Well, at least he's honest.

For the last 3 weeks, every single morning, Noah requests his favorite breakfast: pancakes with chocolate chips in them. Until this past week. When he suddenly got honest about it.

"Mommy? I want chocolate chips with pancakes in 'em," he told me.

Well, that's pretty accurate.

Noah is growing profoundly. At the start of fall, when I finally realized that eventually I'd have to switch him into long pants, so probably in mid-September, I bought him new, unthinkably huge pants. And when it was finally cold enough to wear him, his new 3T pants were WAY too long, and I had to cuff them up twice. "I'll sew those," I thought, and thank God I'm slow.

Because last week, I realized that they were just barely grazing his shoe. Almost too short now. It's been no more than 2 months, and he's almost too tall for them. That's got to be a solid 2" in growth in his legs alone. The kid's getting HUGE. I can't believe it. HUGE.

Where did he learn THAT?

Today in the car, something he said prompted me to ask Noah to raise his right hand. Which he did perfectly. And left. And feet, right and left, at my instruction. Tonight, he winked his left and right eyes at command.

My God, how did he learn this? He's a genius!

Clever kid....

With the extended fall we're having in the mid-Atlantic region (and all over), we've had plenty of time to drive with the windows and the sunroof open. Noah really likes having his window open -- he's a little like an enthusiastic dog when we're on the road, sitting with his face as close to the window as he can, with the air streaming into his face.

It's been a bit of a struggle, though, to keep all of the body parts and toys inside the window when it's down. I laid down the law quickly: No head out of the window, no hands out of the window, no toys out of the window. Quickly, he was testing. It's not my hand, it's my fingers. It's part of your hand, get it back inside. You know the drill.

So today when he asked to have his window open, I quickly began naming EVERYTHING that couldn't go out of the window: No fingers, no fingernails, no wrists, no elbows, no head, no face, no nose, no eyelashes, no ears, no chin, no hair, no toys...

And a voice chimed in from the back seat: No nipples...

Yeah, I nearly forgot about that one.

You gotta wonder what goes on in that head of his....

What, me jealous?

Well, it happened. I had my first experience of jealousy of another woman.

Admittedly there were moments when Noah's close relationship with his daycare provider would make me a little wincy because it was so tight and affectionate, but I knew that one day, that would come to an end -- at least in its official form, and indeed, when it was time to go, it was definitely time to go, and he was ready to leave her motherly busom for the classroom.

But now? There's a girl. At school.

Thursday, I took Noah to his classroom, and as we entered, a little girl lept up, ran across the room, shouted "Noah! You're here!" and hugged him. He stood ramrod straight and giggled slightly while she hugged him. She let go. Then she hugged him again. He giggled a little bit, but his body language said "Get off me!" -- this is my only relief in my jealousy. She hugged him again, and he giggled some more. I looked down and asked "Who are you, girl who is hugging my boy?" She very quietly said "Victoria...." She stopped hugging him, and they made their way into the classroom.

I recounted the story to our rabbi, who responded by saying "Now you understand how SphericalHubby's mother feels." Truer words never said.

Cookie continues his singing career...

Cookie Monster has taken over at our house. All songs come out gruff, but some are absolutely all Cookie Monster. In particular, the Spiderman theme song.

Where did Noah learn about Spiderman? I'm convinced that this information generated innately in his brainstem, honestly -- he simply started singing it one day, unprompted. In the Cookie Monster voice, of course.

The song goes like this:

OOOOOOH
Spi-duh-MAN! Spi-duh-MAN!
Uh... whatEVER! SPI-duh-man!
BIG PAUSE
ALL overduh TOWWWWWN!

When in doubt, finish all songs like THE WHEELS ON THE BUS -- isn't that EVERYONE'S motto?

Who knew Cookie Monster was Jewish?

Noah attended the family service on Yom Kippur. It was crowded and a little warm, and people were edgy, hungry, and starting to smell just a little funky in that "I'm fasting, and furthermore I haven't brushed my teeth" kind of way.

We sat further toward the back of the sanctuary, near the door in case we needed to make a hasty retreat, and were quickly surrounded by friends. Noah ended up on my lap, which was fine because I expected he would be asleep soon.

The congregation rallied into song, and I was charmed to hear sound coming out of my boy, there in my lap. Then I realized he was getting the tune right.

And then I realized that he was getting the WORDS right.

