Dren Notes

So it’s May. That’s the month before June. The month before my brother’s birthday, my anniversary, Flag Day, oh, and the day I am supposed to engage in the “peaceful, fulfilling, and life-affirming” experience of birth that is “my right as a mother” (at least according to Hypnobirthing: does this book come with customer satisfaction guaranteed?).

This time is different than the last, which of course is to be expected. I’m a couple years older, I’ve been through labor before. But a little while ago, in the middle of the night when all the “ACK” thoughts decide to play whiffle ball in my head, I realized:

Last time I lived in a townhouse where it was easy to leave; now I live in a house, where the responsibility for household broken stuff as well as yard stuff falls on me – ack.

Last time I lived in a townhouse that didn’t allow pets; now I live in a house with fish, a cat, and a dog, who really dig it when I feed them on a regular basis – ack.

Last time my hubby, my brother, and I loaded into the car and drove a few minutes to the hospital; this time, my hubby and I will load into a car and drive farther across town to the new (oh so pretty) hospital . . . except we also have the fruits of our last visit to deal with, a.k.a. JJ – ack.

It’s all cool, really: got folks who’ve volunteered to take care of us and all our stuff. So that’s in place. As well as a birthing plan, signed hospital registration papers, installed infant car seats, etc.

But there’s still something missing . . . oh, that’s right: JJ. Is he prepared? Can he really be prepared? How soon will it be before he says “all done”?

He thinks my gargantuan belly is fairly amusing. He’ll look at my popped out belly button and say, “Mama, owie!” Yes, yes it’s hurts. When Half Pint plucks my sciatic nerve, JJ asks, “Wha happened?” to which I respond, “Your brother’s getting on my nerve!” (Literally.) He yells at my belly, “Hey, buvver, whatta you doin, aman?” – He’s sporting a Jamaican accent as of late, must be the Caribbean cd I got at the library.

But he’s also cuddling as of late. Like, laying his head on my stomach as if to say, “You wouldn’t *possibly* be bringing something into my life that would usurp my place that *the* Little Prince, would you?” He’s throwing lots of tantrums. Hunger strikes are a fairly common occurrence; lack of sleep is as well. And he neeeeeds band-aids: lots and lots of band-aids.

So, just like he decided to be born early, and to become a toddler early, and do seemingly *everything* early (except count to thirty – he’ll count to twenty, but everything after that is just twenty-three), JJ has decided to go through “Big Brother Anxiety” early – I should’ve known. At least we’ll be pros by the time Half Pint comes – one other thing to check off the list.

But do look out: apparently during the night shift, pants are optional.

I woke up this morning at 4:30. Not all that unusual: about time for me to relieve the ever occupied bladder for the third time before getting up in the morning. But it was unusual in that I realized: “Hey. The bladder’s not full. But I am awake. Why?” (Actually, this is a much more logical, rational version. It was more along the lines of “Tired. Awake. Why? Whywhywhy?!! I will never sleep through the night again! ARGH!!!” Nighttime Dren’s a little dramatic).

Then I heard it. A voice. Coming from my doorway.

“Piscerman!”

It was JJ. Holding out something. I fumbled for my glasses. It was a pull-up. A pull-up being held in front of his half-naked body.

Why? . . .

See, we’ve embarked on the grand experiment of potty training: an experiment in that it’s a test to see who will remain in control/lose it first – JJ and his bodily functions or Mama and her sanity. He’s got peeing down pat – even in public restrooms where he can barely keep his buns from hitting the water. Pooping, not so much. It’s more of an optional, recreational activity – something to engage in when he’s bored or has time in his oh so busy “being Bob the Builder and trying to fix a house or farm or building on moving land, a.k.a. the dog.”

We’ve had many conversations about pooping.

“Do we poop in our pants?”
Together: “No!”
“Where does poop go?”
“In the paaaah-tee!”

And then ten minutes later the load has been deposited in his pants, which is a little appropriate since it is Bob the Builder underwear and can he fix it? Yes, he can.

I haven’t even thought about training him at night at this point. Many toilet training advocates will tell you of the evils of Pull-Ups (that they don’t help the child sense when they are wet; that they fill up landfills; that evil dictators of the world used Pull-Ups as children and that’s where their parents went wrong). But that’s what JJ wears at night, because it helps him sleep, which helps me sleep, and really, it’s all about keeping the mama happy.

