Three-eyed two-horned flying blue chocolate phobia eater

Much like last year, Noah refused to wear a costume to school. "NO COSTUME," he shrieked at the merest suggestion of dressing up. "JUST NOAH."

At one point he said he wanted to be the house from UP -- purposely choosing the most terrifying cinematic experience of the past year, as he howled in fear and had to be removed from the theater pretty much every time the house appeared on screen, and he had nightmares about floating houses for weeks. THANKS FOR ALL THE WHIMSY, PIXAR.

Although he's since worked through that fear pretty well -- at his request, we took him to see it again at a second-run drafthouse theater just a few weeks ago, and he loved it -- I was skeptical about this costume request. And indeed, when we did obligingly attempt to thoroughly traumatize him with a trial run of cardboard-box-with-balloons-attached, he would have none of it.

So on Friday, the day of his school parties, I distracted him with a waffle and shoved his green Steve-from-Blue's-Clues shirt from last year over his head.

 

A few minutes later he contemplated a sleeve, and sensing that trickery was afoot, made me promise that the green shirt was NOT A COSTUME. NOT A COSTUME, MOMMY. JUST NOAH.

All of his teachers assured me (when I gave them a heads up on the whole "oh hey, my kid is terrified of Halloween costumes" thing) that this is a pretty normal thing, both for this age and especially for the Kids Like Noah set. Most four-year-olds are still trying to figure out the distinction between real and pretend, while Noah needs and depends on his routines and rituals more than most. He hates -- HATES -- anything out of the ordinary or anyone acting the slightest bit "different." (Last week one teacher had her hair straightened and Noah burst into tears at the sight of her, because her hair wasn't "wiggly" anymore.) Class parties, field trips -- these aren't fun, they're stressful, even scary. 

And so Jason and I, FINALLY, ON SATURDAY, LIKE OH MY GOD WE'RE MAYBE CATCHING ON A LITTLE BIT, decided that we would not push trick-or-treating just because it's "fun" and "he'll like it once he does it" and...I don't know. All the reasons we always stupidly drag Noah to things that we THINK are part of a nutritious balanced childhood.

We told him we could go trick-or-treating if he wanted to, but yeah, he needed to wear a costume. We showed him the options (all leftover rejects from last year) and pretty much left it at that. He seemed quite okay with the idea of skipping it all together.

Then our doorbell rang, and our first trick-or-treaters arrived. Within 30 seconds Noah bolted upstairs and came down with a costume in his hand.

He's a monster. He says RAWR and he scares you when he says RAWR. Just FYI.

 

A boy's gotta do what a boy's gotta do for candy, apparently. I asked him what he wants to be next year and he said "nothing! I don't! I won't!" and collapsed in a dramatic, exhausted slump, like OH GOD, AGAIN? This would be much easier if you people would just hand over the chocolate. I have no more patience for you and your weird Earth ways.

 

Ezra has no opinion on the matter, but was just vaguely passively happy to be there. He would like to point out that many houses explicitly gave Noah "candy for [his] baby brother" and yet he has not seen a single bite. Not cool, dude. NOTCOOL.

Off To a Good Start, Part Two: In Which We Replace "Good" With "OMG"

So. Okay.* The Other Story.

*Does anyone remember LonelyGirl15? The really early videos when she was just cute and vlogging and only vaguely ominously in danger, before things went kind of off the rails and involved too many shaky-running-scenes through parking garages? She always started those videos by saying "So. Okay." or some variant and anyway I seem to have caught a touch of that this week. I don't know why either.

First, some background. If you were reading this summer, you may remember a post about a mother I met at Noah's summer camp. Our encounter started with some banter about slings and second babies (she was pregnant) and then we immediately moved on to the business of Crap Ass Preschools and their treatment of even the mildest of special needs. She was feisty and clever and I liked her immediately, but then everything took a turn for the HOLY SHITBALLS AWKWARD when I mentioned our old preschool by name. It turned out to be the very school she was planning to send her son this fall, having been fed the same goddamn lines about their "experience" with sensory and attention issues. It understandably rattled her, and I assured her we'd talk more about it later. 