And then I made the final and most fabulous realization:

He was singing in his Cookie Monster voice.

As the children's choir took the stage, I was awash in conflicting emotions. A combination of the bittersweet thought of Noah joining the choir, and anticipation of watching his little punim join the shining faces in the choir washed over me, battled hard by an overwhelming need to laugh at the growly little voice giving it his best from my lap. I restrained myself, but tears of love and overwhelming laughter coursed down my face.

My girlfriend, sitting next to me with her same-age daughter on her lap, turned to me with a look of concern. "Is there something I should know?" she asked. All I could do was shake my head and mutter something about having a Hallmark moment. And it was true. I just couldn't figure out how to explain that it was a Shoebox Greetings moment -- a tiny little division of Hallmark cards.

Noah's second joke

He's said a lot of funny things in his life, but this is the second time I can recall that he's made a discernable joke linking two unrelated pieces of information in a way that was funny.

Backstory: For reasons that I probably will never understand, when my stepson's mother enters our house, she greets our dog by shouting out "Goose Goose DUCK!" and then having a lovefest with the dog for a few minutes, winding up covered in white dog hair. How Duck Duck Goose got into it, I'll never know.

Last night was my husband's birthday dinner. We had chicken, salad, and couscous. As we were passing the serving dishes around, "Aunt Jill" asked Noah if he would like some couscous. A flash of insight hit him, and he said "Oh! Couscous-DUCK!"

We now eat "couscous-duck." Funny kid.

From under the sofa cushions, debate with a matchbox car.

Noah's having a conversation wtih his matchbox car RIGHT THIS INSTANT from under the cushions from the back of the sofa that's going just about like this:

Him: "You need to go poopy?"

Car: "Yes!"

Him: "Okay, you can come go poopy in MY house."

Car: "Thank you!"

Him: "Okay, get going!"



Car: "Okay."

Him: "Do you need to go poopy?"

Car: "No, I already went."

Him: "Okay."

Him (to me): "Car needs to go poopy in MY house!"

Him (to car): "Are you hungry?"

Car: "yes, I want some dinner!"

Him: "Okay, come and get some dinner already!"

Him (to me): "He wants to get some dinner."

Him (to no one in general): "Cars don't live in my house. Cars are too big to live in my house."

I'm just typing as he talks here. It's a complete riot. I know it's car talking because car talks in a funny voice.

Where exactly DO we live?

Saturday was Yom Kippur, and as we were changing clothes to get ready to go the children's service at our synagogue, I explained that we were going to leave home, to go see the rabbi, and then go see Nana for dinner. "This isn't our house," he told me seriously.

"What?" I replied.

"This isn't our house. Our house is the templogog."

"Where?"

He looked at me like I was an utter moron. "The templogog."

"Honey, do we live at temple?"

"Yep!" he said seriously.

I pointed out that things hadn't gone particularly well for the last guy to make this observation. But it's nice that he feels at home there. Even if he requests to go to the car within minutes of the start of services.

Preschool Day 12: The Tide Turns!

This morning, the unthinkable happened. We got up, we got dressed, we got ready to leave, and standing in the hall, sippy cup of milk in one hand and racecar in the other, my boy turns to me and says words I never thought I'd hear:

Mom? I don't want to go to Car-Car's house. I want to go to SCHOOL!

I kvelled inside, but tried to look serious and replied with a casual "Okay. That sounds good." Out to the car, into the car, and onto the road.... As we drove, he began to request that I open and close various windows, but was in absolutely jovial spirits.
Until we got there. When he reminded me that he didn't want to be there, and though he marched in gamely to school, he did wail one time as I left him. On the other hand, this time I left him standing by himself in the classroom, not in the arms of a teacher. He didn't follow me down the hall -- he stayed, but he let out that one "I WANT MY MOMMY!" of indignation as I made my way to the door.
I think we just hit the upswing. Two and a half weeks? Okay, that's not too bad.

I guess it's what I would have done too...

We just went to the park with our neighbor and his two kids to fly kites. Kite flying was a handful, with gusty winds causing attack kites. Mostly it was an exercise for the adults, and soon the kids wandered off to the playground. Once the adults untangled the kite strings, we joined them. They quickly wandered off into the bushes.

Five kids, two sets of bushes, a full jungle gym -- and the kids are in the bushes.