So, JJ’s standing with his Piscerman pajama top on (that’s Spiderman to the common folks. He’s still putting his “s’s” in interesting places, although he can say “Superman.” Go fig.), nothing on the bottom, holding his pull up (which happens to have Piscerman on it as well – yay for movie marketing). And I’m not thinking good thoughts.

“Mama bafroom peese.”

I haul his patootie and throw him on the toilet, not easy to do with a big ol’ lump of a belly at 4:30am. He didn’t pee, which is unusual. I praise him anyway: “Yes, JJ, this is what you do when you wake up and have to use the bathroom. Good job!” Then I question: “Um, where are your pants?”

He jumps off of the toilet, runs to my room, and pulls them out from almost under my bed . . . the head of my bed, like by my pillow. Man, Piscerman really has silent mad skills. And how long had this kid been awake? Roaming around? Using the bathroom (which is why he didn’t need to pee with me). Playing in my room? . . .

So never fear, kind folks of the blogosphere: Piscerman is on the job. But be forewarned: he may not be fully clothed – no one said you had to wear clothes to fight crime.

During Easter service yesterday morning I started to have a mild panic attack. Well, I also was having fake contractions (not that they feel fake: they just do no good); but as I told my brother who was sitting with me while Hubby was herding two years olds into some semblance of organized activity (a.k.a. our monthly servitude in the two’s Sunday School class), “Don’t worry. Do you think Hubby would really just leave me with you if these contractions meant anything?”

But no: I was not panicking over the spastic belly. I looked over at the family sitting next to us, noticing their daughter in a pretty floral dress, remembering how I loved Easter as a kid because it meant I got a pretty new dress and new shoes and maybe a hat (especially if we were doing Easter down South, a serious cultural experience) and an Easter basket and maybe an Easter egg hunt and . . . wait: basket . . . egg hunt . . . .

I did none of those things for JJ. And other parents have. Good parents. Attentive parents. Parents who will have a scrapbook to show their child all the wonderful memories/photo opportunities their child participated in.

JJ got to wear a new shirt. True, it’s mostly because the weather was warm enough for him to finally wear it. And I put new shoes on him, mostly cause his other blue shoes looked so dirty. Thank goodness he got a cards and goodies from the grandparents lest it be a complete Easter famine in our household.

But I did one thing right: I invited the most bestest, favoritist, beloved person in JJ’s life up for the weekend – Uncle Bubba. And he came! And stayed overnight! JJ was in heaven: they read stories and played with balls and ran into walls and jumped on pillows and ate Wendy’s and played video games and did everything that entertained JJ’s fancy because Uncle Bubba is the ultimate in his world – right up there with Bobber (Bob the Builder) and Thoms (Thomas the Tank Engine) and pocots (apricots).

And I did one other thing right: I made an Easter meal, and it was good. True, I didn’t really *make* the meal, but I did think ahead enough to thaw out one of my dinner coop meals the night before. The bag was labeled “Party Chicken” and simply required dumping the contents into a casserole dish and baking for a while. I can do that. I made a pot of rice – my first: yes, that sounds sad, but my diet generally is rice-less – I leave it to the professionals. Throw in a spinach salad, some whole white wheat bread toasted with butter and garlic salt and parm, and my version of strawberry lemonade (sf strawberry kool-aid and sierra mist free), and it was a real meal! Paula Deen totally would’ve approved: each chicken piece was wrapped in bacon and marinating in something white, creamy, and probably not Sonoma Diet approved. My Mama brought me strawberries on Friday which I cut up, splendaed and lemon-juiced, and served with fresh baked snickerdoodles and sf cool whip. Prep: minimal. Clean-up: easy. My brother and I commented on how’s it weird to eat a *real* meal during a holiday together without the ‘rents around: we felt so old. And full. And content.

I thought about taking an afternoon walk, but the weather decided to be non-committal and I didn’t want to bear the brunt of a hormonal rainshower. So I did the next best thing: watch my brother and Hubby box on the Wii and then make each of our Miis (plus some family members. . . and Jean-Luc Picard). Just like the disciples did after Jesus rose again.

