Subterfuge

Noah was a tad ornery this morning (perfectly understandable considering days of rain and the head colds that struck each and every one of us down this week, also the fact that I wouldn't let him lick the flatscreen), so I banished him to two minutes on the Naughty Step. He sighed but obediently trudged off and once again I congratulated myself for getting my child-rearing techniques from quality reality television. That shit just works, people.

Two minutes later, when I went to fetch him, I found this:

Incidentally, it turned out Noah was off sitting in for Mr. Turtle at the SATs.

And His Favorite Thing in the World is a Treble Clef I Made Him Out of a Twist Tie

The other night we had the TV on and a promo spot for Law & Order: SVU came on -- the one with Robin Williams playing some sort of unhinged psycho,which is only vaguely more terrifying to me than Patch Adams -- and at one point he bellows, "You don't know what I've suffered!"

Noah rounded the corner at this precise moment, and without missing a beat, pointed a chubby finger at us and shouted, "YOU DON KNOW WHA I SUFFER!"

Needless to say, we aren't really dealing with much of a "speech delay" anymore.

He still goes to his little mock special-ed preschool class, and he gets speech therapy twice a month at home, but next month those services will drop back even further when he starts a very mainstream summer camp program at the very mainstream preschool he will be attending in the fall. I've been told that all county-run preschool programs are off the table for him at this point, and while they will test to see if he'll qualify for itinerant speech therapy, it's been strongly hinted to me that I shouldn't hold my breath on that one either.

The only "concern" at this point is his articulation, which (as you heard on the video yesterday) gets pretty unintelligible whenever he's excited or stringing more than two or three words together. Still, however, this falls solidly into the realm of "normal" speech, especially for a child who just started using two-word phrases for the first time a couple months ago. His brain is moving faster than his mouth, which has always been the problem. The difference is that he no longer lets that stop him from TRYING to get his thoughts out, whereas before he seemed to clam up mostly out of frustration that we couldn't understand him, or that the list of sounds he couldn't reproduce was so long and daunting so you know what? Let's just talk more about aballs today.

He's even figured out how to use our non-stop translating against us -- we pretty much run on auto-pilot now when it comes to repeating the stuff he says, you know, to demonstrate the proper pronunciation or to give him two words when he supplies one -- so we have a LOT of conversations that go something like this:

NOAH: (very quietly) eye keem cone?

MAMA: Uh...ice cream cone?

NOAH: OKAY! GOOD IDEA, MAMA! ICE CREAM CONE! YAY!

He outsmarts me with this same trick at least 14 times a day, people. 

Early Intervention has also completely dropped the SPD diagnosis -- there's no doubt he HAD some rather profound difficulties, but as his speech improves and we doggedly continue giving him repeated (yet low-pressure) exposure to the wig-out triggers, it's all become much less of a "problem" and more of a "quirk."

That's pretty much how all his therapists and teachers refer to him now.

"He's quirky."

"He marches to his own drummer."

Independent, but not overly willful. Spirited, but unbelievably sensitive and gentle and kind. Shares well. Extremely aware of other's moods and feelings. Dislikes fingerpaints and transitions, but is the only kid in his class who will eat oatmeal with gusto.

"He's a special one, that's for sure." his teacher says, laughingly shaking her head after class.

He still uses sign language, along with the words, although sometimes he will revert to signs-only when he's shy or scared. He remembers every single one he ever learned, sometimes sending me back to the DVDs for a refresher course.

He can sing all the words to Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and Old MacDonald. He will tell you that "you can do anything that you want to do" and then tell you what Blue's dream was about ("A leotard dream! Blue rolllled!"). He will not say his name, preferring to call himself Baby. We've talked about the baby in Mama's belly a couple times but it's not really making much sense, although one time he did lift up my shirt and shouted "ALLLLO BABY! WHA YOU DOIN IN DER? DON WORRY, BABY! I COMING!"

It's funny. When we first started using Early Intervention and speech therapy and sign language, a few people did not hide their opinion that we were overreacting. He was too young, he was just a late talker, God, what is WITH parents and doctors today with their "labels" and their "therapy" and in our day kids didn't talk until the second grade because they were too busy shoveling all the snow off that hill. Okay, maybe that isn't very funny.

First, the sign language flipped a switch for Noah -- the first of many. He understood WHY communication was good. Expressing your needs! Getting those needs met! You could almost see the exact moment the light bulb went on and the signs poured out.

Then came the speech therapy -- which was as much for me as it was for Noah. It was humbling, honestly, to have someone come to your house and tell you how to talk your kid. I've met parents who resist it, for whatever reasons -- they smile and nod during our Hanen sessions and then roll their eyes afterwards and admit that no, they don't really go for a lot of "that stuff" at home. But we did. We slowed down, we made stupid noises and faces and gestures out in public, we signed and talked and listened and pauuuuuused and repeated and then we did it all over again. And it worked. It just worked.

Then came the social therapy -- the tears at Lunch Bunch from us both, picking up the red-faced tear-stained toddler after Kids at Play, feeling like my heart was going to break because THIS was too much, too hard. And now I get glowing reports every week. He stays in the class because they like a few well-behaved "example" kids to help the newer additions...and because he just loves it so much that I asked his service coordinator that as long as we aren't taking a spot away from a kid who really needs it, could he please just keep going until summer camp starts?

Now when I tick down this list of victories for some people -- victories that came much sooner than we expected, but were hard-fought all the same -- I still sometimes get that dismissive wave of a hand. "And you were sooooo worried," they say with a bemused smile. Silly neurotic first-time mother.

Yeah. You know what? I was worried. And so I did something about it. And I would do it all again.

 

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.

The Treble With Clef

Noah has never had a singular attachment to a particular toy. He has no blankie or lovey or cribby or boobedyoopedy or whatever it is that kids have. He's gotten vaguely attached to several toys and carried them around for awhile before moving on -- he's really fond of Grover right now, but if one day Grover happens to get wedged under the couch or dropped in a parking lot somewhere Noah will most likely pay no mind. This is the fate that has befallen several stuffed toys -- and one oversized novelty crayon bank -- who have all been loved intensely for a week here and there before being tossed on the metaphorical Scarlett Fever pile without a second thought.

So at least I have reasonable hope that Noah's current fixation with the dust jacket of Shel Silverstein's Where the Sidewalk Ends will be similarly temporary, because that one is just fucking weird.

He's not even attached to the dust jacket itself -- he's actually enamored with the curly cursive S in the title and on the back cover. And not because it's the letter S. It's because he's decided that it's actually a treble clef, and that...well, that just makes it fucking weirder.

Treble clefs. I am not lying. He sees them everywhere -- our copy of Boynton's Oh My Oh My Oh Dinosaurs! is permanently opened to Di-No-Saurs Sing-Ing A Di-No-Saur Song, so much that the spine of the book is cracked and about to separate; a piece of sheet music at a friend's house caused a goddamn conniption because CLEF! CLEF! HIIIII CLEF!; there's constantly an imaginary treble clef stuck in a closet or in need of rescue (DON'T WORRY CLEF! I COMING!); and God help us all, he's in bed spooning a dust jacket right now, as I type this.