And then the next day she completely, almost willfully ignored me. And the day after that. No eye contact. I would smile and wave and...nothing. So I spent a good amount of the summer fuming and Twittering about it. WHAT THE HELL, SENSITIVE PREGNANT LADY, IT'S NOT MY FAULT THEY SUCK. YOU SHOULD BE THANKFUL THAT YOU KNOW. YOU SHOULD TOTALLY BE WANTING MY FRIENDSHIP. AND YES. I AM CAPS LOCK IN REAL LIFE.

Flashforward** to last Thursday: Noah's first day at The Preschool.

**Dude. Was there not a TREMENDOUS drop in quality from the pilot to the second episode? If you were one of the many people who missed the first episode and then watched last week's because I got all breathy and caps-locky on you about OMGWATCHFLASHFORWARD, I apologize. I was possibly mislead. Charlie From Lost is still supposedly going to show up? So? Eh?

The arrival and drop-off routine at The Preschool involves kids and parents all sitting in a designated area off of the lobby until the teachers and aides arrive to escort every one down to the classroom at once, thus minimizing the distraction of students who attend The Elementary School. While I knew we were joining an established class, I didn't realize just HOW established. It's a mixed-age class, going all the way up to six years old. Noah is the youngest by a good six months. Most of the kids and families have known each other for at least a year -- two years in a couple cases. So. Hi, I'm the New Girl. I overheard birthday party discussions and playdate plans and everybody knew everybody and Noah was...really not happy with the waiting room arrangement, since he knew he was at The Camp but we didn't wait in this room at The Camp and why won't I let him go to The Camp gaaaaaaahhhhhhmeltdown. I was caught a little off-guard by how stressful I found it all to be.

And then two little boys became entranced with Ezra and proceeded to take turns kissing him on the mouth. I mentally made up my mind right then and there about the H1N1 vaccine and tried to politely suggest that hey, LET'S NOT DO THAT...and that's when I saw Her.

The Mom From Summer Camp. I was torn between reverting to my WTF IS YOUR PROBLEM LADY stance and immense gratitude that hey, at least it's someone I know and someone Noah knows and I directed Noah's attention to hey look it's Johnny!*

*His name is not Johnny.

Another mother said something like, "Oh, you guys know each other?"

And just as I nodded, the Mom From Summer Camp looked me in the eye and said no.

NO.

Y'all, my jaw dropped a good foot and a half and I was overcome with a desire to DIE or MELT TO THE FLOOR or hurl myself at a nearby potted plant, Jon-Gosselin-Girlfriend style.

Exhibit Yes, Like This

I think I managed to say something about oh, actually, YES, the boys were at summer camp together. I could tell she was genuinely struggling to place me, but Noah's name finally rang a bell and THANK GOD, the teacher showed up right then to save me from all this "conversing with other grownups" bullshit.

Back in the car, I kind of laughed about it. Here I'd been so worried that by unwittingly bashing the preschool I'd made some kind of crazy faux pas, thus forever earning her scorn and ire and it turned out that the conversation had BARELY registered on her radar, or at least the person she had the conversation with. Who the fuck do I think I am, honestly?  

And either way, fresh start! Moving on! Let's make some mom friends! You can do this!

When I arrived to pick Noah up a few hours later, she pulled into the parking lot at the same time. I suddenly wondered if she'd had her baby -- she was still wearing the same long baggy clothing but certainly didn't look pregnant, though she didn't have a baby with her now.

We started walking together.

"I'm sorry," she said, "Did we really meet each other this summer?"

"Yessssss," I said, smiling as hard as I possibly could, resisting the urge to reveal the fact that I remembered every word of our singular conversation like it was yesterday. So there.

"Wow, I was really in such a fog. Drop off, pick up. You know."

"Mm-hmmmmmmm," And then I couldn't help myself. I asked about whether her son attended a preschool in the morning. NO REASON. JUST CURIOUS.

And then what followed suddenly got...confusing. Yes, her son does go somewhere in the morning, but certainly not our old school, and then there were other details that just didn't jibe with our old preschool even being a possibility for him.

And I suddenly had a flash of clarity. I could suddenly see the face of the mom I had the preschool conversation with.