Reflecting on the day, I don’t know that I would do much differently. It’s so natural to compare myself to other moms, feeling like I come up short because I don’t always do the traditional activities: how neglected will my child feel because he didn’t run around looking for plastic eggs filled with candy that will hop him up to energy levels previously unknown in this dimension causing me to yell at him because he won’t calm down and he’s getting his new clothes all dirty and why am I slaving over this stove all by myself to make a meal that will be consumed in ten minutes so the boys can get back to playing video games which is where they’d rather be than with a grumpy, hormonal woman scrubbing pots?

We had a good day: I wasn’t tired or crabby from having done to much: we worshiped: we enjoyed each others’ company: we spent time together. And that seemed to be more honest in “doing Easter” than anything else.

The only sad part: when JJ woke up this morning, he crawled out of bed, went to the bathroom, and then came running out looking all around yelling “Bubba?!! Bubba!??” He didn’t remember that the Beloved One left yesterday. But the spirit of Bubba remained: JJ managed to get yet another bruise on his face as he ran into a wall in the nursery during MOPS – ah, the cost of being a Performance Artist.

Dear son:

Happy Half Birthday! Today you turn 2 and one half. Which might not seem like a big deal to you but a) you’ll come to find out that I like half birthdays much more than regular birthdays cause they’re sort of special and sneaky and most folks forget about them so if you remember, how cool are you?!!? and 2) we’re half way to 3, a.k.a. a light at the end of a tunnel (not *the* light – I know that light will not come for years and years until you decide at the age of 12 that you want to go to Reed and will start saving for college by rebuilding diesel Land Cruisers from Australia to be Portland-oriented biodiesel machines, but *a* light nevertheless).

Most days these two thoughts cross my mind: I *love* 2.5! It’s so much more fun that 1.5, and definitely more fun that .5 or -.5 (when you were jamming your ever so dainty foot into my rib). But then there’s the other side: I *hate* 2.5! Why are you so loud/demanding/yelling at me at the top of the stairs because you want a “cook-wee” and I said “no” and therefore am violating your Bill of Toddler Rights which apparently includes getting to watch your train video, spin on your belly on the coffee table, go outside to play in the mud even in the pouring rain, and have limitless access to sugar all at your convenience?

It’s really like the whole Ross/Rachel thing: “I love Ross! I hate Ross! I love Ross! I hate Ross!” Why why why do I feel like *I’m* becoming Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde? Oh, you and your wiley toddler ways.

I Love Ross/2.5
Singing: You sing. Oh, how you sing. “ABCs” – with all the letters, except “w” is just “double.” And if you’re sad, you just randomly murmur “Q R S” in very sad tones. You sing “Row Row Row Your Boat” except it sounds more like: “Row Row Row Boat Stream. Mary Mary Mary Dweam.” And we only know you’re singing “The Entsy Wentsy Spider” when you do the hand motions for spider and “washed the spider *out*”. Out is very important – whoosh. You sing songs from the cds we check out at the library, but mostly just the last words: you’re going to be very good at faking like you know the lyrics to songs when you get older – definitely a way to win friends and influence people.

Letters/Numbers/Colors: If we’re walking through the store, you’ll randomly call out “D!” Why? Because we’re walking by the *D*eli and there’s a sign. “C-A-T” spells “cat” which you know thanks to “Mouse Paint” (a.k.a. mow pain). We’re working on our teen numbers: “ten, eweven, twelve, firteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, sewen, eight, nine, twenty!” A work in progress. And thanks to “The Color Kittens” you have “all the colors in all the world” down, except for purple which you refuse to say in general: “Nope.” How matter of fact.

Helping (a.k.a. “hepwing”): You like to help, whether I need help or not. And you look at me with these big blue eyes while pulling all of the baking goods out of the cupboard saying “Hepwing? Hepwing? Hepwing?” Yeah, sure: helping. But some ways you really do help. You put your clothes in the hamper at night. You like to carry bags of groceries in. You hang up your coat and put your shoes away (true, generally I find your socks shoved into *my* shoes and your coat in random drawers, but still). You throw things in the garbage can, help make the bed, try to comb your hair, and tell Jacks “NO!” when he’s doing things he’s not supposed to (which includes being annoying, which he is a lot, so your need to “help” with Jacks in a fairly hefty duty).