The owner of the aforementioned sheet music declared him a goddamn genius, and more than one non-related adult has marveled at his clearly superior and natural musical talent, but that is because these people do not have children and thus have no way of knowing the truth, which is this:

Or more specifically, this dude:

That's G-Clef, voiced by Ray Charles, and the love of my son's life. We'd own the bedsheets and the lunchbox and probably the G-Clef Funtime Adventure Princess Castle, if they only made any of that stuff. Seriously, if this character came printed on underoos, Noah would be potty-trained already.

But instead, he's forced to make due with this:

I mean, I guess I see it, sort of. I guess in a sea of licensed-character crap it's sweet that he's decided to invent his own little character and its related accessories (also currently much beloved: a Target receipt upon which I hastily scribbled a treble clef in order to distract him at a restaurant, and I'm not sure it's any closer to the real thing than ol' Shel up there), but at the same time...no, baby, we're so not taking a dust jacket to the playground, I don't care how badly Clef wants to ride the swings.

Still. Just because it would totally figure that THIS would be the lovey that sticks around until grade school, I'm a little relieved by the presence of a back-up, in the form of the 30th Anniversary edition that someone gave us.

He won't notice the different color, I'm sure. What matters is that the S/Clef thing is the same, I'm sure.

You really don't get me yet, do you, woman?

No, You Cannot Has Nice Things

So...does anybody happen to have any tips for removing orange crayon from a brand-new camera's optical viewfinder and live-preview screen thing?

Just wondering.

(KILLMURDERHEADSMACK!)

Swag in Action

I took approximately 40,982 pictures of this bee. I do not like bees. I do not like pictures of bees. But here, look at this picture of this bee, and be grateful that I'm not making you look at all pictures where the bee is a little blurry blob because I WAS VERY OBSESSED WITH THIS BEE FOR SOME REASON.

New-found camera skills aside (I should have increased the shutter speed, since I wanted to capture freeze-frame bee wings because I had it in my head at the time that freeze-frame bee wings were the ultimate in photographic accomplishment), there's a reason I should stay away from "arty" shots and photos of boring things like flowers.

For example, my eye for composition is so keen that when aiming my camera at an entire garden of gorgeous blooms, the only one I managed to keep in focus was the dead and wilted one.

It's a metaphor, man. You wouldn't get it.

What does this button do? Oh.

That one was snapped during our initial demo of all the cameras, when we were all particularly giddy and snap-happy, even though there really wasn't much to take photos of, besides the carpet and the chandeliers and oh look! A chandelier!

Okay, clearly it was time to turn the cameras around on our own dork asses.

Tracey, by the way, performed admirably as the group's go-to photography guinea pig, and at one point had about seven different people aiming a barrage of Cyber-shots and Alpha DSLR cameras at her, ordering her to help them test out their metering modes and the Cyber-shot's creepy robot Smile Shutter function, which allows you TOTALLY PWN your bratty, ungrateful child who only smiles two seconds AFTER you've snapped the picture. Because it waits until your kid actually smiles to actually take the picture. The Sony people claim it's an "algorithm," but you and I know it's actually very small hamsters who will one day arise and enslave us all.

Anyway, Tracey handled the mommyblogger paparazzi admirably, and didn't roll her eyes too badly when I made the obvious LEAVE BRITNEY ALONE joke, since I am very Hip and With It when it comes to the kids today and their YouTubes.

Hey, speaking of high-definition video cameras! And dorks!

DORKS from amalah on Vimeo.

You stay classy, La Jolla.

And...that was my trip to California. While I'm not under any obligation to write about the event or Sony or the swag (HAVE I MENTIONED THE SWAG), hats off to Sony, man. I've had some baaaaaad experiences with accepting even the smallest gift or sample from big corporations -- sample arrives, sample gets boxed back up and shipped back on my own dollar because nooooo, I won't sign away the rights to my child's image for your marketing stock photography library in exchange for a photo printer, THANKS THOUGH -- but I'm really glad I went.

I mean, the whole point of squeezing my increasingly pregnant ass on a cross-country flight was originally just to get some quality Sweetney time <insert some mid-90s Bryan Adams here, in your head, on repeat play FOREVER>, and other than that I was secretly expecting the whole thing to suck and be all kinds of eye-rolly. And then everybody there was so nice and laid-back and I got a massage and fresh strawberries in my room and a giant bed that I took up as many inches as possible with my giant body. Plus Tracey gave me chocolate and this body cream that smells like cupcakes and I got to share a limo with PlainJaneMom (confidential to Erika: do I owe you $400? I'm a little afraid to look, frankly) and talked about my boobs with Jenny and HAVE I SCREAMED At YOU ENOUGH ABOUT APERTURE. AND THE FACT THAT I KNOW WHAT IT IS NOW.

<breathes>

Okay. That's really it about California. And aperture. I'm done now. I promise.

And now for some extremely boring camera talk, for the two of you who might be interested:

My Canon Digital Rebel, for now, probably beats the Sony Alpha, but only because I already own some really excellent lenses for it. Lenses that are just plain better than the one that comes with the Alpha, but hey. We paid a lot for them, they sure as hell better be better. HOWEVER, for someone just moving away from point-and-shoot and learning how to use a DSLR, I think the Sony is MUCH easier to use. I like the menus better, I feel like I can get to the different settings faster, and the adjustable liveview screen just flat-out rocks. (Although I'm so used to looking through the viewfinder on the Canon that I find myself turning it off more often than I thought I would, but that's probably just habit. When I first got the Canon I couldn't BELIEVE I couldn't just hold the camera out in front of me and get a preview of what I was shooting.) I'm very, VERY interested in getting a better lens for the Sony, especially since I don't have to pay extra for image-stabilization (it's built right into the body of the Sony) (image stabilization = the reason your no-flash pictures on a point-and-click camera look all blurry, Ms. 5 PM Alcohol Shakes).

(Taken with the Cyber-shot in the low-light ISO setting.)

(APERTURE!)

Grateful

...for the first peanut-butter-and-jelly picnic of the season.

...for the little girls next door.

...for a warm deck and soft bellies.

...and for naptime. Especially naptime.

He Calls Them Veedy-Ohs

Things We Have Learned This Week:

1) We've got a LOT of chronically incontinent, publicly flatulent, oops-I-crapped-my-pants, weird and wonky-boobed bitches up in here, and I love y'all for it.

2) Breastfeeding. Is a touchy subject. Still. Noted, and moving on.

Things We Are Not Talking About Today:

1) Breastfeeding, and thank God.

2) How UPS held my new fetal doppler hostage all week, and yes, I know I said I wasn't allowed to rent one this time, but nobody said anything about BUYING ONE. So I bought one. And then UPS wouldn't give it to me.