And it wasn't her. It wasn't HER.

All summer. ALL SUMMER YOU GUYS. I have been obsessing over the WRONG WOMAN. I have gone out of my way to engage the wrong woman in eye contact, smiling, finally giving up and flat-out glaring, because WHAT IS YOUR FUCKING PROBLEM WITH ME?

Oh, I don't know. Maybe something do with all the bug-eyed crazy faces I made at someone whom I never actually said a single word too? Someone who actually seems very shy and soft-spoken and OH YEAH, completely not even a little bit pregnant?

At this point I am wondering whether I had some kind of Fourth-of-July fireworks-induced stroke, because I cannot even BEGIN to understand how I ever got them mixed up. They both had...brown hair? Kind of...tall? I THINK the first woman, the Real One, either stopped sending her son to the camp or someone else took over drop-off and pick-up duties because now I don't remember seeing her again after the first day, and thus I inexplicably pinned all my hopes and dreams of Mom Friendship on the next tallish brunette in a flowy top that I laid my eyes on. 

Basically: Amy, this is why you can't have nice things. Or friends. Or permission to leave the house unsupervised.

/dying of shame, paranoia, & plans to delete this post before an updated class list is distributed with last names and I achieve the Social Pariah status that I so clearly and justly deserve

The Life of Four

Oh my God, you guys. I have a FOUR-YEAR-OLD. And in less than two weeks I will have a ONE-YEAR-OLD. I should have planned things better, because this double whammy of birthdays is turning out to be hard on the liver.

At this rate I will have hardly any babies left at all. Damn you January and your mysteriously fertile properties!

PLUS I have to do a whole other stupid video montage every year, like, five minutes after I finish the first one. That's not QUITE so terrible, as I do really enjoy making you guys cry. Suckers!

Speaking of the upcoming Ezra edition, based on our gobs of footage and photos, it appears we have not actually taken that poor baby out of his high chair since he was about six months old. I'd say a good 75% of it involves him eating. Rolling over? First steps? First words? Eh, sorry Ez, I don't quite recall. But holy shit, check out this 20-minute clip of you eating corn on the cob. So glad we didn't miss THAT tremendous milestone.

So now Noah is four, fully four, and can officially start attending The Preschool this afternoon. Right now, the only thing I am stressing about it that no one told me the code for the front door, meaning I'm in for one mildly inconvenient and awkward moment of waiting for some to notice us and buzz us in. Oh noes! I think this is progress on the neurotic mess front, as I could easily be wigging out about the logistics of getting Noah off the school bus, into the house, eat lunch eat lunch eat lunch, pack his backpack a second time with a different set of classroom requests and requirements, get everyone in the car and drive up there and then drive back and still somehow keep Ezra's nap schedule intact so I can get work done before driving back up there to pick Noah up and also I haven't been away from him that long in years oh my God, STOP TALKING, SELF. YOU SHUT UP NOW.

Noah is excited about the second school, which we've dubbed "Camp School" around here (not to be confused with "School Bus School"). School Bus School is, of course, The One With The School Bus School Bus School Bus, while Camp School is the one with the motherfucking BALL PIT, motherfuckers. As far as Noah is concerned, that right there is a well-rounded education. 

Okay. So. I would love to KEEP TALKING, but I seem to have a window to take a shower here. First day of school: I shower. Second day of school: Not so much, or ever again after that. So today I will uphold that proud tradition. Clean hair! Makeup! Actual non-elastic-waisted-pants! I am simultaneously excited and utterly exhausted.

Here, Noah (WHO IS FOUR), with your feel-good up-with-people message of the day.

noah sings from amalah on Vimeo.

Make your own kind of music. No matter what. Even if nobody else sings anarrrrg. 

PS Hey, so Mamapop is up for an award, if you'd like to vote for us. We're up for Best Pop Culture Blog...in Maryland. Can you really argue with that? I mean, FINE. TAKE PENNSYLVANIA. AND VIRGINIA. MARYLAND IS OURS.

