They're Two, They're Four, They're $64.50

We arrived at the Thomas & Friends Presents: Day Out With Thomas: Great Discovery Tour 2008, Brought to You By LEGO/DUPLO, the Choice for Exxxtreme Plastic Interlocking Block Building, just as the life-sized Thomas engine pulled into the station. Noah managed to catch about a half-second glimpse and promptly lost his mind.

"THOMAS!" he screamed. "THOMAS! THOMAS!"

I thought for a second he was about to plum pass out from the excitement. Even the will-call ticketing folk, whom I imagine are sick to death of Thomas and Percy and Sir Topham Fucking Hatt after the 17th consecutive weekend of dealing with this nonsense, smiled at Noah's Beatlemania-level enthusiasm. Jason and I smiled like big old dweebs, because WE RULE. MAXIMUM MAGICAL SPECIALNESS ACHIEVED! GREATEST. PARENTS. EVER.

By the time we got closer to Thomas, Noah was speaking in tongues.

Thomas! from amalah on Vimeo.

And. That's probably when we should have turned around and gone home.

Note to the Greatest. Parents. Ever: when your child says no, he does not want to ride on the train, don't fucking make him ride on the train. Oh my God.

Then again, I'd ordered the tickets weeks ago for $18 each. Plus $3.50 in processing fees! Each! You are riding that train, child, and it will be MAGIC and SPECIAL and we will talk about the memories of that MAGIC and SPECIAL time we paid $64.50 to ride on an old MARC train for 25 minutes through some fields in Baltimore while a tinny Thomas singalong CD was pumped through the loudspeakers and the brakes on our car made a non-stop disconcerting grindy sound, and we will talk about these memories for YEARS, dammit. YEARS.

Noah's been doing so well with his little sensitive sensory quirky issues lately -- he's actually about to get kicked out of Early Intervention, the little smartypants valedictorian -- but oh, the train drove him batshit. He screamed and panicked and kicked and wept and he did not CARE that we were riding a train that was tangentially connected to a big blue Thomas engine, although technically Thomas was up THAT way and the train was moving in the OTHER way so...hmm. I am beginning to suspect that the Day Out With Thomas Great Discovery Thrash Metal Rock n' Roll Tour 2008 is possibly kind of a racket.

REST OF THE WORLD: Welcome, Amy! So glad you could join us.

Since we were 1) surrounded by families with toddlers, so like, eff them, right? and 2) $64.50! Sixty-four-fifty!, we did not get off the train during Noah's freakout but gritted our teeth and kept muttering that he'd be fine once the train started moving, oh God, just MOVE ALREADY. It was at this point that a elderly woman walking by felt the need to inform us that our child was "not happy."

What?! Not happy?  For real? Why...that means we've been doing this entire parenting thing COMPLETELY BACKWARDS this whole time? Dude, we're such BONEHEADS. And here I thought this was just laughter through tears.

Noah did settle down once the train started moving (slowly, without any realistic chugga chugga woo woos, and yes, I WAS looking forward to some realistic chugga chugga woo woos), so much so that he laid down on our laps and tried to go to sleep.

Back at the station, the gift shop was sold out of the preshus little conductor caps that we'd had our hearts set on for our non-hat-abiding toddler, the concessions were closed so I couldn't spend $5 on bottled water and when Jason went to inspect the family photos we'd had taken in front of Thomas post-train-ride he happily told me that they were ABYSMAL and we all looked LIKE ASS, and therefore he DIDN'T BUY ONE. Then we high-fived because SUCK IT, Thomas & Friends. We done outsmarted you in the end, we did.

Of course, Noah did have fun. He climbed on a Thomas made out of LEGO/DUPLO BRAND INTERLOCKING BUILDING BLOCKS! and got walloped by a 12-year-old on the moonbounce got involved in a turf-war/choo-choo-hoarding incident at the train table -- you know, the same train table WE HAVE AT OUR HOUSE -- and did you know that antique trains come with built-in Naughty Steps for overstimulated toddlers?

Woe.

Noah called this one "Mommy Thomas," and now all his trains at home are "Baby Thomas." That would be freaking adorable except for the fact that I just want to punch all the Thomases in the face right now.