3) And then UPS finally gave it to me, but I haven't really been able to find the heartbeat yet but we are not talking about that today, LA LA LAAAAAAAAAAAAAohshit.

On that ominous note, allow me to present the Tonedeaf Family Sunshine Singers and their rendition of "You Are My Sunshine."

This is, admittedly, not their best work, but SOMEBODY forgot to actually hit the "record" button during an earlier and far-superior take, and then SOMEBODY ELSE refused to perform like the little performing monkey that he is and frankly, I don't think they're going to get it together enough in time for the world tour. Expect low ticket sales and eventual cancellations blamed on exhaustion and acid reflux.

11 Weeks

So I have only thrown up twice this week.

Quick! Let me know you've read that sentence (use some hand signals, or just cough kind of pointedly) so I can delete it. My blog has become a passive aggressive ASSHOLE, and has somehow artificial-intelligenced itself into my digestive tract so anytime I mention feeling relatively okay it decides to punish me.

(Shit. I bet it's reading that paragraph right now. Quick! Pretend we're talking about something else.)

...and then I was like, OH MY GOD, there's a llama in the backyard! But it was only the hydrangea.

Dog butts: for when you cannot think of an appropriate segue.

So I'm somewhere in the vicinity of 11 weeks, and starting to feel like I might just make it out of this thing alive. Last week was definitely the worst -- I threw up pretty much every night, was unable to eat dinner, and then woke up every morning with crashing blood sugar and ravenous hunger, but was always faced with three smaller beings who insist on being fed first, even though SOME OF THEM eat food that smells like rancid-cold-cut-and-mackerel salad, I AM NOT SAYING WHO.

Whut? Can't I horf cat fud in peace over here?

(By the way, since I am a crumbly emotional mess these days, I feel the need to counter all my dogthing-mocking with a declaration of love for the hamsterdog. She may need a diet, probably a bath and definitely a less disproportionate headsize-to-body ratio, and my GOD, must she have an aneurysm EVERY time the mailman walks by, but she really DOES get plenty of love and affection and clearly, way too much ham.)

My next OB appointment isn't for another week and a half, which means the reassurance from my last visit is starting to wear off and I'm fighting the urge to call and invent a pressing reason why I need an ultrasound RIGHT NOW, since "I only threw up twice this week!" or "I dunno, I think I feel a little less gassy" won't really cut it.

I rented a doppler last time, and ended up accidentally keeping it (and paying monthly rent on it) for close to 18 months, and then stupidly sent it back when I was one damn payment away from owning the damn thing outright. (Every once in awhile, though, I get a $10 check from them, presumably from people who stumble upon the referral number I posted ages ago. So I'll probably break even in about 23 years, provided I keep my Google Page Rank up.)

Needless to say, I am not allowed to rent another doppler ever.

Oh, and about this. I still don't know. Your comments certainly got me jazzed for the idea of a big birthday reveal moment, but then a minute later I get distracted by something and change my mind. Jason is firmly in the find-out camp, but is willing to go along with whatever I ultimately decide, probably because he KNOWS I won't really be able to hold out and will eventually cave, so it's safe to indulge me for now. So...realistically, I'm guessing we'll find out, unless the baby is modest and keeps his legs crossed for the next few ultrasounds.

(Yeah, I said his. In a way, I think the whole issue is moot, because I'm fairly sure it's another boy.)

Still fairly sure it's a Wonderpet.

The belly at dawn, as compared to the belly at night, with a day's worth of bloat. Ah, dignity. I must have left it in my other pants. The ones I can't button, no matter what time of day it is. Stupid pants.

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.

The Toddlerese Phrasebook

"Mama in der? Mmma an na na a CHOUND? In der? IN DER?"

(Mama, do you hear the sound that is coming from that general direction over there?)

"A cow! Jump cow oh uh na amoon!"

(The cow jumped over the moon.)

"A TRAIN! A TRAIN! CHOO CHOO!"

(A TRAIN! A TRAIN! OMFG!)

"Aw, a boo hurt! Na ma a ban aid? Boots?"

(I have injured myself and require a licensed-character Band-Aid.)

"RAWR! RAWR! Onster anna book anna yoo turn da page! Oh no!

(There's a monster at the end of this book and you turned the page! Oh no!)

"No poop."

(I don't care what you smell, woman.)

"Oh no! A messth! Whew! Dapeart? Okay."

(I would like to reverse my earlier position re: poop.)

"I know. In der. A dridge. Ohhh, down. An tuntel. Up up up an der."

(A complicated description of the engineering of drawbridges. I am told I wouldn't understand.)

"Oh maaaannnnn!"

(Success! Swiper the Fox has been foiled yet again!)

"A nack? Okay nack. Nack oh der."

(May I have a snack? Actually, I'm just going to go ahead and answer in the affirmative that yes, I may have a snack. And I'm going to go eat my snack over there. Smell ya later.)

"A chide an mah polpet! A polpet, Mama! Choon an polpet!"

(Uh.)

"DADA! DADA! WHEAH ARRRRRE YOOOO?"

(Dada, Mama is currently denying me the object of my heart's desire, please come home from work to rectify the situation.)

Stuff, and Then: Surprise! MORE WHINING!

THINGS MY CHILD WILL SAY IN FRONT OF ME, BUT NOT IN FRONT OF ANYONE ELSE, INCLUDING THE &$@* VIDEO CAMERA, WHICH MEANS ACCORDING TO THE LAWS OF BLOG IT'S LIKE HE NEVER SAID THEM AT ALL:

1. Hmmm. I know!
2. ONE MINUTE!
3. Dog! Dog! Where arrrrre you?
4. Won, Too, Tee, ready or not here I come!
5. Oh mah gawd!

WORDS MY CHILD CAN READ VIA THE REFRIGERATOR MAGNETS, BUT ONLY IN FRONT OF ME BUT I SWEAR, PEOPLE, I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP:

1. Oops
2. Egg
3. Noah
4. Hot
5. Ass

NUMBERS MY CHILD LEAVES OUT WHILE HE COUNTS TO TWENTY:

1. Four

NUMBER OF TIMES IN THE PAST THREE DAYS I HAVE TACKLED MY CHILD, DIPPED HIM IN CADBURY CREME EGG FONDANT AND SWALLOWED HIM WHOLE:

1. 567,987,001

I expected pregnancy to sort-of suck. I mean, honestly, it sucked last time too. Although I would probably never let myself use that word, since I still remember walking through the pregnancy and family planning section of the bookstore years ago, a massive dose of Clomid coursing through my system, and seeing that book called "Pregnancy Sucks." And I blinked and sniffed and thought, "Ungrateful bitches."

I keep saying that I feel better this time than I did with Noah, although Jason is often there behind me, shaking his head, because he thinks this go-round is just as awful. I'm not throwing up as much, that's for sure -- maybe four or five times total so far, with at least three of those times being more the fault of a skull-bashing migraine than traditional pregnancy nausea.