Four Years

It's funny, as he gets older, my determination to stay away from mushy, embarrassing sentiment wavers more and more. He's no longer a baby or a toddler but a KID, and yet when composing this entry in my head, my first impulse is to fill is chock full of pet names and flowery goopy declarations of love and pride. "Mo-oo-oom," I can already hear him saying...but when? Two more years? Longer than that? Less?

We spent so much time this year focused on the future. Worrying about it, planning for it. Determined to prepare him for the next step, the next year, the next experience. We became Mama and Papa Bear, growling at anyone who dared question the potential of our cub, demanding that the forest clear a safer path for him...while also tearing our fur out because holy crap, this is hard.

And yet, oh, this boy. He is still my heart. He is still so smart and adorable and funny. He is such a kind, loving big brother and a kind, loving person. He surprises me every day, every hour, sometimes, with the things he says and thinks and can suddenly DO, just like that, and I am awed to be tasked with a child with this much potential.

"Are you happy?" he asks, whenever I look upset or worried. "Are you happy, Mommy?"

Yes, Noah, my love. Yes, I am. I am so happy.

Noah's Fourth Birthday from amalah on Vimeo, music: M79 by Vampire Weekend

Happy birthday, baby.

Scootastrophe!

So Noah fell off his scooter yesterday. Skinned both of his knees up.

And you know, THE END.

Unless you are his father. Remember the fruit sticker? This was way worse than the fruit sticker. Because not only was a fall off a scooter -- a three-inches-off-the-ground scooter -- the worst thing that could ever befall one's precious snowflake offspring, it was totally MY FAULT, YOU NEGLIGENT MONSTER.

My fault, his version = holding precious snowflake #2 at top of a deceptively slopey hill, allowing precious snowflake #1 to fly past me on scooter, shouting at him to "turn into the grass" when he picked up a little too much speed instead of...I DON'T KNOW. Dropping the baby on the curb to run after Noah, perhaps hurling my body onto the pavement underneath him at the exact second of impact. Stopping the scooter with my mind powers, thus revealing ourselves to be a family of telekinetic mutants to the entire neighborhood. Writing letters to the county four years ago to have the sidewalks replaced with packing peanuts. Because I really should have seen this coming.

My fault, my version = I think he was mostly mad because I was entirely too calm about it. I made him look totes uncool, you guys. There was blood and and I was all, yep, whatever, that's why we wear helmets, dude, and Jason was all, OMFG SMELLING SALTS.

We brought Noah inside and offered various bribes in exchange for calming down -- ice cream sandwich? candy? chocolate milk? -- and after awhile he mournfully accepted some chocolate-covered raisins. Jason poured himself a scotch while I hissed at him that oh, you know, IN THE FUTURE, I would prefer if he NOT shout "What the fuck were you thinking?" at top volume in front of the CHILDREN, in front of the NEIGHBORS, and on second thought, could he just go ahead and not spazz out over skinned knees, like we have BOYS, TWO OF THEM, which equals about 4,500,075 skinned knees, lifetime. Also: YOU PANSY.

(Also. ALSO! Who is the parent who vetoed the elbow and knee pad set as being "dorky"? And was upset that the bike store didn't have the skater helmet in Noah's size because it was more "badass" than the bike helmet?)

(Hint: The same parent who was now sobbing helplessly into a sofa cushion because BLOOD! BLOOD! HE COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED!)

Noah finished his candy and turned his tear-stained face towards me. I launched into a cheerful pep talk about falling down and getting hurt and the importance of Getting Back On and Trying Again. He nodded solemnly and announced that he also needed that ice cream sandwich, after all.

Later, Jason asked if I planned to "write about this" and I asked if he meant "this" as in, the time Noah fell off his scooter or the time you revealed himself to be a total wuss, worthy of much Internet scorn and derision because HAAAAAAAAAA YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN YOUR FACE?

The second one, he said. I kind of deserve it.

DONE, I said. Also, you're adorable and I love you.

***

I should probably mention that prior to the Great Scooter Crash of Aught-Nine, we took Noah shopping for his very own big boy birthday bike. (SPOILER: Noah is getting a bike for his birthday. Nobody say anything to him. At least not in the...say, two hours right before we give it to him.) His favorite one was pink and had butterflies on the seat. I hope he won't be too disappointed when he gets the blue version, as I enjoy crushing whimsical individuality in favor of gender stereotyping. I can't raise a boy who screams like a girl at the sight of a bloody knee, you know?