I Hate Ross/2.5
Yelling: You yell. A lot. A very angry, clinching your fists and scrunching up your body and trying to muster your superpowers to bend me to your will. I’m so confused and fairly pissed that I don’t really know what to do: time out has now become a more frequently used word in this household. And a more frequently occupied place. Dude: not the way to grease the wheels of commerce to get what you want – sugar, baby, sugar is the way to go. Offer me a backrub: clean up your toys: eat your dinner without getting up a billion times, and I’ll be putty.

Destruction: You like to destroy. Toy tubs must be flung over. Books should be walked over and crumpled. Car wheels must be bitten off. Buttons must be gnawed off. Legos should be thrown. Couch cushions should be flung from the couch, whanged on, and unzipped. Blankets should always be thrown on the floor. Neatly stacked library books should be pushed over to cascade all over the carpet. Remember: I worked at a library – I *like* *things* *in* *their* *places*: they have a home for a reason. Things: homes: things: homes: please don’t help me wish that you lose your thing-home.

Meal times: I remember when I was pregnant with you. Hubby would come home, we’d whip up some sort of sustenance or get take out, sit down in front of the television, watch Rachael Ray make a real meal, talk about the day, and chill. That was about the most peace and success we’ve had at having a Family Meal Time. Now we sit at our dining room table because a) we finally have one and 2) it fosters “family time” (a.k.a. not allowing child to become tv zombie time). Except we don’t sit. “JJ, it’s time to eat. JJ, sit down. JJ, sit up. JJ, eat a bite. If you don’t want to eat it, that’s fine, but you still have to sit here. Come back here. Now. Back. Sit. You can get down, but you’re not getting any more food for the rest of the evening.” What you don’t see is us get up multiple times, JJ flopping in his chair, JJ running away, JJ choosing to put himself in timeout rather than eat his dinner, JJ wailing when he hears that he can’t get more food like a “crah-ker” or “banan.” Sitting and eating: who knew they were a luxury?

Nightmares: The other night I woke up to hear you crying. I lugged me and my girthiness into your room to see what was going on (secretly dreading that this aspect of parenting will soon be returning to my repertoire – sigh). You were asleep, but you’d tense up your entire body. flinging your hands in front of your face, relax, cry, and tense up again. I couldn’t wake you up; I couldn’t calm you down. I know we all dream, but I hadn’t thought about that you can have nightmares, and that you probably do now, and that I can’t fix it. It took all my strength not to have a little hormonally-induced pity party that night: how can the bad stuff get to you while you’re sleeping? Give my baby some peace!

I’ve joked with friends that I’d like to send 2.5 back: it doesn’t meet my satisfaction. But then I’d miss out on all the goodness, so I guess it’s best to ride out the storm. You’ll mellow out sometime, right? . . .

Randomness:
You love to sleep with your bear, which has now become Brown Bear, and you must be kissed, and then Bwown Bear and then you and then Bwown Bear.

You love to point out when dad is eating pizza (a.k.a. “peetseees”): sometimes you eat it, sometimes you don’t, but it should certainly be noted that someone in the house is indeed eating pizza.

When I’m in the bathroom, your favorite activity is to sit in the tub with my bucket o’makeup, open up all the containers, and paint yourself beautiful, because you know that “you’re worth it.”

While we’re at the store, you make certain to say hi to the cart-gatherer-guy, laughing at all his “interesting” jokes.

You only escaped from the nursery two times at MOPS today.

When we drive to the library, you start saying, “Way cool” when we pull in the parking lot. Likewise, you get all giddy when we drive by the street that goes to Dad’s office, and it’s a Red Letter Day if I actually find a parking spot and we get to go in.

While I in the shower the other day, you a) found my hidden phone), 2) called Gran, and iii) put her on speaker phone. It’s odd to get out of the shower and hear a woman’s voice in the house, but at least you didn’t call China . . . that I know of.

Your love for trains and trucks cannot be contained. It may have to do with the fact that your love for Bob the Builder, Mythbusters, and Thomas the Tank Engine, and Dirty Jobs is equal.

You like to come over to my belly, put your face real close, and ask “Bwover, what are you dooooing?” and then give him a kiss . . . or if you’ve pulled my shirt up, maybe a lick (oy). How are you my childhood dog reincarnated?