I didn't get migraines last time, though. Definitely not. And those of your who have ever suffered from migraines, pregnancy-related or otherwise, well -- you know. Migraines are more than a headache. They manage to hurt both before and after the actual head pain. You feel them in your shoulder blades, in your eyeballs, your stomach. Light hurts. Sound hurts. Movement hurts. After it goes away you're left exhausted and shaken and terrified that it will come back because you just can't fathom living through that kind of pain again. They have colored my entire world in dark, dismal hues that I can't see past right now.

I used to get migraines a lot -- in high school and my early twenties, mostly, when I was in the thick of eating disorders and jacked my blood sugar all up for the sake of size zero jeans. I never had a single headache once I got pregnant, though. The nausea was bad, I lost weight, I got slammed with anxiety attacks because OMG WHAT HAVE I DONE I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH A BABY OH SHIT, but no headaches. And even at my sickest, I really did have a deep and profound appreciation for pregnancy and all the glorious suckitude that came with it -- even if I rarely admitted that yes, wow, this sure can suck sometimes.

This time, I am happily and completely anxiety-free. Dude, I WANT this baby. Jason and I both WANT this baby. Badly. We are, simply put, so fucking excited about having another squeaky little newborn here. Another year of fat baby thighs and rapid-fire milestones and we cannot wait to hear what this little being has to say when s/he starts talking, whenever s/he chooses to start talking.

In the meantime, though, I am impatient. I want the BABY. The CHILD. The little THING in my ARMS.

The migraines -- and I've had at least a dozen of them so far -- are worse than labor. Worse than the morning sickness. They take me away from Noah and turn me into a shitty, lazy mother who leaves the TV on all day and slacks on her writing deadlines and gets short and irritable with anyone and everyone. Some days I'm okay. I get a little caffeine and watch my blood sugar and use a cold compress at the first little twinge in my eye sockets. But then there are days when we're out of easy breakfast options and Noah needs to get to some activity and we're running late and I suddenly feel my stomach lurch and my shoulder blades hurt and I know I should go lie down and take it easy but I can't, I just can't. 

And then Noah cries because we have to leave the park and I've yanked his arm too hard and scared him and Jason comes home and I yell at him to shut up and leave me alone when all he tried to do was talk about his day and make a suggestion about dinner and then because I've been in bed for hours I can't actually sleep at night and spend hours and hours pacing the house and watching crap TV until Noah wakes up exactly 20 minutes after I've managed to fall asleep.

The only pregnancy-approved painkiller option (besides Tylenol, pffffffft, I spit on you, aspirin has always been my drug of choice) would be narcotics, which my doctor doesn't want to prescribe unless the headaches continue beyond week 13, and honestly I don't really want narcotics either. Codeine, Vicodin...I don't mess with that shit when I'm NOT responsible for a vulnerable, developing being. I wouldn't fault anyone for turning to them, however, and I am not trying to be some kind of pregnant martyr, but they just aren't for me.

My parents are here this week, to help me out and care for Noah while I "rest" and "take it easy," although it's already translating more into "frantically digging myself out of the professional black hole I've made for myself over the past few half-assed weeks."

I wish I were writing funny stories about oh my gawd! Pregnancy Brain made me walk out of the house with no pants on! Ha ha ha! I wish I could look at my round belly with a sense of awe and wonder instead of, "Oh. It's just bloat. Whatever."

I wish I felt better. I wish I felt like a better mom right now. And a better pregnant lady. And less like an ungrateful bitch.

But pregnancy...well, it's not the baby. I get that this time around.  I get that my attitude towards the whole messy gestating process does not mean I have the same attitude towards the baby. They're more separate this time, since last time I couldn't really fathom anything beyond pregnancy and the hypothetical idea of a newborn who would grow up into...a kid? A person? Pshaw! Crazy talk, that.

Maybe I have my priorities more in order this time? It's not about me and a big show-offy belly and prenatal massages and piles and piles of itty bitty clothes? It's about just one fleeting step in the process of being a family? The pain of struggling to build that family is still fresh, but doesn't sting as much, because I've already been blessed worlds and worlds over.

It's a miracle and a gift and exactly what I've wanted for ages now...but it's also kicking the living shit out of me. I have three weeks to go until the second trimester, I think, I hope. I also hope it will suck less.

Yeah, pregnancy sucks. But I am one grateful bitch.

The Baddest Mommy on the Block

I had my first official prenatal visit this morning, during which I came about 30 seconds from getting a THIRD ultrasound, except that my doctor happened to flip back a page in my chart while the machine was warming up. "Oh!" he said, "We saw the heartbeat already, so we don't need another one just yet."

Dammit. I got a pap smear instead.

So, I really do like my doctor, although I also occasionally want to stab him in the ears with a fork, or maybe one of the handy Ortho-Tri-Cyclen pens he keeps in a cup on his desk. Like today, when he asked me how I was feeling. Which, you know, BAD. AWFUL. Like, I-have-only-told-the-Internet-half-of-it bad and awful. The migraines, the insomnia, the fact that I made my two-year-old cry yesterday (twice) simply through the power of my drained-of-patience angry-mommy voice.

(I'm not counting the time I simply screamed at him to STOP CRYING! STOP CRYING RIGHT NOW! because...come on. He was ALREADY crying. I'm sure I didn't help the situation but HE TOTALLY STARTED IT.)

(Don't let the sarcasm fool you, of course. I could totally die from the guilt right now, especially since I yelled at him AGAIN in public today when he wouldn't get on the elevator we'd been waiting 10 minutes for and I believe something along the lines of "you are going to GET IT" came out of my mouth and oh yes, I should just go ahead and have five more children. I'm the BEST AT THIS EVER.)

Anyway. Where was I? Oh. Right. The doctor's office. I was toddler-free and everybody was finally asking me how I was feeling, like I was a person who mattered, and I broke down and told my doctor how terrible I feel and how I can't get out of bed during the headaches and I'm throwing up in the shower and I can't sleep at night and...dear Lord in heaven, please tell me you can write a prescription for SOMETHING, ANYTHING, PLEASE DON'T TELL ME TO EAT SMALL MEALS AND TAKE SOME TYLENOL AND...

"Good! Feeling bad is good! That means everything is healthy and great! You might want to try eating more small meals during the day!"

Needless to say, I did not walk out of there with a prescription for anything. I did get an offer from a nurse to walk me back to my car, because I looked so very positively green.

And yes, I finally had the conversation with my doctor that so many people have been inordinately curious about: VBAC or scheduled c-section. (Seriously. The pee had barely dried on the test stick and suddenly everybody wanted to know whether I'd made my "decision" yet.) I hesitate to even bring this topic up, because yes, I've seen that website. Yes, that one too. And probably that other one as well. I find much of the information from both sides of the debate to be horribly biased, and both arguments tend to rely heavily on scare tactics instead of real data and OH YEAH, it's just not that big of a fucking deal to me either way.