After a little while, I ventured up to see what they were doing, and do a quick scan for dangerous items like broken bottles (or worse), when it dawned on me that this looked like a plausible teenager hangout. I got up the hill, and Noah met me.

Noah: "Him, Mom!"

Me: "Whatcha doing?"

Noah: "I'm going into my house. Do you want to go into my house?"

Me: "Sure! Can I come in?"

Him: "Okay. Come on in!"

We walk in, and he tells me he's going to lie down on the bed, and promptly crawls up onto one of the horizontal branches and lies down on it. There's another branch in another area large enough to support me. I ask if I can sit on it.

Noah: "Yes! That's the couch!"

We sit there for a few minutes, when he adds: "Do you want to watch TV?"

He then pretends to turn on a TV, which is clearly the leafy area across from the couch. We sit and watch "tv" for a few minutes. Then it happened....

Noah: "Okay, it's time for you to go."

Me: "I need to leave?"

Him: "Yes. This is MY house. This isn't your house. It's time for you to go."

Me: "Okay, thanks for letting me visit you!"

I go outside of his "house" and he gets back on his "bed," and I sit down under a nearby tree. After a few minutes, he trundles by, looking like he's headed somewhere.

Me: "Where are you going?"

Him: "To my other house...." He goes into the other set of bushes.

About this time, my husband calls to me from the playground: "Honey! Come down here and play with me!" I explain to Noah that I'm going to go play with his father, and he says "Okay, see you later!" His father and I then take turns on the balance beam, while Noah goes back and forth between houses. And eventually the boys all come back down and take over the jungle gym.

The picture of things to come, I guess -- my first inkling of the day when he *will* have his own house, and be ready for me to go home and leave him alone. But I'm more charmed, really, by the fact that it's exactly what I would have wanted to do too, in those circumstances.

You know your preschooler's a redneck when....

I just heard the boys outside and went to see what they were up to. Hubby is doing yard maintenance. 15-y-o stepson is skateboarding around our pipestem and driveway. Noah is riding on one of those battery-powered 4x4 things. As I walk up and look out of our front door, I hear him yell to his brother: "Lucas! Watch this!"

He's very carefully positioned his 4x4, putting it in reverse and carefully moving, then into forward, inching himself to a particular location, so I know he's really thinking hard about what he's about to do.

I step outside to see what he's going to do next. He's facing Lucas's skate ramp, with a look of grim determination on his mouth and math behind his eyes. There is no question that he's trying to decide if he can go over the ramp, which is about 3 feet tall, in his truck. In that moment, I saw my son at 35, on a boys' weekend with his buddies, having left the wife and kids home so he can go try to kill himselfhave some recreation.

I've seen the future. In it, my son is one of those people who shows up at the hospital unconscious, his last words before the accident having been "Hey! Watch this!"

Preschool: Week 1-2 Report

Week 1

Day 1: Tuesday, Noah BURST out of the car, ran for the door, and by the time I got there, was pounding on the door to be admitted. He dashed for the classroom, and by the time I came from signing him in, he was already on a mat with some other kids playing with blocks. He held a hand up like "I'm busy, woman -- come back later." I heard him when he realized I'd gone, just as I stepped out the door. The director patted my arm reassuringly. "Call when you get to work -- he'll be fine."

I called. He was fine.

Day 2: Wednesday Noah was a little less exuberant, but still eager, though vigilant about making sure I stayed. Cried when I left. "Call" the director said. I called. He was fine.

Day 3: Now he was ready. He melted down the moment I moved toward the door. School request is for a bandaid-removal-fast departure, so I kissed and left him howling in his teacher's arms.

Day 4: "I don't want to beeeeeee here!" He sobbed the whole way into the school from the car. I had to peel him off me and hand him to his teacher, then slink away like an ashamed dog.

Week 2

Day 1: What? We were going there again? NOOOO! "I don't want to be here!" Crying and much gnashing of teeth. Teacher thanked me for being so resiliant with the "fast departure" policy -- that he's fine within minutes of my leaving and has fun and is already progressing during the day. He howls in her arms as I leave.

Day 2: He professes that he doesn't want to be there, and for the first time requests to go to day care instead, but walks in willingly holding my hand all the way into the classroom, where I kiss him and transfer his hand to his teacher. He whines, but does not howl. I arrive in the afternoon to find out that he's had two accidents and needs new pants in his storage bin; he's in the school's rather alarming pair of red sweatpants.