Don't worry, she doesn't mean it. I still love you, Creepy Pixelated Uncle-Sized Thomas.

Fading...

Fading...

Done

After the World's Longest Nap I tried to get Noah to tell us about everything he'd seen that day, like Mommy Thomas and all the Big Trains and the Bouncy Slide and That Train Ride That Wasn't Really Death on Grindy Wheels After All. He seemed to be drawing a blank on it all. Except, of course, for the windmills. The windmills were AWESOME.

This is a windmill. It's...probably best if you don't argue with him on this one.

I Didn't Spare My Family Any Morning Sickness Details Either

Oh hi. I'm busy. Very busy. Very busy with various digestive quandaries, including: seriously, how hard is it to make a damn slice of toast in the morning, especially since you KNOW that's all it takes to stave off the vomiting, you frigging dumbass? and also: hmm, since I just threw up a still-eerily intact prenatal vitamin, does that mean I have to take another one?

That last question is actually rather complicated, since prenatal vitamins have gone ALL KINDS OF FANCY now, and I am now required to take TWO pills everyday. One being the run-of-the-mill multivitamin, and the other being a space-age omega-3 DHA capsule, and only the fishy-tasting DHA pill seemed to come up undigested but the two pills are sealed together in the little foil packets so I cant just take another DHA pill and aaaaahhhhhhh mah baby needs its brain pillz! Or could I maybe get away with a My First Flintstones? I do love the taste of purple.

I was describing the new generation of prenatal vitamins to my sister-in-law this weekend, and she was rather appalled. "So babies are already smarter than their parents by the time they're BORN?" she asked. "That's bullshit. I wouldn't stand for it. Mothers are entitled to being the smart ones for AT LEAST six extra months or so."

She's got a point. However, my family does have a lot of hopes and dreams riding on this next generation.

And how is that going, so far?

(You know, I still vaguely feel like I belong more on that couch than behind the camera. None of those kids even bother calling me "Aunt Amy" because I was always the young and cool one. I got free passes to Sesame Place and never knew what the going rate for birthday cash was so I always overestimated and I'd totally let you use my head as the center support beam for your Ultimate Fort. But now I am just another Old Person Barking High-Pitched Commands At Toddlers While Teenagers Silently Wish For Death.)

In less bershon-y moments, here's a sequence I call "And Suddenly, There Was Cake."

Oh, and PS:

Was not included in grandbaby photo. Was not given any cake. Hate this family. Going to poop in sumbody's luggage.

Let's Just Call This One "Tuesday"

Yes, Internet, I fully and openly admit to coasting. Both emotionally and editorially. I have not updated since Thursday, greedily allowing the comments to build and build and pile up, checking in every hour or so to boggle at the number and inform Noah that OVER 200 PEOPLE -- WAIT 250! WAIT WAIT 271! -- give a rat's ass about the fact that he had a good day at the Mock Preschool For Children Who Can't Talk Good And Wanna Learn To Do Other Stuff Good Too.

Also? We've just been so good over here. Noah's little day of victory lifted us all -- even Noah seems to be happier and more confident, like...like he's some kind of actual human being whose quality of life is affected by his speech and sensory problems.  And here I thought all this stuff was dumped on ME for the sole purpose of pissing ME the hell off. Huh.

He's talking up a storm and busting out with some fairly random vocabulary -- I guess that one time we made mucus Christmas cookies made a fairly big impression on him, because he's constantly asking about the ROLLY PIN and COOKAYS. Mostly the COOKAYS.

"Cookay?" he'll ask sort-of hopefully, and then seconds later answer his own question, "Noooooo cookay."

And then again, JUST IN CASE HE WAS MISTAKEN ON THE COOKAY VERDICT, "Cookay?"

Anyway, it's been fun. With a decent chunk of the buzzing worry knocked out of the park, it's been a nice little honeymoon of a week, with lots of cuddles and hide-and-seek and maybe a couple living-room forts here and there.