Before I had Noah, I thought his manner of birth was terribly important. This led to a series of blog postings that I am now terribly embarrassed about, because I let people work me into such a STATE about it. Scheduled c-sections are awesome! Emergency c-sections are hell! All c-sections are unnecessary! And around and around my naive little head went.

A recap for anyone just joining us: My doctor suspected that Noah was on the big side, and knew for a fact that he was not in the ideal position. (He was facing forward, or sunny-side up.) He suspected that I might need a section, but he is overall very anti-intervention. So I wasn't induced or scheduled and went into labor on my own. And it was pretty awesome, actually, and I felt powerful and damn impressed with myself during it. And then the complications started piling up -- nothing particularly major, but enough. Meconium. Fetal distress. Irregular heartbeat. I pushed and pushed and Noah didn't budge past my pubic bone. His heart rate became more and more worrisome with each contraction. So I had an emergency c-section, which revealed that the umbilical cord had been wrapped tightly around the neck of my 9 pound, 15 ounce baby who had little marks on his head from pressing against my freaking bones.

I know that doctors in this country are awfully trigger-happy with pitocin and c-sections. I have no doubt that many sections could be avoided and I will never, ever understand celebrities who opt for completely unnecessary MAJOR ABDOMINAL SURGERY because they're afraid of an episiotomy or whatever. (Ladies! Slicing open your gut really fucking hurts too! Imagine that!)

But in my case, I think the decision and the timing of that decision were appropriate. I have no regrets over my c-section. I was nursing within 10 minutes of delivery. My recovery was a breeze. I was up and about in no time and my scar is small and smooth and practically invisible. (Seriously. I tried to show a curious friend recently and it took me five minutes to FIND the stupid thing.)

I'm extremely happy that I got to experience labor and pushing and if I had managed to deliver vaginally, I would probably attempt an even lower intervention birth this time -- probably with a midwife and a birthing center and no epidural. I know I could do it.

But..I won't.

Of all of our (minor, run-of-the-mill) complications, the only one that's likely to repeat is the high birth weight. And even that isn't a sure thing. Then again, an ultrasound from just days before Noah was born put him in the eight-pound range, a full two pounds under his actual weight. And he never measured particularly "big" at any point in my pregnancy. So no matter how many measurements I get, I know there's no guarantee that I won't end up with another linebacker baby who is just not gonna come out that exit, sorry, at least not without a significant risk for us both.  So even if I do attempt a VBAC, I would choose to do it at a hospital, with an epidural (to avoid being put under in case of an emergency).

My doctor droned on and on about the benefits of a scheduled c-section. Benefits that frankly, I couldn't give two shits less about. Convenient for childcare! (Right, because it's not like we have two sets of grandparents so chomping at the bit for this baby they'd gladly move in now and stay through 2009.) You won't have to go through labor! (Right, except that I thought being in labor was kind of awesome, in a way, and am totally not scared of doing it again.) Your recovery will be faster! (Right, except that I am apparently half cyborg and recovered really damn fast last time.)

We all have our things that we care deeply about. Our secret little judgey list of The Way Things Should Be Done. I've got them too! Serving wine at the correct temperature, for example. Drives me batty, all this overwarm red wine. But birth plans? No. At least not anymore. I look at Noah, at all the little moments where I can either be a great mother or mess it up completely, at all the things that are worth worry and guilt and stress, and the manner in which he exited my body isn't anywhere on that list. It's like this old, weird worry from another dimension, or a past life.

I will probably schedule a c-section. I will probably schedule it on the later side, leaving the possibility of letting labor happen if it's meant to happen, provided we keep on top of the measurements and provided I give even the smallest slice of piping hot rat's ass about any of this by October.

Now if you'll excuse me, I think my emergency c-section child needs me to go wipe his butt. God, this is ALL THE EPIDURAL'S FAULT.

I'm leaving comments open (eyes the room suspiciously), but...let's all remain calm, okay? I have really and truly seen the websites you're itching to link to, I've done my homework and so help me, if anyone mentions anything about dead babies I will close comments, ban your ass and snatch you bald headed. Thank you. I love you. Mwa.

My TiVo Suggests Tylenol PM

Whenever a great big natural disaster or big tragedy-laden news story hits a blogger's general area, they inevitably get worried comments and emails from readers -- particularly if they haven't updated in a few days -- emails of  the "are you okay? is your house okay? is it on fire? washed away by molten lava? and I saw on the news that someone was shot at a mall that I think is near your house and they didn't give any names and omg, YOU WEREN'T SHOT AT HOT TOPIC, WERE YOU?" variety.

So let me just put your minds at ease: Yes, I have stayed at the Mayflower Hotel in the past, but I am in no way connected to the recent bust of the high-class prostitution ring here in DC. Thank you all very much for your concern.

MY ALIBI IS STILL PRETTY HEAVY ON THE SHAME, HOWEVER

So Friday night rolls around. We put Noah to bed, Jason is starting a fire and I'm settling in on the couch, ready to be a giant pain in the ass re: what DVD we will watch, because I hate everything in our queue and especially the three DVDs that came in the mail this week and I don't want to waaaaaatch theeeeem, I want to watch something difffffffferent, preferably something that isn't even out on DVD yeeeeetttt.

This is when I notice that the TV is already on.

"Oh GOD," I say, "is this The Ghost Whisperer?"

Jason turns away from the fireplace and says something like, "Oh, is that what this is? It's just what was...you know...on."

"Eh, let's watch last night's Lost before we pick a movie to argue about." I slowly aim the remote the TV, and...

"Wait! Uh. I don't...I mean...I'm not sure I feel like watching Lost right now."

By this point my own prime-time detective-show-worthy wheels were spinning, and I remember turning off the TV before dinner, and that the TV was firmly locked in NOGGIN toddler mode, so if Jason just turned it back on and left it on whatever channel it was on LIKE HE CLAIMED, we'd be watching Wow Wow Wubbzy right now.

"YOU WANT TO WATCH THE GHOST WHISPERER! YOU WANT TO WATCH IT ON PURPOSE!"

Jason vaguely threatens me with the giant tube of Duraflame matches but concedes the point, and that's how we ended up watching Jennifer Love Hewitt's three-foot-long hair and eyelash extensions on Friday night.

"Why is this show shot like a daytime soap opera, with the smeary Vaseline lens and everything?"

"My lands, man. We certainly are learning A LOT about your TV viewing habits tonight, aren't we?"

"Wait...are you crying?"

"Shut up. My eyes are watering. It's a pregnancy thing."

"You're totally crying."

"WELL? THE MOM GHOST IS REALLY PROUD OF HER DAUGHTER, OKAY? AND SHE COULD TOTALLY SENSE HER MOM GHOST'S PRESENCE RIGHT THEN AND THAT WAS A NICE BIT OF CLOSURE FOR HER."