BOY MUST BE WARRIOR. GO OUT AND SHOW THAT SIDEWALK WHO IS BOSS. THEN WE SHALL CUDDLE AND I WILL PINCH YOUR BUTT AND FEED YOU MORE CANDY BECAUSE AWWW, LOOK AT THOSE POOR LITTLE BOO-BOOS.

Yes He Can

The Out-of-Sync Child describes a child with dyspraxia as the "I Can't Do That" child. They sit on a bike but have to stare at their feet to get them to pedal...stare at their hands to make sure they are steering...and when they raise their head to see where they are going...the pedaling and steering stop, and the bike doesn't go anywhere. They climb stairs slower, they jump later, and the worst part is, they know it. Their friends can draw things that actually look like things with crayons, their peers skip happily around the playground, the toddler next door races around on his tricycle, and they know it. They remember the frustration, the falls, the failure.

So they look at the bike and say, "I can't do that."

And the parent of a child with dyspraxia shrugs, and says okay. He can't do that. Or he won't do that. Is that the same thing? Are we expecting too much or too little?

We ask the teachers and the therapists and get different answers. He can't process who/what/when/where/how questions. He can't pedal a tricycle. Eh, that's pretty common. I wouldn't worry about it. Here, practice some writing some letters with him this weekend.

Conversely: Letters?! Handwriting?! He's not ready for that. We need to focus on the gross motor skills first, the pragmatic speech, his receptive language processing.

***

Last week he met a little boy his age at the park. The little boy had a scooter. He chased Noah around and around on the scooter. He didn't speak English, so they didn't talk. They just chased and chased and chased and laughed and on the way home Noah announced that he wanted a scooter.

I said something non-committal about his birthday -- yeah, I would just LOVE to go out an spend money on another damn toy that he won't actually get on or go near in real life, like the big wheel and the tricycle  -- but Jason, ever the optimist and big giant SUCKER when it comes to that boy, went out and bought him a scooter.

And he loved it. He was cautious at first, and kept his foot on the ground more often than not. He would only go in a straight line, and then jump off in a panic right before it collided with the sofa. He was adamant that he only wanted to ride it inside, not outside.

But a neighbor's little boy rode past our house one morning. He had the same little scooter. Noah saw him out the window and shrieked in delight and he needed his scooter he needed his SCOOTER. We all dashed outside and holy crap, look at him riding his scooter. He can do it.

"He needs a helmet," Jason fretted, and I groaned again. Art-project visors are one thing, but a helmet? He'll never wear one.

He accidentally crashed into the back of our neighbor's legs and fell down. He was fine. And he got back on the scooter.

***

We refinanced our mortgage this weekend. A better interest rate, lower payment, all around a good thing. We'd originally talked about the possibility of getting some cash back to renovate the kitchen, but now it's going towards the first installment of Noah's tuition. We couldn't find anyone to watch the boys during the closing, so I'd brought some toys and puzzles and hoped it would go quickly before they started getting too antsy.

Sure enough, Noah finished the little puzzle I'd brought in no time, and was not interested in anything else. The closing agent offered him a legal pad and a pen and he made some halfhearted scribbles. In desperation, I drew a capital L...the letter his teacher had told us to practice. Noah immediately shifted his grip of the pen and copied my lines.

"Dowwwwn, and across," he said. "And that's how you make an L!"

He then covered the paper with L's of various sizes, dowwwwwn and across.

When the closing was over, the guy collected his pad and pen. I asked if I could keep Noah's doodling page. I pressed it between the stacks of loan documents because I didn't want it to get crumpled.

***

Later, a stranger fitted him for a brand-new helmet and he did not protest. He just wanted to get back on his scooter. Until, that is, he spotted someone else's brand-new bike by the cash register. A big-kid two-wheeler, with training wheels attached. He climbed on it and slowly, surely, steadily...began to pedal towards the door. Jason and I just stood there stupidly, too shocked to actually do anything. A salesman intervened before we managed to snap to attention.