(Oh, and one night of good-and-proper child abandonment, as we coerced the in-laws to come babysit over the weekend so we could go to Jason's company party and stay overnight in a hotel, which was also fun until 1) I was hit by the truck of What Do You Mean the Hotel House Label Chardonnay Was Not Exactly Top Shelf Wine at around three in morning, when I wanted to die, and 2) some asshole let their shrieking toddler run up and down the hotel hallway at six in the morning. Kids! They should all be kept in cages.)

It's also preschool application season around these parts, so we've been busy plastering big smiles on our faces, presenting our genius child who is a genius and...diaper? What diaper? Noooooo diaper. Please accept this check for AS MUCH AS MY COLLEGE EDUCATION COST AND PAY NO ATTENTION TO THE DIAPER.

(I told my mother-in-law how much the neighborhood preschools cost and she choked on her probiotic wheatgrass enzyme nugget and declared me to be talking much crazy talk. "Just find a little school run by a church!" she said. I told her that these ARE just little schools tucked away in church basements. But you know, NICE basements. One of them even had windows!)

(Her next suggestion was her all-purpose solution to All Our Problems: move back to Pennsylvania to live next door to them. I imagine Pennsylvania preschool prices have gone up since the late 1970s, but honestly, if we promised to move closer she'd probably be willing to start running her own preschool out of the garage. Grandparents! Their love is so easy to exploit.)

Wow. This is one hot mess of an entry. I go away for a few days and manage to completely fuck up the lovely narrative arc of my life story. (It goes something like this: Amy Faces Challenges, Amy Writes Many Words About Her Many Challenges, Amy Gets Meta About Her Challenges, Amy Either Conquers Or Gets Bored Of Her Challenges, Amy Gets Drunk And Falls Down. Repeat.)

Anyway. Us = good. Noah = outstanding. Preschools = uppity. Liver = shot. The end.

Pretend That Christmas Was Not Like, 17 Months Ago For a Minute

Look! Christmas pictures! Still relevant because I say so.

Notice Santa's ingenious use of the number 4 in the absence of a third A. I wonder how many other greetings she he tried to spell before giving up and going with that. (Answer: SEV3N)

This was just a warm-up for the four-foot-tall sugar sculpture (competition theme: winter wonderland) we made later.

Noah has been sick for days now. DAYS. I don't even know with what, but it's ooky and sticky and involves a LOT of different ooky sticky areas of the body, if I may help you with that post-holiday diet for a moment.

Jason thinks it's molars, finally and truly coming for real this time, as opposed to the teaser appearances that have been plaguing us since September. I don't know what I think it is. I think it's fucking gross, is what I think it is.

Apologies to anyone who actually ate these cookies, i.e. my beloved family.

My birthday, however, was lovely. Thank you for asking. Noah had the courtesy to stay healthy until 4 am on December 28th. Although one boring administrative note: my birthday present thinks you are all spam. It thinks you are junk, and has been filing all your emails accordingly. Nothing personal, though. It thought my mom was spam too. I discovered this yesterday when I checked the junk mail folder of the Mac email program and HOLY CRAP.

(And I've been WONDERING why my email has been so shiny and manageable! It's because I've only received about a third of it.)

So if you've sent an email anytime since...hmm...mid-December, which is when Jason plopped a big wrapped present under our tree and told me I could open it then or wait until my actual birthday, HAR HAR HAR...rest assured that I DID receive it, but am just now actually reading it. Lands. And apologies. And blah.

Couuuuusins! Identical couuuuusins! Not planned at all by their mooooothers, believe it or nooooot!

Suspicion.

Sharing.

Tod Tod Tod Tod Tod Toddlerville

Despite the occasional blogging-friendly pratfall, I actually do consider myself a fairly competent adult. I can make it through most days without serious injury, I juggle and meet multiple deadlines on a regular basis and I know how to open and close my stupid asshole stroller.

But there's something about New York that turns in me into a bumbling, fumbling idiot. I get on the wrong train! I trip on the sidewalk! I compulsively over-tip cab drivers! I walk around with the tags from my inside-out underwear sticking out of my pants all day!

This week's trip was no exception.

