subjects. Overall is progress has been (as his teachers all put it) "AMAZING." It's time to step up the game now.

Sometimes I thought this day would never come. 

And yet I always knew this day would come. 

 

NO IT IS NOT 4 PM YET STOP ASKING

Ezra and Ike didn't have school today, thanks to parent/teacher conferences. Ezra's went fine, and his teacher literally used his name as an adjective to describe some random classroom behavior. "That's just so...Ezra, you know?"  Yeah. I know. Claaaassic Ezra, man. 

(I did not attend a conference for Ike, because he's only barely attended nine full days of school so far. Christ, I still come home after dropping him off and have a momentary panic at the sight of his empty car seat because OH GOD WHERE DID I LEAVE THE BABY.)

(I DUNNO. MAYBE THE SAME PLACE I LEFT MY PANTS?)

Anyway, I reminded Jason about the day off this morning (super helpfully, from my beddy nest under the covers and at least four pillows), since he tends to forget and then needlessly hassle poor Ez out of his beddy nest of EVERY STUFFED ANIMAL EVER. Ezra's like me: We enjoy a good sleeping in, almost excessively so. Jason starts losing his mind on Satudays if I sleep until 9 — why, it's so laaaate, how are you still tirrrrred — even though I could easily stay unconscious until 11. Let the boy sleep! 

This morning, though, Ezra was already up and awake before the sun was up. Jason found him in his darkened room, bleary eyed, trying to get his karate uniform on.

His first-ever belt test is today at 4 pm. I'd say wish him luck but I don't think he even needs it. He's been ready for this for quite some time now. Since 5 am, at least.  

(Yeah, he probably will wear the Superman shirt to the belt test. I guess I could make a big deal over needing to wear only the school-approved uniform but I'm taking a four-year-old to kick a balsa wood board in half and scream HIGH YAH at it. I think we can handle just a touch more ridiculousness, honestly.) 

American Boys

For many many MANY years now, the American Girl company has sent me their catalog, at least once a year, without fail. 

The very first catalog arrived at my parents' house when I was 12 years old. I think I turned 13 just a few weeks later. Too old for a doll, especially such an expensive doll, but I remember my mom and I snuggling up in bed one morning to ooh and ahh over the dolls (AND THE ACCESSORIES. DEAR SWEET GIRLY PINK JESUS THE ACCESSORIES) and I thought that maybe...just maybe...my parents would spring for a Samantha doll, for one final nostalgic hurrah of childhood.  

They did not. Woe and alas, but also: I WAS 13 YEARS OLD. PUT DOWN THE BARBIES, CHILD.

Yet the catalogs kept coming. And coming. They followed me to my first apartment in college, and then to my first apartment with Jason. To his immense credit, he never judged me for the hour or two I'd spend on the couch with that catalog, staring at the dollsssss and the clothesssss and the teeny tiny historically accurate tea party foodsssss and gaaahhhhhhhh. 

He did notice, though, and a couple years later he surprised me out of the blue with...a Samantha doll. 

Right? I know. I KNOW. I can't even with that man. He's that good, and none of us deserve him in the slightest. 

Obviously, that purchase only made the American Girl company double-down on the mailings, as it probably triggered some internal marketing radar. DOLL-BUYING GIRLCHILD IN THE HOUSE. DOLL-BUYING GIRLCHILD IN THE HOUSE. MAKE SURE SHE KNOWS ABOUT THE ACCESSORIESSSSSSSSS.

(Also not helping: The purchase I immediately made of a base set of outfit accessories for Samantha, including her hat, locket, purse, hanky and a reproduction of an authentic Victorian-era coin. Because she simply would not be COMPLETE without her hat, locket, purse, hanky and a reproduction of an authentic Victorian-era coin. Duh.)

(They don't even make Samantha anymore. Even though she was so obviously the best.)

My boys have never seen my Samantha doll. They have other dolls and I've seen how they treat those other dolls, so Samantha remains safely packed away in her original box. I take her out every once in awhile to make sure she's not being eaten by mice/snakes/stinkbugs/squirrels/ohmygod, then re-wrap her in tissue paper and put her back on the shelf.

It's probably the only time I allow myself to feel...well, not sad, but a bit wistful about my lack of a little daughter to give her to. Someome who might actually want to join me on the couch and ooh and ahh over the catalog, instead of looking at it like it came from outer space:

Da helllllll? I love me some tiny toy food but this shit? This shit cray.

Woe and alas again, I suppose. Not meant to be. Despite the fact that my boys will occasionally play with dolls and dollhouses and tea sets (to the exxxtreme, with a destructive vengeance, often involving zombies), the American Girl offerings are apparently a gendered bridge too far. I certainly could have had girls who had no interest in any of this stuff either, but in the end I have boys and they are boys.  

One of them better give me a freaking granddaughter, though. No pressure. I just have something for her, someday.

*This post was NOT sponsored by the American Girl company. If anyone knows anybody who works there please ask them to stop sending me their catalog. Send me free tiny adorable doll accessoriesssssssssss instead. I will hoard them in my basement like a crazy person, thank you.

Noah For President

I imagine many of you, upon hearing the words "LET ME SHOW YOU MY KID'S ART PROJECT," have the exact same reaction as if I said "LET ME TELL YOU ALL ABOUT THIS WEIRD DREAM I HAD."

Which is to promptly set yourself on fire, and then run away screaming that you left the iron on and Beyonce's on the phone. 

Which is fine and understandable and LET ME SHOW YOU MY KID'S ART PROJECT.

Noah had to put together a book for President's Day and answer some questions about what he would do when he becomes president. Which is definitely going to happen. Nothing is going to hold this kid back when it comes to fulfilling his dream of Holding A Stick and Having A Hat. NOTHING, I TELL YOU. IT"S THE AMERICAN DREAM. YOU WERE IN THE DREAM TOO, BUT NOT REALLY AS YOURSELF, YOU KNOW? IT WAS WEIRD.

I don't know who the man and woman are on the other side of the desk here, or what their speech squiggles represent, but I like to imagine that it's me and Jason, continuing to provide guidance and counsel to our hat-wearing, stick-holding runaway success of a child.

I also imagine Noah is telling us to get the hell away from his desk and out of his chair. God, Mom, shut up. 

This is either a really solid presidential plan or a rejected storyboard from a Damon Lindelof sequel to Air Force One. 

Ledis = lettuce? I think?

In other words, Mom, I will eat that salad when I am President, pigs fly, hell freezes over, etc. 

COME BACK HERE DOG I HAVE A STICK.

Please note the SERIOUS EYEBROWS. He is not messing around. Everyone please commence caring about each other right this second. He will send your ass to jail, people. Stop being a bunch of jerks.

I cannot argue with that. He really would. STORCH 2040.