If I’m sad or upset about something, you climb into my lap, put my face in your hands, look very seriously at me, wipe away my tears, and murmur babblings of encouragement, always ending with a kiss.

Oh, 2.5 and your wiley, wiley ways.

When my brother was little, I think the story goes that he had to go to the doctor and have some ucky procedure done. To make things bearable, my mama promised him anything he wanted, “especially a fire truck.” This is a big deal – my mama does *not* subscribe to the bribing-parent camp: you do it because you *should*, not because you were cajoled. So this must’ve been a big deal: it wasn’t a bribe, but rather a reward – a serious reward. We joke anytime JJ does something exceptionally wonderful or has to deal with exceptional crud that we’ll get him a fire truck: even strong-willed Harkins women have their softie levels.

Yesterday evening, after an intense day of playing with the Little Man, I was engaging in some baking therapy. I just needed some space: sanctuary from the constant, “No”, “Put that back”, “Stop”, “You can’t eat graham crackers for dinner”, “Please sit at the table and eat”, “Take your nap”, “Where did you put your pants *this* time?” However, JJ had other ideas in mind, mostly that I needed a sous baker. After a number of refusals to take out his stool, he promptly walked upstairs, dumped out the contents of his Lego container, threw it down the stairs, and pushed it into the kitchen so as to “heping? heping? heping?”

He was hanging out by the fridge, playing with the Half Pint ultrasound pictures. I started to get into barking mode:

“JJ, don’t.”
“There!”
“JJ, leave those alone.”
“Das my bubba.”
“JJ, I mean it . . . wait, what did you say?”
“Das my bubba.”

One evening last week, we showed the pictures to JJ, asking him if he could say “brother.” His look was that of if we asked him to say “onomatopoeia.”

He took the pictures off of the fridge, but at that point, I was a mushy puddle on the floor and didn’t care. I told him to show them to Dad and tell him who it was. Very proud of his new trick, he walked to the top of the stairs and told Dad “Bubba, das my bubba.”

He’s SO getting a fire truck.

It’s been a decent day. I woke up feeling that it was going to be anything less than stellar. Having crazy pregnant dreams as well as plain ol’ nightmares for most of the night leaves one with a sense of foreboding at even bothering getting out of bed. Needless to say, a certain Half Pint Host will not be watching “24″ or “Heroes” before bed again anytime soon.

I decided to make a list: a list of all those things that swirl through my head usually preceded by “Oh, I should do this!” and then quickly leave once a bag of raisins is dumped on the floor or the toddler is down and the couch is now open for seeing clients. And you know what: I actually did most of the things on my list! Things I’d been putting off, things I knew needed to happen so I didn’t get thrown into that “slacker/unreliable/never responds to emails” category.

I actually exercised this morning. Me! Who hasn’t exercised (minus running laundry up and down the stairs or trying to put library toys and books and puppets back where they belong before the toddler heads for the emergency exit) in months. Me! JJ was already awake, but I found the beauty of a) follow the leader (c’mon, JJ: step with mama!) which lasted for a good five minutes (which is 4.5 minutes longer than I expected) and 2) Sesame Street online. I was chatting with a beloved friend this weekend, and she mentioned how her tot loves working on the Sesame Street site: mine does as well, but only if you’re playing games with him. Except today I hit the jackpot: the elements consist of Elmo, letters, and sounds. You push a button on the keyboard: if it’s a letter, he tells you what it is and what words starts with it; if it’s a non-letter, he just giggles. JJ, who is a big fan of the letters and the Elmo and the giggling, totally dug it: insert happy dance, or happy stepping, as the case was at the time!

I actually got all my shopping done, as opposed to thinking, “enh: I’ll go out tomorrow.” A list of needed items, coupons gathered for easy grabbing, and some snacks made the trip manageable. Plus, running into friends with tots at the store helped: JJ would see how long he could yell and get the friend to respond, no matter that the mothers were ten isles apart. Joy.

I actually made it to the library, returned items JJ *loves*, found items to replace the aforementioned returnables, and didn’t set off any alarms. Plus, they were nice and let me check out all three of the DVDs I had on hold (normally you can only get two at a time: it’s nice to be known . . . most of the time).

I actually got a full tank of gas at the cheapest rate in town. Since I did the full town drive, I could scope out the prices. Yesterday I read an article on how gas prices were going up, so I figured it’d be best to get in while the going’s good (when you have a non-environmentally-considerate vehicle such as mine, those pennies really add up). I’m a cheap, environmentally-irresponsible American: what can I say?