"This is a pretty terrible show."

"I know. We should totally record next week's episode."

AND THEN! IT WAS SATURDAY!

Saturday night I did not sleep. At all. I stayed up for awhile obsessively listing the Things We Need To Buy For The Baby Before October OMG October! -- sample items include plain white onesies, pacifiers, an infant tub, bottles and holy crap bottles are different now because of the leeching plastic and I know we sort-of knew about the leeching plastic with Noah but stopped caring after I broke all the glass bottles we bought but now we totally have to care about the leeching plastic with this one and do you realize how fucked we are if it's a girl? we have nothing for a girl! everything is blue! the carseat is blue! the extra sheets for the Pack-N-Play are blue! I might be forced to put lacy headbands on her and YOU KNOW HOW I FEEL ABOUT LACY HEADBANDS.

After realizing that Jason was asleep and not listening, I went downstairs and watched the Grindhouse double feature until four five in the morning, and was overly interested in seeing when the cable would made the switch for daylight savings time. At 1:59 am the clock and channel guide jumped forward to 3:00 am and I sat up and fucking CLAPPED FOR THE CABLE BOX, like I was celebrating my own special little New Year's Eve, or something.

SUNDAY WAS PREDICTABLY BLEAK

I sat on the couch all day and watched 13 straight hours of Hell's Kitchen reruns while bemoaning my lack of sleep. At one point Jason turned to me and asked, "Did I hear you refer to this baby as a do-over last night?" 

"Probably. Sort of. At least in terms of the leeching plastic."

The time change effed Noah up completely, as he refused to nap all day, but then did a faceplant into his dinner and fell sound asleep at 5:30 6:30 I don't even know what time it was either. There were four contestants left on Hell's Kitchen at the time, though, if that helps.

HEY, LOOK AT THE TIME! MONDAY WAS OFFICIALLY YESTERDAY

Once again, I cannot sleep. I start to doze off, then wake up to pee. My skin itches and all my limbs keep falling asleep. And the thinking! God. I cannot turn off the goddamned thinking.

Noah is getting a cold, however, and keeps demanding that I go in and wipe his nose.

I am happy to oblige. There is just nothing good on TV right now.

Metadog

My god, this blog. It is astoundingly boring.

So. Very. Very. Boring.

It is not updated often enough for my discriminating tastes, either.

And this kid is much too old to be very interesting.

Not that all this pregnancy puking and hot dog binge talk is all that appetizing.

In sum, I am in ur charming family portrait, expressing mah disdain. Pfft.

Love,
OG Homie aka Ceiba!

Breakfast/Lunch/Dinner of Champions

So things have taken a turn for the queasy over here.

I'm not actually throwing up or anything (stretches a wan, weakened arm across the tiled bathroom floor to knock on the wood floor outside the door), but am instead walking around the house randomly gagging on air and smells and thoughts of smells and air that is full of smells and smelly smell smell smell.

The Coke keeps The Headaches at bay (I switched to Coke after discovering that coffee dry heaves taste like pine trees), and I'm about to tuck a sleeve of saltines into my (elastic) waistband and get a big dorky watch that beeps every 20 minutes to remind me to eat one. This was advice I got last time: keeping something in your stomach will actually keep you from puking.

I tried this last time. And the weirdest thing happened. I THREW UP. Food in, food out, taking the upward escape route. This (combined with some advice regarding "real" ginger ale vs. Canada Dry that we WILL NEVER SPEAK OF AGAIN) lead to a bit of Post-Traumatic-Assvice Syndrome that plagued the rest of my pregnancy. By the time we got to the c-section business, I was cowering in the corner, pleading for the Internet to leave me and my internal organs alone, pleassssse, there's Canada Dry in the fridge, just take it all and let me beeeee! I want to liiiiiive!

This time, the queasiness intensifies whenever I go too long without snacking. Snack snack snack. A couple weeks ago, this was awesome, what with the cookies and the brownies and the non-stop parade of cravings that felt so damn good to satisfy and I was probably about five minutes away from dipping pickles in vanilla ice cream or deep-frying some mini-marshmallows.

Now...it's pretty much saltines. Crunchy, salty, paste-y saltines. Mmmm.

In the interest of fairness and full-circle assvice redemption, I gave this theory another shot. Did I already say something about never speaking of this again? THIS TIME I MEAN IT.

***
In Child v.1.0 news, Noah has developed the habit of pressing his index finger on his lips while saying, "Hmmmm," and then excitedly pointing upwards and declaring, "I KNOW!"  Then he runs out of the room.

It may be the cutest thing ever, except that it is driving me absolutely bonkers, because WHAT DO YOU KNOW, CHILD? WHAT?  

When Enough is Enough is Enough

So I was rifling through the closet today -- looking for my lost glove, of all things -- when...what's this thing? A...toddler? Oh RIGHT! My other kid. I completely forgot.

Noah's doing just fine, thank you for vaguely maybe thinking of asking. The hellacious tantrums of a few weeks back turned out to be, like many of you said, the precursor to a lovely developmental spurt. He went to bed one night saying, "Bye Dada" and woke up the next morning saying, "Bye-bye Dada go work ALL GONE!" Complete with a little hand-wringing and the perfect touch of woe during the "ALL GONE!" part, like "Yes, Dada is all gone. We are fresh out of Dadas and do not expect our next shipment for at least six to eight weeks and it just breaks my heart to have to tell you this, ma'am."

Don't get me wrong -- he can still be a willful little shit if he wants to, but 99.9999999% of the time I just adore the hell out of him.

In a couple weeks we begin "transitional testing" -- basically we start the assessment process all over again to see what (if any) services Noah will qualify for after he turns three. It can range from "nothing, there is the door and I said GOOD DAY SIR" to continued therapy to free daily preschool, courtesy of our tax dollars.

I believe I've mentioned that I already enrolled Noah in a preschool for this fall -- the assessment process is fairly maddening, as we won't find out what we qualify for until Noah actually turns three. We may have an idea, but we won't know for sure until well after the deadlines for preschool enrollment and well after all the four-digit deposits are due. (Early Intervention at least seems to know the system sucks, and promised to write a letter begging for our deposits back if it turns out that if Noah DOES qualify for the preschool program. Am hoping this would be enough, considering our chosen preschool already has a waitlist 50 families deep, so it's doubtful they will be incredibly crushed over missing the chance to educate our special little snowflake.)

I honestly don't know where we'll end up. I once felt very sure that Noah's third birthday would mark the end of our EI journey, but now? Eh?  Verbally, Noah is clearly near the top of the pack in his class-slash-therapy group, but...that's not really the best comparison for basing a decision to go mainstream on. The group isn't exactly chock-full of "typical" talkers.