"I can ride a bike!" Noah shouted. I have to admit, he sounded a little surprised.

***

He spent the rest of the weekend on that scooter. Down hills, around corners, laughing as other little boys chased after him. He puts his leg out acrobatically and glides, trying out figure eights and perfect circles and wanting to go a little further from home each time, finally having fun like any other kid, because he is, and he can.

Yesterday @ 1 P.M.

So...yeah, OBVIOUSLY it went way better than that. I mean, I knew it would, even while lying in bed at 4:07 A.M., all saucer-eyed and tense, like WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT ABOUT, because I honestly had no idea I was that worked up over it. This is...what? Evaluation number five or six this year alone? The seventeen-dozenth since this all started over just about two years ago?

Up until last night I hadn't even double-checked the appointment time, so I guess my subconscious decided to SURE SHOW ME how entirely NOT used to this shit I am after all. Triple-check and obsess while you're AWAKE, next time, sweetcakes. Or face our nocturnal wrath. And...imaginary stressful haircut scenarios.

(I have been putting off getting a trim for a few weeks, actually. Maybe I should put a reminder in iCal, just so I don't have to wait for my brain to inform me that my hair looks like ass.)

ANYWAY.

It went well, as they tend to go whenever I am left out in the waiting room rather than brought along to sit there and apparently provoke all kinds of horrible uncooperative behavior. We get the full report tomorrow (TOMORROW. as in THIS CENTURY.) but it definitely sounds like Noah's speech delay has been bumped up out of "severe" and into "moderate"...or possibly even "mild." We are like, the valedictorians of quirk! 

And oh. Yeah. There was one other mother in the waiting room and...she...she totally reads this blog. And it was really nice to have someone to talk to and joke around with and help keep Ezra from disappearing down hallways at rocket speed, but the whole time I was desperately hoping I was just coming across as even slightly normal because secretly I was FREAKING THE FUCK OUT, BECAUSE I CAN SEE THE FUTURE I AM TOTALLY PSYCHIC YOU GUYS.

(Last night I dreamt something about having to protect Ceiba from some kind of insane feral cat, but the worst part was that the whole thing was secretly videotaped and posted to Gawker, like MOMMYBLOGGER IS SO MEAN TO KITTY CATS OMG SCANDAL.)

(In other news, I have decided that Unisom is Not For Me.)

Today @ 1 P.M.

It starts off badly, right in the parking lot. It's crowded, very crowded. I see someone pulling out of a spot on the end and am halfway in before another car appears out of nowhere, honking and yelling. I protest meekly before backing out and taking another spot down the row, only to realize that it's too narrow and I cannot open the doors and get the boys out of their seats.

I stand there, panicking. We are going to be late. Suddenly, three girls appear and offer to help. They know our names and I realize they know us from my blog.

Somehow, we're all inside. It's bigger than I remember -- more like a cavernous warehouse than a waiting room. There are dozens of people milling around rows of chairs and cafeteria tables. I check in with the front desk (Noah Storch, speech evaluation, 1 P.M.) and we're instructed to wait and listen for our names.

We wait. And we wait. There are books and toys but neither of the boys wants anything to do with any of them. Names are being announced over an echo-y loudspeaker that I can't understand. Noah has climbed up a bookshelf and when I leap to retrieve him I notice he's wearing a Pull-Up. Why is he wearing a Pull-Up? He doesn't wear Pull-Ups. I look at his face and hair and...it's like he's morphed back into the two-year-old version of himself. And what's that awful sme...oh, GOD.

A woman appears, clearly annoyed. They've been calling our name for 20 minutes, why didn't we respond? I stammer an explanation and ask for five minutes and a changing table and am informed that if we forfeit this time slot we go to the back of the line. She questions the state of Noah's potty-training and I stammer again -- no, seriously, I'm so confused, he's totally trained, I don't know what's going on today -- she simply scribbles something on a clipboard and storms off.

Our turn comes up again and we're directed to a random set of chairs in the middle of the warehouse, and after I sit down I realize I have left the baby behind. I frantically look over and see that the three blog readers have appeared again. They are holding him, and nod to me reassuringly. It's okay, it's all okay.