I actually responded to emails, ate lunch, finished documents, talked on the phone, folded laundry, and did other things. All today! JJ really enjoyed “heping heping heping” (aka helping) with the laundry, which initially consists of throwing all the clothes out of the dryer and onto the floor. But then he went up and down the stairs lugging socks: that was “his” job.

And to reward himself, he got time with Bunan. “Pweesie Bunan? Pweesie? PWEESIE?!!?” “Bunan” is “bunny”, my stuffed bunny rabbit that I’ve slept with since second grade.* Now, the word for “bunny” is incredibly close for the word for “banana” which is “banan.” Most evenings we hear at least one, if not two or seventeen, pleas for “pweesie banan? Pweesie? PUH-WHEE-SEEEEEE!!!!” because, if JJ does not get his banan, apparently President Palmer will indeed be assassinated and Uncle Jack will not be able to disarm the suitcase nuclear weapon (look for suitcase nuclear weapons to be next year’s hot holiday item). But today, it was cries for “Bunan” which I didn’t mind meeting. And in fact, the two are cuddled up next to each other, dreaming about all the chaos and mayhem that they may engage in this evening when Mama is superpooped from being productive and will cease caring about the cliff/coffeetable diving events taking center stage in the living room.

My baby and my bunan: it’s doesn’t get much better than that.

*Yes, I sleep with a stuffed animal. Yes, my husband is fine with it. No, I do not plan on giving it up anytime soon. And no, even though “good” parents would pass on their beloved items to their children if their children request, Bunan is not leaving my bed at nighttime: not gonna happen. He can tell his therapist when he’s older: I’ll shell out for the session.

As a tyke, I was never a big fan of Outside. Not that I didn’t like Outside: I, like all the other five year olds, really dug it when their dads took them on backpacking trips to see if it was possible to live off of gorp and grape koolaid for a couple of days. Plus, peeing outside: does it get much better?

But a regular venture outside? Usually it occurred due to the “go outside now for an hour or else” proclamation issued from the maternal event coordinator. And usually I took a book, found a good tree to sit in, and read. Or I walked up and down the gravel driveway barefoot to toughen up my feet “just in case” (which I know sounds weird until you know that I’m a melancholy temperament which prepares for worst case scenarios. And since I had the aforementioned ventures in the woods with, I forgot to mention, men who believed a small clearing through bushes and bramble did indeed constitute a trail and did not mean that we were lost, having to walk barefoot over gravel seemed a reasonable option at some point in my existence). I also enjoyed playing in the small creek/canal ditch that ran through a teeny portion of our acre and a half. Or climbing through the teeny tiny hole in the fence to get to the larger canal. Or figuring out how many somersaults it took to get from the front door to the mailbox (too many for healthy brain functions). Still: going outside was never a “wee: let’s go outside!” but more of a “how long do I have to occupy myself until the event coordinator will let me back in?”

Not so with my wee tyke. The other day he came upstairs with his boots on: “coat? coat? coat?” “No, sweetie, you can’t go outside: it’s ucky” is my usual reply, for we live in the Land of Bog. But just as I was getting ready to start my automated message, I realized: hey! It’s sunny. It’s not wet. The marsh known as our backyard is almost solid. YOU *CAN* GO OUTSIDE! Which he did, much to our mutual delight. Apparently there’s nothing much better in life than to stomp around in mushy grass, trying to knock fruit trees over, yelling at the dogs next door so they go bizerko which makes our dog go bizerko and race psychotically around (many squeals of glee were heard: oh, to have the power to create a frenzy), pushing toys to the bottom of the yard where they seem to get stuck, and pounding on the glass door to announce that yes indeed the area is secure and snacks are in order.

There are some things I did not know were involved in backyard patrol. Such as having to stomp in mud and get it caked on your shoes. And pants. And coat. And diaper (I still can’t figure that one out). Also, the wearing of shoes and coats seems to be optional. Or at least not important enough to remember. He goes out fully dressed; he returns not so much. I guess having protection for the toes and insulation for the limbs is hampering in his security detail. Or else the items must just fall off without him noticing, because when I point out the lack of gear (a.k.a. “JJ, where in the world are your boots?!!?”), he looks shocked as though he didn’t even know they were gone and scampers off to find them. Although if they did fall off, it’s interesting that they happen to fall off lined up next to each other by the downstairs door.