Noah and I left DC on Sunday, smack dab in the middle of prime napping time. Even with Union Station's priority boarding for families with young children, we barely found seats in time. I had our suitcase on my back, the diaper bag slung over my torso and I was dragging the stroller by the shoulder strap behind me while I desperately tried to hang onto Noah by his armpits while he howled and the entire world and several Amtrak employees judged but did not help. I shoved him on the train first -- by God, ONE of us would make it to New York -- and begged and panted to him to please please please follow Mama like a big boy.

When we found seats at last Noah was utterly delighted by the whole choo-choo-ness of the experience. For about a minute, which is how long it took him to realize that choo-choos actually involved a lot of SITTING instead of...I don't know...strippers and Cristal.

He screamed. SCREAMED. I heard the nerves of every fellow passenger in the car grate and felt their burning hot hatred as I fumbled to boot up my laptop while frantically begging Noah to hush and promising my endless iTunes supply of Blue's Clues episodes if he would just STFU.

It turned out that only one episode of Blue's Clues had downloaded correctly, for some reason. A 50-minute special called Meet Blue's Baby Brother. Which features 1) Joe and not Steve, 2) live-action puppets, 3) PUP PUP PUP PUP PUP PUP PUPPYVILLLLLLE!

We met Blue's baby brother a lot this week. Noah was completely pacified as long as it on, although his headphones meant he had no real awareness of the volume of his voice (not that that's a real great skill without headphones, durrrr) and would shout ACLOOOOOO!out of nowhere at the top of his lungs. I hate Blue and I hate her baby brother and I hate Puppyville and Alphabet City and all things bright and primary-colored.

He did not nap, obviously. He fell asleep in his stroller in Manhattan, while we waited in line for a taxi.

The whole real point of our trip was to spend time with my nephew Nicky, who is 19 months old. (Nicky's big sister, by the way, is 19 years old, and my brother-in-law is telling that to as many people as he can for the next two days before Nicky turns 20 months old.) So of course the boys ignored each other most of the time.  But whatever. PRESHUS FAMILY MEMORIES. LET ME MAKE THEM FOR YOU.

Since Manhattan apartments are a little on the -- ahem -- snug side, Noah and I stayed in a hotel around the corner, where Noah continued to not sleep. He finally conked out around midnight, but I woke up pretty much every time he moved because I was convinced he would fall off the bed and kept diving for his twitching foot, thinking it was his whole body going off the side, even though he was sprawled out in the dead center of the bed while I clung to about six inches of space off to the side.

I fell out of the goddamn bed around 4 am when I thought a pillow on the floor was my child's lifeless body.

Monday is kind of a blur -- I kept getting my foot tangled up in the diaper bag strap. Noah screamed his head off in a taxi so much that I over-tipped the driver even more than usual. I spilled coffee creamer all over Isabel and could never seem to get the stroller folded and unfolded or through doors and I spent 10 minutes convinced I'd lost a Sephora bag that was sitting two inches from my own ass. Isabel wanted to talk about all sorts of exciting Smackdown-related things and I think I just sat there with my tongue hanging out while Noah played with a pile of sugar.

Then it was back to my sister's place, where Noah napped in the stroller again while I tried to convince her that she should TOTALLY bring her toddler to DC for Christmas. TOTALLY. The train is NOTHING. It's EASY. We're having a GREAT TOTALLY EASY NOTHING TIME.

(I lie! I lie to my FAMILY!)

The boys finally started to acknowledge each other's presence that night, while they ran up and down the hallway outside the apartment. Nicky was not wearing pants. Noah was only in a diaper, which fell off at some point because I bought the large box of size fours, so dammit, that child will wear size fours.

They started chattering to each other -- Noah would hold Nicky's hand and shout GOOOOO! and point in the direction he wanted Nicky to run in, and then they would both run and shriek and laugh and hug and my sister and I laughed hysterically and tears welled up because my GOD, these BOYS. There's an 18-year age difference between my sister and I and more family dysfunction than you can toss a diaper at and yet here we are, with our boys, closer than ever and planning family vacations and I don't think it's a place either of us ever expected to be, but hot damn, it feels great.

My brother-in-law had the camcorder on at the exact moment my sister told us the boys had locked us out of the apartment.

"Huh," we both said.