I don't remember anything about the actual evaluation. It was too loud and I couldn't hear anything. We're waiting again. The toy area has been changed into some kind of stage, like for a puppet show. Ryan Seacrest hands me some sheet music and orders me to sing. I stand there and face a bored-looking audience, all uncomfortably perched on tiny preschooler-sized plastic chairs. Clipboard Lady comes midway through the song -- a showtune from Little Shop of Horrors, though not one I've ever heard before -- and tells me that the evaluation results indicate that I need a haircut. Luckily, they have someone on staff who can handle it.

I'm whisked out of the huge waiting area and through a series of cluttered rooms -- they look nothing like a school, but more like a grandmother's house, full of not-particularly attractive knickknacks. A woman surveys my hair and shows me some photos of other bloggers. Their hairstyles are all very short and I tell her that I don't look good with short hair. She tries to insist but I finally hold my ground. NO SHORT HAIR. I MEAN IT. She sighs and rolls her eyes at me, but wraps a brightly-colored knitted afghan around my neck and begins cutting, assisted by a cranky old man who looks like Noah's morning school bus driver. She makes about four snips with her scissors and my hair looks absolutely amazing. Then she asks for $750, plus another thousand for the evaluation. I gasp and tell her I don't have that much, and she removes the afghan and I'm in my underwear and Clipboard Lady asks about the whereabouts of my children and I realize I don't even know the names of the three blog readers but suddenly they are there too, without Noah or Ezra, and they shrug and say they can't help me anymore and I start crying and then I wake up and it was four in the morning and I've been awake ever since.

***

Noah has yet another evaluation today. For speech, at The Preschool. Starts at 1 P.M. I think it's going to go great!

The Whole Point

Ezra points at things now. He points at his reflection in the mirror, at me, at the bowl of chopped-up meatballs that I am not doling out fast enough, dammit. Jason walks into the room and point! Pointpointpoint! Today I asked him if he wanted a nap or to go downstairs and play, pointing at each option (perhaps pointing EXTRA JAZZHANDS EMPHATICALLY at his crib), and after pondering his choices he pointed at option C, a teetering pile of empty diaper boxes.

Noah...didn't point at things. He didn't use many gestures at all, for a long time, and when the words never came and our doctor recommended sign language to get us over the communication hurdle, I was doubtful. When he picked up dozens of signs practically overnight, I was shocked. And mortified, because my preconceived ideas about baby sign language (i.e., only for the crazy overachieving competimommies, probably bullshit, why would he talk if he can just siiiiign, etc.) had denied him something important. It was a tremendously humbling moment, the first of many.

I hate that I do this, by the way, the framing everything Ezra does in the context of Noah. It's so mercilessly unfair to them both, comparing and contrasting everything from eating habits (point goes to Ez) to attention span (point goes to Noah). Noah danced earlier, cuddled more, was more intensely focused on figuring out how things worked rather than just what sounds things make when you bang them together. Ezra is more adventurous, so very independent, will absolutely not sit still and play with toys...but hmmm, I don't remember Noah ever enjoying those touch-and-feel texture books so much. Ezra has a soft cuddly lovey that was love at first sight; Noah's affections for toys border on obsession but burn fast and bright and end abruptly and Pinky becomes the Piston Cup and then a toy school bus and then a plastic suitcase and currently it's a silver sleigh bell that looks like the one from The Polar Express.

(I got it for him at a craft store, and agonized for far too long over just the right shade of brown leather to use for the tie, wishing I'd brought the book with me. We wrote our first letter to Santa asking for a bell from his sleigh, and magically it arrived the very next day, even though it wasn't Christmas, can you freaking believe it.)

(The bell was actually a replacement for one of my more boneheaded fuck-ups, when I remembered we had a silver sleigh bell tree ornament and dug it out of storage and gave it to Noah without noticing that 1) it didn't actually ring [thus leading him to stand in the kitchen and say "I believe. I believe!" over and over again before shaking it again] and 2) it didn't ring because it was made of PORCELAIN, not silver, and shattered into a million pieces the next day, taking his poor little heart with it.)