I also didn’t know about toy storage. The bikes and lawn mower and dump truck (which is known as the dump car: so funny) must all end up in the middle of the yard at the bottom by the fence. Our yard is sloped, apparently in many ways. Rocks should not be kept by the fence, but must be displayed prominently on the cement. And balls? Well, today I found where the elusive ball storage is. You know how you get toys for your tykes and they seem to disappear? I have two words for you: dryer vent. They hold up to four balls that you can easily extract, or so I’ve found. I’m a little scared to look underneath the deck: Elvis, you under there?

I heard her say
From each ooooooooothah

Sorry for that blatant reference to what, according to my husband, is known as “the *bad* Chicago years.” When we first dated, he had to set me straight by making a mix cd of early Chicago (i.e. Peter Cetera); little did he know that I had “the best of Chicago” cd with tracks only sung by Peter, and it was enjoyed . . . loudly and frequently.

I just got back from a weekend gathering. Some women gathered together at Edgefield Manor for a time of telling our stories, eating good food, knitting, worshiping, eating more good food, looking at the gorgeous artwork, playing with adorable babies (only two were available), and recognizing there’s more to life than baby wipes or adolescent anxt or seminary credits.

It was good to get away: to have time to sit – just to sit. Not that I sat much: there was trail mix to pick at and free decaf to down. But just a little breather makes coming home, dare I say, enjoyable. Both my husband and I weren’t fond of the separate sleeping arrangements: I missed my Memory Foam mattress topper (I had two roommates this weekend: one also missed her Memory Foam mattress topper, and we would verbally commiserate about the beauty of our Memory Foam mattress topper and how much we missed our Memory Foam mattress topper as we fell asleep. We either converted our Memory Foam mattress topper-less roommate, or she may never want to hear the words Memory Foam mattress topper again); my husband missed the small amount of heat I radiate (apparently someone’s feet got cold) as well as knowing that most likely he won’t have to get up to see why our child was whimpering on and off for half an hour in the middle of the night. Romantic, eh?

And I missed my family. Nobody came out of their rooms first thing in the morning in their footie pajamas to cuddle for a while. Nobody pointed out all the “tree!”s and “light!”s and “birrrr”s. Nobody fell asleep chanting the ABCs, minus “f” and “q” of course. Nobody talked about software issues and the coolest new addition to the Red Sox lineup at dinner.

But things I didn’t so much miss but find a little more patience for that have been experienced in the past 13 hours:

Aforementioned early morning whimpering
The wet nose huffing onto my nose at 7:04 on the dot
Exploding diapers
Sending someone outside with boots and a coat; receiving them with no coat, rosy cheeks, and muddy feet (and a nasty diaper). Although when I muttered, “Where is your coat?”, he promptly toddled off to find it on the cement by the foot of the stairs. The boots? By the door. I know I like things being put away, but I also enjoy non-Popsicle-like and non-muddied footsies.
Going into the garage. Noting that the light was on. Noting that there’s a toddler standing on the table. Remembering that the door had been shut. Concluding that the child has mastered the child locks. Noting it took less than three minutes out of my sight for this to occur.
The dogs next door. Oh, the dogs next door.
Having a majority of lunchtime conversation be, “Sit down.” “Take a bite.” “Sit down.” “Come to the table.” “It’s time to eat.” “Take a bite.” “Sit down.”

But the memory of last night totally made it all good. So I was engaging in some baking therapy, and JJ pulled up the foot stool next to me. Usually he opens cupboards, mutters “Let’s see here”, and begins to pull out ingredients to make his weapons of mass destruction. But last night: he walked up the ladder, looked me straight in the face, put his arm around my shoulder, and said, “How *you* doin?”

Yes, ladies and gents: meet Joey Tribbiani 2.0. Lord have mercy.

A retelling of an actual conversation on Sunday:

“I was working in the 2′s today.  That means I got to hang out with JJ!”

“Oh no, what did he do?”

“I just *love* that kid!”

“That bad, huh?”

“You know how there are childlocks on the door now?  I’m assuming due to JJ.”

