Three years ago....

Three years ago, I was 10 days shy of my due date, and just learning about the strange world of instinctive medical intervention. I felt fine, I was doing fine, no tests indicated anything was wrong with my baby, and yet my OB had decided that I needed to be induced. Why? Because I was gestational diabetic, and the words "macrosomic" kept creeping into the discussion, despite the fact that twice-weekly ultrasound estimates of his size had him at a very manageable and healthy 8 pounds. Why force things to go early?

My theory: Because they can.

I had been walking around dialated for weeks now, and as I recall, by the time I *did* go into labor two days later, I was trotting around town at a respectable 6 cm dialated, something many other mothers I know fought through long and hard labor to achieve. But at 6cm, there was a (reasonable, I think) fear that if I *did* go into labor, things would happen FAST.

My recollection is that on this day 3 years ago, I had already checked out of work, and my husband had arranged a babysitter for ME -- a friend who spent part of the afternoon sitting at Starbucks watching me have a sugar-free decaf iced vanilla latte, and telling my son through my shirt that it was time to come OUUUUUUUT. He clearly wasn't listening.

Three years ago, I had no idea how much my life was just about to change.

TWO years ago, as we prepared for Noah's 1st birthday, I recall being overwhelmed by the thought that OH MY GOD, He's STAYING! With all of the focus on getting through the first year safely, I guess it had never dawned on me that the first birthday wasn't the final destination -- it was just a milestone along the way.

In that moment, I realized that my life hadn't changed temporarily -- it was forever. Did it really take a whole year for me to come to that realization? I blame sleep-deprivation.

Noah is about to turn 3. He's the most charming little boy and best little friend I could ever imagine. No mother could be prouder than I am. I wonder what I'll laugh at myself about, this time next year?

Oh, the matchbox cars!

My son never had a lovey. I always kinda wanted him to develop an attachment to some object that would bring him comfort, and he had other plans. Didn't need one, I guess. We went through the pacifier phase, but beyond that, no special plush bunny, no blanket, no favorite fluffy toy. And I was a Linus -- I had my blanket well into college (though in a box in my closet for most of those years), so I know the appeal of a lovey.

But then we discovered matchbox cars. OH, MATCHBOX CARS! And better yet, the cars that are associated with the movie CARS! We cannot possibly exist without having Lightning McQueen clutched in a tiny fist at all times. I mean, ALL times. Can you ride a tricycle with a car in your hand? Well, Noah can! Falls asleep with Lightning in his hand, and wakes up with him still there. A boy and his car. It's amazing.

Until the other night, when he *gasp* LEFT LIGHTNING AT DAY CARE! It was a catastrophe of epic proportion, and controlled the actions of two grown adults for several hours, calling to see if the beloved car could be found, arranging to go pick it up, and going to the store where we bought it, to get a BACKUP car, in case of emergency. We actually now have THREE of them, because I couldn't resist buying one for myself, to put on my desk. Like having a pacifier in my pocket all of the time for most of the last 2 years, somehow I feel better with my very own Lightning McQueen in my pocket now...

So now we share a lovey -- a tiny metal racecar. This I would never have anticipated.

The things we argue about....

This morning, after playing in the sink with the beloved Lightning McQueen and Cheerios cars while Mommy showered and dressed, the not-quite-3-year-old who rules my world pedded toward the stairs in his Curious George pajamas requesting breakfast. As we neared the top of the stairs, he turned to me seriously and said "You are my sunshine." I responded, of course, "You are *MY* sunshine." This quickly became a debate.

"No, you are MY sunshine."

"Yes, and you are MY sunshine."

"No, Mommy - you are MY sunshine!"

"And you are MY sunshine too, honey."

"NO! MOMMY! YOU ARE (growling) MYYYYYY sunshine!"

I let him win.