Today is Day 3. We went early, and he weakly objected that he didn't want his teacher, but left me signing him in and walked to the early-morning care room, and as I joined him, we found a bin of plastic alligators -- what's not to like? I kissed and departed, and heard him TELL the teacher that he wanted his Mommy, but not only no howling, but not even crying.

When I picked him up after lunch, his teacher told me that he had had another accident, and what she's doing about it. She also told me that where last week he had been in full-on wracking sobs when I left, this week he hasn't been nearly as upset, and I told her that he hadn't even cried this morning, and she practically high-fived me.

Already I see the changes in my beloved boy. He talks to me in full sentences in the car, and I'm cherishing the extra time to talk in the car. He responds much more verbally now -- something that the teacher is working on. When he was surrounded by younger kids, he had a less-than-ideal tendency to just whine, and not tell you what's wrong. She's working with him to verbalize what's bothering him, as I've been. So in the car, we discussed and quizzed and discussed again about "When you need to go potty, what do you do?" until his consistent response was "I find my teacher and tell her I need to go to the bathroom."

She tells me, too, that he's adjusting to the structure of the class -- standing and sitting on the line, sitting quietly during story time, etc. He hasn't had any of that structure, really, to this point, and that he's starting to get it in the first 2 weeks of school is just amazing to me. And yet, he went to the service for erev Rosh Hashanah last night and made it through almost all of a nearly 2 hour service, and also through the children's service today. This would have been unheard of before.

It's hard to take him from the warm, womb-like loving environment of day care and put him into a place with people he doesn't know and who don't already love him. I feel like I'm already having to participate in "hardening" him for the big bad world, and that maks me a little bit sad. But I also continue to feel that this is such a good environment for him.... If we can just survive the transition, I'll be happy.

Let's wait until the last minute, shall we?

My boy is the master of the last minute. Just about the time that I'm certain that something's terribly wrong with him and he's going to fall way off the developmental curve, he takes one last deep breath and does whatever he's due to do as if it's nothing. He walked like that. He talked like that. I was ready for teh showdown of the century over the pacifier -- and he just handed it to me and walked away. It's crazy.

And so we went to preschool orientation on Friday, where I explained that Noah's been slow to get the hang of pooping in the potty. And today, with 2 days to go, he got it. Got it. I mean, just completely got it.

And as a reward, he now has Lightning McQueen AND Mickey Mouse underpants.

I just wish there were some way that he could telegraph his planned moves a little more, so that I don't fret quite so much about whether we're going to get there....

Human again? Maybe.

Today, I realized that I felt like myself again consistently for long enough that it felt weird to NOT feel like myself briefly in the afternoon.

What?

Let me try that again. Somewhere around the time I discovered I was pregnant, I began to feel like, well, SOMEONE ELSE. Blame hormones, blame exhaustion, blame a whole mass of life changes -- but for nearly 4 years, I've felt like more than a bit of a stranger to myself. Dark moods. Angry patches. Frustration after frustration. Resentful that there was no time for me, once I'd done taking care of children and husband and job and family.

Its worst was probably shortly after we moved into our house, just about 2 years ago. I hadn't seen my own things for over a year, and I'd felt like a guest in my husband's home for that entire time -- and I was tired of living on eggshells. It was nice, once we got here, to think that I would feel like an equal participant -- and yet, it wasn't that easy.

And admittedly -- it's hard to make a marriage the way we did it. Never doubt that I love my husband, and married him because I chose him, and wanted to spend my life with him. It's just that so much happened at once, in part because of our ages -- and when I turned up pregnant, well, there was wedding planning and execution, not to mention packing and selling my house, then packing and selling his house after finding OUR house. It was, for all practical purposes, 2 solid years of packing SOMETHING, and the first things packed (my things from my house) were the last into this house (thanks to the convenience of Store-to-Door). And both sleep deprived while we tried to settle into THIS house, and make sure that neither child was slighted in the process... Exhausting, physically and emotionally.

And my brain wrote checks my aging body couldn't cash, frankly -- I simply underestimated how exhausting being the mother of a small child at my age would be. I'm always flattered by the shocked response when I tell someone that I'm 43, but as good as my eye cream is, HEY! I'M 43! With a 3-year-old! Someone get me a drink and a cushion for my feet! I've earned it!