Behavior-wise, again, I don't know. He's had a few really good weeks. He's definitely more comfortable with circle time and the singing and transitioning from one activity to the next, provided he gets a little extra warning time. He plays beautifully with other children. But then try to slip on a plastic-y vinyl art smock or get glue on his fingers and hoo boy. Just...hooooo. Fucking. Boy.

Today I eavesdropped on another mother discussing the results of her son's testing. He qualified for four days a week of district-sponsored preschool. I was shocked, honestly -- her son's verbal abilities seemed pretty good. She was a little shocked as well, but said the decision was made more for his sensory and behavioral problems. What behavioral problems? Well, resistance to transitions and trouble staying with group activities. Huh.

For some reason I assumed the school district's bar for free services would be set much higher. And I also assumed that my kid was going to be some kind of valedictorian of Early Intervention, because come on. Look at THAT kid. And THAT one.

But then we hang out with non-EI kids and I can't deny that Noah isn't there yet, speech-wise. Socially, he's fantastic -- he shares pretty well, he's never aggressive, he's almost painfully aware of other children's moods and feelings. But the holes and gaps are definitely there. I just don't know how important they are anymore, at least in the school district's eyes.

While Noah attended his class today, EI had the mothers meet with a parent educator/child behavioral specialist/I'm not really sure of her title. Basically a support group where everybody can talk about different challenges and problems related to speech delays and sensory problems and typical toddler drama bullshit. (I know, right? It's like, start a damn blog already, people. That's what the Internet's there for.)

She spoke to us about the transition testing process, and warned us that it will most likely be even more draining and difficult than our initial intake assessment -- simply because of the bubble Early Intervention unwittingly puts you in. During the initial assessment -- you're scared. You've just started to come to grips with the idea that there's something "wrong" with your child (or "different!" as the parent educator would cheerfully correct me). You want help. You need help. These people are here to help. They give you a plan and goals and a promise that they can help. Okay. It's going to be okay.

After months and months in the program, you see progress! Glorious progress! You see how bad it could have been and you see how far you've come. Noah had six words in August, now listen to him! Bye-bye Dada go work all gone! Look at him walk! No tippy-toes! He loves slides! He'll play in the dirt! PRAISE JEBUS, HE'S CURED!

And then people swoop back into your home with clipboards and checklists and measure that progress and tell you that hey, yeah, that's great. It's still not enough. There's still a delay, a problem, a difference. He's still not ready.

And that might not happen. And if it does, well...jeez, I can certainly think of other things I would LOVE to spend that preschool tuition on this fall. And if it doesn't, well...I'll send him to preschool with a cotton art smock and hope that it's enough. That it was all enough.

Drama, Thy Name is Toddler

Or Toddler, Thy Name is Drama. I don't really know. The point is: I am five minutes away from FedExing my child to China.

Noah has been, no lie and no exaggeration, throwing one solid tantrum since early yesterday, with only the occasional breathing break.

THINGS THAT HAVE MADE NOAH FALL TO THE FLOOR AND WEEP BIG FAT TEARS INCONSOLABLY IN THE PAST 24 HOURS:

1) Asking for more Cheerios, being reminded of the gigantic pile of Cheerios directly in front of him.

2) Asking for more milk, being reminded of the very full cup of milk directly in front of him.

3) Climbing out the back of a chair and getting stuck because he refuses to take the sippy cup out of his mouth.

4) The 30 seconds it takes to microwave his dinner.

5) Asking for a cookie, getting said cookie, discovering that he actually really wanted some cake.

6) Blue's Clues, because Steve is wasting precious seconds looking for a clue that is RIGHT FUCKING THERE IN FRONT OF HIM ZOMG.

7) His new Thomas the Tank Engine jammies, because they need to be ON HIS BODY instead of carried around like a blankie.

8) Deliberately hitting his head against the floor while tantrumming; suddenly realizing that deliberately hitting your head against the floor actually kind of hurts.

9) THE DOG IS LOOKING AT ME MAKE THE DOG STOP LOOKING AT ME AAAAHHHHHHHHHHH

10) Touching the oven, getting caught touching the oven, STOP LOOKING AT ME TOUCHING THE OVEN AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

11) Asking to fingerpaint, HELP HELP THERE'S PAINT ON MY FINGERS AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH

12) The stroller, the carseat, being carried, walking on his own feet, not being allowed to roll around on the floor in Target.

13) Putting sidewalk chalk in mouth against all advice and reason, suddenly discovering that sidewalk chalk tastes like ass.

14) Being asked any sort of question whatsoever, including, in all seriousness, Noah, do you want some candy?

15) The three seconds of Little Bear opening credits our Tivo records at the end of Blue's Clues episodes, because even though he has never sat through an episode of Little Bear ever so we don't TiVo them, we should totally know that those three seconds of opening credits are the GREATEST THING EVER and he now wants to watch Little Bear more than ANYTHING IN THE WORLD and WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU CANNOT MAKE LITTLE BEAR MATERIALIZE RIGHT THIS SECOND I WILL DESTROOOOOOOY YOOOOOOOOOOOOU.

Shall I go on or do you have the general idea?

My god, I don't know who this kid is and what his problem(ssssss) is(arrrre). I thought maybe a short nap was to blame so I put him to bed early last night, only to have him wake up screaming this morning because...I don't know. Something about the Thomas jammies again, like because the shirt was on his body he couldn't LOOK at it, but then when I took it off he screamed AND KICKED ME IN THE STOMACH.

(I should also point out that in the past few days, I have become the Only Acceptable Parent, which is breaking Jason's heart and bugging the crap out of me, since he seems to demand my constant presence for the sole purpose of abusing it.)

I am...worn out. I have never, ever witnessed anything like this from him and have "If That OT Could See Me Now" (as sung by Kathie Lee Gifford) stuck in my head. Is he sick? Teething? Growth-spurting? Opening wormholes into some sort of evil Doppelgangerland from Planet Toddler?

I spent Friday afternoon in the maternity ward, holding someone else's mewling little newborn. That was very Suck, especially since after this past week several people I know have now successfully conceived, gestated and birthed children in less time than we've been trying for a second.

A very boring insurance kerfluffle sidetracked our plan to see the doctor last month and I have yet to pick up the phone and reschedule. Because apparently I have the same sort of "smash your own fool head against the floor and then complain about it" impulses as Noah.

This entry probably reads downright bizarre to a lot of you. Or like, all of you. Seriously? She's whining about not being pregnant two paragraphs after going on and on about her current child's hellacious never-ending tantrum of nerve-shattering asshole-ness? And did she just maybe call the current child whom she is goddamned lucky to have in the first place an asshole right there?

Yes. And yes. Irrational Little Snowflake, thy name is Blogger. Or maybe, Unconditional Love, thy name is Mother.

Yes. Hopefully it's that one.

Mah Bucket of Solitude

Yesterday, after I asked him if he was ready to go to school:

Noted. Now go put your shoes on.

I am not your 28-pound monkey.