"Seriously, you guys," my sister repeated, "They locked us out of the apartment."

"Huh," I said again.

I suddenly realized my sister was crying.

"Wait..." I said. The light bulb was starting to flicker a little bit.

My sister and her husband bolted down the stairwell to get a key from the doorman, while it finally occurred to me that yes, we were locked out and the boys were locked IN.

I sat down outside the door and listened -- I heard the sound of books being yanked off a shelf and I heard the sound of toddler footsteps change pitch as they went from hardwood to linoleum and back again.

I knocked. "Let me in, babies! Don't touch the outlets! Stay out of the kitchen! Don't open the TV cabinet! BUT OPEN THE DOOR TO THE NICE STRANGER IN THE HALLWAY."

I at least got Noah to knock back a couple times before my brother-in-law came careening around the corner with a key. My sister was a wreck; Noah's diaper was falling off again. I was like, "Eh. Are there stairs in there? There are no stairs in there. Amateurs!"

My brother-in-law physically put Noah and I on the train the next day and we met Blue's Baby Brother four more times, because it was the only thing in the world Noah wanted to watch.  Other than a stupid, stupid, STUPID trip to the dining car on the other side of the train that nearly resulted in Noah getting run over by a suitcase and my probably getting arrested for all the armpit holding/dragging/threats-of-leashing I did, the ride home was fine. Jason met us and Noah fell asleep in the elevator in the parking garage.

The end, MY GOD, the end.

The only preshus family memory I remembered to document. Huh. I wonder how that happened.

How Many Storches Does It Take To Screw In a Light Bulb

I somewhat randomly met a long-time reader recently who immediately wanted to know about The Tire. (Which is admittedly better than wanting an update on my menstrual cycle.) (HATE. THERE'S YOUR UPDATE. BUCKETS OF HATE.)

Where is The Tire? And what was the deal with The Tire?

Memmmmmmmmmmmmories!

The Tire is no longer in our basement or foyer or being used as a festive centerpiece. It is, believe it or not, actually on Jason's car. Enjoying the open road, freedom and the Japanese auto industry dream.

The deal with The Tire was simple: Jason's car only has room for a patch kit in the trunk. So he went and bought The Tire on eBay so he could also have a full-size spare. He rolled The Tire into our foyer. And left it there.

He said he might just go ahead and replace one of his current tires -- he thought it had a leak. This was the story for...a couple weeks? I think?

If your tire has a leak you should replace it, I would tell him at least once a day. I know how you drive. You're going to have a blowout and lose control and die. Replace the damn tire and get it out of the foyer. Nag nag nag. Also, get some more life insurance.

Then he said no, there wasn't a leak after all. He was just going to keep it in the attic storage for awhile. And yet the tire stayed in the foyer, occasionally drifting closer to the stairs, only to roll back to the foyer anytime anyone wanted some booze from the liquor cabinet.

Please put the tire up in storage, I would tell him at least once a day. It smells funny, and Noah is starting to crawl and wants to touch it all the time. Get the damn tire out of the foyer. Nag nag nag.

(Some people might just finally lug The Tire up the stairs and into storage their own damn selves. I do not believe these are the type of people I could be friends with in real life.)

So I posted photos of The Tire online, hoping he might be shamed into moving The Tire.

He didn't even notice for at least a week. And when he did, he carefully read all the entries and comments and said that since everybody seemed to love The Tire, it needed to stay in the foyer. Where it could continue to be loved and photographed, and hey, Amy, when you pull down on your face like that I can totally see under your skin into your eye sockets. That's cool.

Anyway. That's my marriage and welcome to it. 10 years next August, folks. Send wine.

The Tire was still in our foyer the day I interviewed our real estate agents. They wandered around the condo, making suggestions for decluttering and depersonalizing the place before going on the market. They stared silently at the tire for a few seconds, wondering if they needed to state the obvious.

Eventually, The Tire ended up in a rented storage unit for a few months before coming home to sit in a new foyer. And then Jason put it in the basement for Valentine's Day. And there it stayed for many months, until Jason ran over a nail and lo, The Tire was called into active service.

Thus ends the saga of The Tire.