(Noah occasionally hands me the new and improved bell with great ceremony. "And remember," he says, "the true spirit of Christmas is in your heart.")

Huh.

This entry started out as one thing and has ended up as another. I've lost my original point. Or at least figured out that it wasn't a point worth making.

(Top suggestions for saving a blog post gone awry from Twitter: ninjas and kitchen fire cliffhangers.)

They are different. Duh. Ridiculous amounts of duh with a side of no shit and a dollop of why are you still talking?

I don't know why. I will never stop worrying about either of them. I will never stop being their biggest cheerleader, either.

*types and deletes about four hundred different sentences in search of a point or closure or something that doesn't make me want to mompunch my momself in my momface.*

*gives up*

God, I love these kids.

 

 

Magic Bus

Today the school bus dropped a small blondish-sort of child wearing a bright yellow backpack off at our doorstep. The child watched the bus drive off for as long as he could, waving goodbye before coming inside, casually slipping his backpack off of his shoulders. He then requested his most difficult puzzle -- a 100-piece floor puzzle depicting Noah's Ark As Painted By One Of Those Holiday Inn Art Show Artists -- and quietly completed it by himself while I sat on the couch wondering when the bus would come back with MY CHILD.

You know, the one who doesn't wear a backpack. Who won't wear a backpack. 

I watched him step down the bus steps and immediately looked behind him for the aide to hand over his backpack. I was about two seconds away from making an idiot out of myself, lost-sunglasses-on-top-of-my-head style, when I finally realized OH MY GOD, HE IS WEARING HIS BACKPACK. And I stared at Noah and then back at the aide, who had simply slid the backpack onto Noah's shoulders after unbuckling him from his seat, the way he probably does with every other child on the bus.

That's the way it goes with them, always. You imagine some strange alternate universe where you say, "This is a backpack. It goes on your back. Here, like this." Aaaaand...done. Your child wears a backpack, happily taking his place with the rest of the general backpack-wearing population. But instead, YOUR child flips the fucking freak OUT when you first put the backpack on his back. And the second time. The third time, okay, quicktakeapicture, but then right back to the screaming for the fourth time, and the fifth time, when all you did was SUGGEST that he put the backpack on his back. And then maybe you give up for awhile, like, whatever, carry your backpack, there are bigger things to worry about, I AM PRETTY SURE.

You tell yourself that he'll get over it, outgrow it, whatever IT is, the wigging out over a backpack. It is the...straps? The way it feels? A balance thing? The fact that he can't see the backpack? You maybe try a messenger bag, a tote bag, but no, he wants the backpack, he just won't wear the backpack. You maybe get a little weary of it, two years later, still having to interrupt camp counselors and teachers after they offer backpack assistance to your child and are confused by his shrill refusal. "He doesn't like to wear backpacks," you whisper. Which sounds so stupid, like OF ALL THE THINGS TO MAKE A THING OVER.

And so many Things. Backpacks. New socks that don't look like his old socks. Taking that shortcut around the park. The sight of an egg cracking. Eating pizza crust-first and upside-down. No forks or spoons, except for macaroni and cheese, but just the yellow kind. This juice in That cup. Toys played with in one specific way, all the time, just. Like. So. You live with these imaginary, arbitrary rules, walking a fine line between keeping the peace and going along with the rituals...and putting your foot down, as if you can just FORCE some flexibility into him.

And then one day he steps off the school bus wearing a backpack, because the school bus aide helped him put his backpack on, completely unaware that he just performed a goddamned Christmas miracle, that he is now the personal lord and savior of a makeup-less, bra-less mother in sweatpants standing on the curb, silently wigging out about a backpack.

(Epilogue: Wrote post during nap, attempted recreation of Blessed Backpack event for photo-op afterward, no dice, despite bribe generous offer of two granola bars. Decided child wants to destroy me, sent him to room for general mouthiness, throwing backpack at dishwasher.)

(Epilogue, part 2: Just attempted to spell S-N-A-C-K out loud to husband, failed miserably, twice. "I don't think that word has an E, babe.")