I am not your monkey because I am not here to entertain you today, but rather to seek ur knowledge and drink ur branes. You are MY MONKEY today. Answer my query, monkeys! And try to keep the feces-flinging to a minimum.

QUESTION: How old were your kids when they stopped insisting on being carried everywhere? Did you indulge this insistence until they got over it themselves or did you ever just put your foot down and make them walk places on their own? And if you did that, how did you deal with the boneless-floor-puddle-thing? Leashes? Shoulder-socket transplants? Games of chicken on the Capital Beltway?

Noah wants to be carried EVERYWHERE. I cannot get him to hold my hand and walk to the car or the mailbox or even just stand there by the ATM while I dig around for my wallet. This is particularly true in wide open and unfamiliar places, but he'll still pitch fits at the top of the stairs in our house because he wants me to carry him. "Up?" he asks, over and over, until it is NO LONGER A REQUEST, WOMAN. UUUUUPPPPP.

A long time ago a certain occupational therapist was vaguely horrified to hear that we carry Noah out in public most of the time. She said this was absolutely unacceptable at Noah's age and we had to insist on Walking Like A Big Boy. I nodded and pretended to care and thought about ponies instead. I sure do like ponies.

But today at the Mock Preschool For Kids Who Can't Talk Good And Want To Learn How To Do Other Stuff Good Too I noticed that I was the only parent carrying my kid across the parking lot and through the hallways and into the classroom. In fact, most of the kids insisted on walking themselves, while Noah started to protest the instant I slid him down past my hipbone. "No wok! UP!"

It's not that we haven't tried -- but seriously, I'm not about to get into a battle of wills when we're just trying to go to the post office, or let him collapse out in the crosswalk while I lecture him about acceptable Big Boy Behavior and how he is gunning for a life alone and living in our basement because he wants his mama to carry him at 28 months old, the goddamn pansy. He can walk and run and leave me in the dust at the playground; he just chooses not to most of the time. And in the end, he still just seems...like my baby. And you carry your babies. Yes? No? Uh...ponies?

Anyway. I'm really asking because I'm just curious -- not because I'm worried or looking for something new to be worried about. Honest! All my worry spots are completely booked right now anyway, I can't even THINK about taking on a new neurosis until AT LEAST April.

It's Another Blue's Clues Day. On the Couch. Winning Mother of the Year.

Whenever I happen across a blog entry about someone's kid having the stomach flu, I always cluck sympathetically, and then CLICK CLICK CLICK AWAY EW PLEASE DON'T TALK ABOUT YOUR KID'S VOMIT.

Commence clucking, y'all. And the little X up in the corner over there will show you the way out.

Noah woke up wailing around 3 am last night. "A MESSTH! A MESSSSSSTH!" he sobbed, pointing despair at his bed. He cared much less about the messth he made in our bed an hour later, and an hour after that he was over messthes completely and viewed our proffered plastic trash can as just getting in the way of his good time, man.

This continued all night and morning and well past the time when it finally occurred to Jason that he had a JOB he could go to instead, fuck this noise.

(Tangent! Did you know that the Noggin network airs 24 hours now? [Much to the despair of dozens of tweens who depended on the 6 pm switchover to Degrassi reruns, I'm sure.] But did you know that this is a LIE and an ILLUSION and if you actually do decide that all you need in the world is a damn episode of Blue's Clues or Dora or holy hell, I'd even accept Little Bear at 4 in the morning, you will instead be confronted with bizarre Barney-like imports from the mid-90s that involve a lot of neon and a bunch of very, very tall children playing leapfrog and singing to the camera with eyes that clearly say, "I AM GETTING NO RESIDUALS FOR THIS, THANKS MOM.")

(We switched to Cartoon Network and watched old Hanna-Barbera cartoons that were chock full of ethnic stereotypes and cavalier attitudes towards cigarette smoking instead.)

So while all plans for today were obviously hosed, we've managed to stay entertained, mostly through the power of Photo Booth, which Noah absolutely loves now that he's made the connection that WE HAVE THE TECHNOLOGY to record his every move and mug and deep thoughts on aballs.

(One day we're going to have to have a talk about where blogs come from, but I am not ready for that, frankly.)

Anyway, since I have sheets to wash and odors to...deal with...I'd like to present Noah's First Podcast. Today he'd like to talk about Dogs, Dessert, the Firefox Whee! Video and also Some Random Point On the Ceiling He'd Like Us All To Look At.

The Noah Report from amalah on Vimeo.

The Neenee of the Heart

When you have a speech-delayed kid, you will be constantly warned not to imitate their pronunciation, no matter how adorable it may be. When they butcher a word, you are supposed to model the correct pronunciation. You will be told this is very, very important. I have a very, very hard time remembering this.

"Buddy, do you want some muck?" I ask while pouring the milk.

"MMMMMMUCK!" he shrieks and nods his head.

"If you are a good boy, I bet you'll get a baboonay," I tell him at Trader Joe's.

"Yaaaay baboonaaaay!" he shrieks and eyes the balloons at the register.

When I tuck him at night, he asks for his neenee.

"Of course Mama will turn on your neenee," I say just before pulling the string on his favorite music box. That one is probably my favorite, since he calls ALL music -- instrumental, vocal, Snoop Dogg -- neenee.

Jason (who gets nagged with more child language development bullshiteese than anybody in the world -- "Stop! You're playing the Director Role! That's not the Tuned-In Parent! You're not O.W.L.ing it! Observe! Wait! Listen!") hears me do this and raises a silent, judging eyebrow.

"But it's so cuuuute!" I whine. "And his friend Max talks in paragraphs but still calls squirrels zaaaas because Julie thought it was funny and never told him that they aren't really called zaaaas and it's also so cuuuute!"

"One word," Jason says. "GUCKY."

Touché, dammit.

When I was a very little girl, probably a toddler, I called poop "gucky." Like...yucky. But...gooey. I don't know. My parents and siblings thought it was so cuuuuute and started using it all the time. Nobody went poop, we all went gucky.

The problem was, NOBODY TOLD ME I MADE THE DAMN WORD UP. Nobody, that is, until I used it in front of other kids. IN THE FIRST GRADE.

Not cute. Try mortifying.

Yesterday I was out shopping with Julie and Max (who cheerfully informed me that "Mas went Grandpa's house a couple days, um Amy? After baby brother come we go to California for good yaaay!" and it suddenly took all my strength to not collapse in a sobbing puddle in the men's department at Nordstrom because baby brother is due in two weeks and I have not yet been able to permanently affix myself to Julie's ankle while wailing DON'T LEAVE MEEEEE, but I'm working on it. I just got this new kind of glue off an infomercial.).

Noah heard the piano playing as we passed the escalator. "Uusic?" he asked.

I sucked in my breath and put my hand over my heart -- no! not uusic! neenee! call it neenee! -- before answering by the book.

"Yes Noah, music. Pretty music. Let's stop and listen to the music."

"Uusic," he said again, happily.