Thus begins the saga of Light Bulb Watch 2007.

This is the ceiling fixture in our living room. I don't like it. Jason doesn't like it. It looks like the eye of that thing that lived in the trash compactor in Star Wars (also known as a dianoga, and OH MY GOD I KNEW THAT OFF THE TOP OF MY HEAD), which I actually wouldn't mind since I imagine the long neck would actually be adjustable and I could shine light somewhere else besides...straight down.

We bought a new fixture right after moving in, but blah blah blah drywall internal support male-female electrical bzzzzzt I don't know. We needed some special thing to do some thing and HOLY CRAP GET TO THE POINT.

We have a new light fixture. We have all the necessary special things to install the new light fixture.

About a month ago the light bulb in the old fixture burned out. Jason said, whatever, don't bother replacing it, I'm just going to install the new fixture.

Uh-huh.

The light bulb is still burned out. I truly believe that replacing the light bulb will mean the new fixture WILL NEVER EVER EVER get installed, because Jason is a man of action only when things are actively pissing him off. But this also means I'm the one left explaining to guests why our living room is so dark and offering everybody flashlights.

So even though taking the cause to the Internet did not necessarily work for The Tire, I am trying again.

Just don't say you love the Eyeball Lamp. It really has no endearing qualities like The Tire.

(Some people might just learn how to install light fixtures their own damn selves. But these are just not my sort of people. Why waste all that effort that could otherwise be spent on perfectly good bitching?)

(Don't forget to vote everyday for your favorite parenting blog -- even if it's not this one. Especially if it's not this one.)

(I can't help it, people. I got a couple emails from a couple of my favorite fellow nominees who were all, IT'S ON, BITCH, and then I got all twitchy and competitive and threw the Monopoly board at their heads and challenged half the Internet to a crate race.)

Post-Processing

Please indulge me, because this is exactly what I needed today.

Professional photography by Kaileen Galhouse.
Music: Calico Skies by Paul McCartney

(Last year's session with Kaileen is here, if you're in the mood for TWO sappy montages and a good dose of OMFG WHERE DID THE BABY GO?)

Ties that bind.

I get asked all the time about what I won't blog about. Is there anything I keep to myself? Anything I purposely avoid?  It's easy to assume there isn't, since I'm pretty open and transparent about a lot of things here.

But I do have one ready answer to that question: I don't blog about my family. Yes, I've written the occasional entry here and there. My parents' health, usually, and I think I've made some vague references to our general fucked-up-ness, and while it's tempting to mine that fucked-up-ness for Sedaris-family comedy gold, I don't.

My family is the one situation I have a hard time finding the humor in. I used to jokingly describe us as "the Brady Bunch, except that everybody hates each other."

I don't make that joke anymore.

And I don't blog about my family. Which means today is tough, since I've been home in Pennsylvania with family since last Tuesday.

Sigh.

We're a family that repeats the mistakes of previous generations -- the very mistakes we always swore we would never make. We hold grudges for years. We forgive but we do not forget. We expect too much and give too little.

We're a family that avoids confrontation at any cost. We're a family where people grab their car keys and storm out the door when things get ugly.

We point fingers with one hand and hold full glasses of wine in the other.

We take sides. We manipulate and guilt trip. We gossip. And we finally explode and yell and cry. The floodgates open and decades of hurts and slights come spilling out, and every delusion and pretension about who I am and where I come from are crushed under the weight of my family's daytime-talkshow-like baggage.

Then we all sing Happy Birthday and eat cupcakes and pretend none of it ever happened.

We're a family with certain members who, after realizing that family is really all we've got in this world, have opted to go it alone instead.

We're divorce at its worst.  At its most painful and scarring.  We're alcoholism and obesity and abuse and co-dependence and cancer and mental illness.

We're also Christmas mornings and homemade stockings and laughter and old movies and pulling together in a crisis. We're inside jokes and ten of two and grandbabies and the very best of intentions.

I don't tell stories about my family here because even though I'd like nothing more than to hear that we're not the only family like this, I need to believe -- for Noah's sake-- that none of it really matters, and that one day he'll have happier stories to tell about us.