I used to be proactively organized, prepared, and on top of things. The last few years have been an exercise in staying just ahead of emergencies, and in all honesty, resenting that my hubby doesn't seem to care about how many balls I have in the air, as he plunks down in front of the TV to watch some monster-creature devour half-witted city folk in a rural setting on the SCIFI channel. So I may have made a routine of cleaning the kitchen and bathroom every Saturday morning, but I ticked off on my list how long it had been since HE cleaned the kitchen or bathroom. And felt much less like myself, and much more like a scullery maid.

Today, all day, I felt like myself. This evening, I even had a moment of feeling as efficient and capable as I think I maybe used to be, and I really liked it. And I realized that perhaps I've come out of the long shadows of childbirth and early motherhood.

As I prepare my boy to go to preschool on Tuesday, and as I look in astonishment at his enormous feet, and try to figure out what size DOES come after 5T, and lament slightly that I won't ever need to lift his butt by his feet in order to slide a diaper under it again, I feel like an old friend has come over, sat down next to me, and asked if she can stay for awhile. And with delight, I realize that she is me.

I cannot believe tomorrow is his last day.

Almost exactly 3 years ago, I realized that I was a month from going back to work, and began to panic. I had no idea how to find or pick a day care provider, no one to ask for references -- nothing. Fortunately, our local government provides a certification program, and a database of certified in-home day care providers on their website. I printed the list, highlighted the ones that looked plausible by location and a few other characteristics, and began making calls.

I eliminated a lot of options right away. Some people you just know are too nutty to take care of your heart child by talking to them on the phone. I made interview appointments with most of the rest of them, and went to meet them. A few, you could eliminate just by walking into the house. Finally, I settled on a woman who struck me as, well, just fine. She'd do. Nice enough, clean house, didn't have a basement full of toys that she clearly sent the kids into each day while she watched television, agreed with me about not having the kids watch TV all day -- I didn't love her, but she'd do, at least for the initial period of time. I asked her to hold me a spot; I'd come over the next week to sign the paperwork. She was going out of town that weekend -- I should call on about Tuesday.

The next week, and this is now the Tuesday before I go back to work on Monday, I called her. When could I come over to sign the contract? Oh, goodness -- someone else who had interviewed with her had come over during the weekend and signed a contract, and she didn't have space available now. What? She was supposed to be out of town until Tuesday! She was holding a spot for me! Well, you know, something happened and she didn't go, and she couldn't say no to a booked spot....

This happened while I was in the customer service area of Kohl's, breastfeeding after having spent the last hour trying on pants that would fit my postpartum body, and blouses that would allow me to pump at the office. It was all I could do not to just sit there and cry.

Resolute, I bought my new breastfeeding-mother-work-clothes and went home, and back to my list. No, I'd talked to EVERYONE on the list. I sighed heavily. I went back to the computer, ran the search again on the daycare provider database, and printed the results. I took Noah to the bedroom to try to get him to nap while I looked for something, SOMETHING that I'd missed.

Two new names. Two names I hadn't called. I checked. They hadn't been on the list before. I called them and made appointments for the next evening.

The first was nice, very organized -- I'd have loved her as a coworker. She was, though, I thought a little too HARD for my purposes. I wanted someone who would love and cuddle my little boy, and I just couldn't see it.

I went to the second one. My last option befor breaking into Big! Commercial! Daycare! I walked into her house, sat down -- I think on the floor with her -- and knew. We talked, she looked at Noah and cooed (but in a very professional way) about what a cutie he was. Yes, she hadn't had an opening, but there had been a mom who had reserved early in her pregnancy and there had been complications.... So sad, the thought of having gone through this far in advance, only to have something go so terribly wrong. But lo! an OPENING! She handed me a stack of papers; her contract, some information, an emergency contact sheet... I saw her hand. Her ring. I recognized it immediately: Hebrew, reading "I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine..."

"Are you Jewish?"

"No," she laughed, "but my husband gave it to me...." We talked for a moment about religion, about her church, and about her philosophy about her day care kids. No, I didn't need to worry about Noah coming home singing "Yes Jesus Loves Me."

I told her that I'd call her the next day. By the time I got home, about a short 6 blocks, I was sure. I told my husband, who was really leaving the decision to me.

The first working day of October of 2004, I trundled my little boy into clothes, his "bucket," and into the car, and took him to "Car-Car's" house. And he has gone there, except for holidays and her occasional vacations, every day that I've gone to work, ever since.

To Be Continued....

Just entirely too funny....