“Oh yes”

“And how there are babygates in front of the doors that have childlocks for extra security?”

“Yes, yes, I’m very aware.”

“Well, JJ would run over to the lights and flip off the switches, and while we were distracted turning back on the lights, he would try to ram through the babygates and break out of the room!”

“Oh man . . .”

“And then, ”

“There’s more?”

“Diane asked if he wanted to color, and he said he did.  So she got out the coloring sheet and the crayons and laid them out for him at the table.  He picked up his paper by the corner and calmly walked over to the garbage can and threw it away, making eye contact with her the entire time!”

“Sigh.”

“And then he immediately grabbed a stroller and started whanging it around the room [insert dramatic whanging motions].”

“He’s a genius:  and evil genius.”

“I just love that kid!”

“I see a future in juvie for that kid.”

It was a pleasant evening, to start off with.

Dinner with new friends.  Yummy food and hot coffee.  Good conversation ranging from short attention spans to mellow babies to the medicinal legitimacy of pot use to the regional use of the word for a carbonated beverage.

It ended with a full bowl of oatmeal thrown down the stairs.

In between there was playing with kids, wondering in amazement if JJ figured out how to work the Tivo (he hadn’t:  he merely pushed a tape into the vcr.  They were still amazed nonetheless – they have yet to experience fully the extent of the Evil Genius).   We talked about navigating the tricky waters of relative visits, especially during the holidays.  A run-down of interesting seminary classes as well as mom & small tyke friendly activities in the area was given.

JJ had fun playing with his new friend . . . sometimes.  While he excels at declarative sentences such as “NO!” and “MINE!” and “AAAHHHH!”, the whole “respect means sharing and not taking toys, staying in the family room rather than pillaging the hosts’ bedroom, sitting and not rolling over a person without their consent” thing hasn’t quite sunk it.  But steps have been made, “sorrys” have been said:  it’s a process.

However, in a form proper to having my DNA, leaving involved a quality meltdown that only quietly singing the “ABC”s in his ear could quiet.  I mean, who would want to leave a place with blocks and cars and kids sneaking sugar to him and people oh the people!  But I knew the signs:  we must flee before hitting the red zone.

Which we did.  But the red zone followed us home.  However, it was very subversive.  JJ walked in the house, happy as a clam.  Shoes removed; coat hung up.  He appeared to be hungry and wanted oatmeal . . . again.  I could deal with that.  I made a lovely bowl of yummy cinnamon and raisin oatmeal for him to enjoy.

I’m not quite sure what Crime Against Humanity and Those Under Four Feet I committed, but it was something awful.  I placed the bowl on the table.  Howls erupted, the kinds that make the Nazgul seem like a softspoken grandmother.  I turned around to clean up and heard the following:

“JJ, what’s wrong?”

“ARGH”

“JJ, it’s time to eat your food.”

“WAIL”

“Put that bowl back on the table.”

“GNASHING OF TEETH”

“JJ, come away from the stairs.”

“HOWL”

“Don’t you even think . . .”

A thunk.

“YOU GO TO TIME OUT!”

“WEEPINGWAILINGTEETHSTILLGNASHEDANDTHEWORLDSHALLENDASWEKNOWIT”

Yes.  He threw the bowl down the stairs.

But a miracle happened:  no, the brooms and mops and buckets from Fantasia did not appear, nor did the Queen of Clean come with her all purpose vinegar solution.  Nope:  the miracle was this – we, the parental units, did not get angry.  My comment, “Wow, he sure got some distance with that” as oatmeal covered six stairs,  at least four feet downstairs, the staircase railing, and the walls.  Jason’s comment, “So, do we just let the dog have at it?”  Which we did.  It was great:  we got JJ ready for bed, despite the continued verbal protests, came downstairs, swept some, sprayed carpet cleaner and did a quick wipedown, and called it good.

It’s at times like that that I can say, “Hey, that kid *is* related to me!”  Not that I ever would have done what he did:  the fear of the Mama’s Hairy Eyeball was properly instilled in me at a young age, and JJ moves around too much for me to bestow the same upon him.  But the meltdown due to having too much fun:  that’s all me, baby.

Big.  Trouble.  I fear this may be the next phrase to be added to the ever growing JJ vocabulary.  That, and “Jacks, clean this up!”