Utterly unrelated to my child.

My brother just made me aware of LOLCATS. So far, this one...
...is my favorite. And someday I'll unleash my inner death cat at him for introducing me to this vicious time-suck.

Noah says "NO!"

It's been an interesting week here at the spherical home, because Noah's day care provider has been on a well-deserved vacation from her charges, and we had to play tag-team to handle the little guy during his week off.

I spent the whole day Monday with him, Daddy got Tuesday and Wednesday, we split Thursday, and I got today. It was mostly a lot of fun.

Yesterday and today, I'll admit, I used the TV as more of a babysitter than I'd usually be okay with, in order to get some work done, as I was on a deadline. But once that was past us this morning, we hopped in the car, went to the grocery store, got a bundle of balloons and a gift for a colleague who's having a baby next month, and then tried to entertain ourselves for the weekend.

After a week of rain and cold temperatures, suddenly today it was 95 degrees and 210% humidity and just as miserable out as you can imagine. Oh, plus bugs. Never forget the mosquitos.

At 2:00, we tried the playground, but the equipment was simply too hot to play on. Noah ended up inside the tube in the only cool spot, requesting that his claustrophobic mama climb in there with him. "Nothing doing, kid." We went home, and I began making a case to go to the pool. "nope, I don't want to," he told me. "I want to go outside." "Nope, I don't want to," I replied, "because it's too hot outside, unless we go to the pool." He picks up a Mickey Mouse plushy, and in a funny voice says "Mickey says no." I took the debate to Mickey. "Wouldn't it be nice? In the pool and the water? Where it's not so hot? We could go get in the pool, and swim, and be cool and outside at the same time!" "No," Mickey replied, "Mickey says no." This debate went on for some time. Finally a very serious voice announced his bottom line: "Noah says NO!" Oh my. I hardly knew how to respond, except to tickle him.

Spherical Hubby arrived home around 4:30, and I explained the predicament. "C'mon, let's go to the pool," Hubby announced. Somehow this made it okay. We went, and for 2 hours, Noah splashed and played and had a complete blast. "You realize we could have been here all afternoon," I pointed out to no avail. We had to drag him out of the pool at 6:45 to go home to dinner. He's too tired to eat, even -- lying on the sofa beside me, watching a Tivo-ed Mickey Mouse Clubhouse episode, and fighting sleep.

The end of a long and wonderful week.

Day 5 and counting....

Noah has not had wet pants in 5 days. Well, except at night. He still occasionally doesn't wake up at night -- and I'm very very not worried about that.

But when he came home from day care last Friday he was dry, and he stayed dry all weekend, and then with our daycare provider on vacation this week, one of us has been with him the entire time, and he has not had a single accident.

In fact, this morning he joined me when I went to the bathroom, and suddenly I realized he was WAITING HIS TURN, and successfully held it until it was his turn and everything turned out just fine.

He starts preschool in a week. Much like his mother, my boy makes his deadlines -- sometimes at the last possible moment, but he makes them.

In other news, he's gaining shocking control over his farts, and shares them with us with relish. He also informed me that I "smelled like an elephant's butt" on Monday. But he still loves me, and tells me he loves me, even if I DO smell like an elephant's butt. And Monday, with a very sincere face he told me that he was "soaking happy."

Motherhood rocks.

He's so soaking cute!

My grammatically brilliant boy.... He has concluded from context that "soaking" is simply an indication of extremeness. Soaking wet is, after all, just REALLY wet.

I learned about his new vocabulary word one morning when I was asking him to go to the potty.

Me: "Noah, do you need to go potty?"

Him: "No, Mom -- I'm soaking dry."

It is to laugh...

But now it's expanded to beyond the underpants. Last weekend, it became "soaking dark" outside at night. Monday morning, his bagel was "soaking delicious."

That boy is soaking hysterical!

Flying solo....

Two weeks ago, I returned from vacation, having spent nearly 24 hours a day for 2 weeks straight with my little boy. Tomorrow morning, I do something I have never done -- I leave him behind for a two-day trip. I'm surprised at how hard it is to do this. It's the trip of a lifetime, though -- and something I'll share with him when he gets older, that will hopefully make him think that just perhaps, his Mama is one of the coolest Mamas on earth.

In the meantime, we're in the final month count-down to preschool, and not QUITE potty trained, but making tremendous progress. Backsliding was bad in Scotland, but he's back to nearly completely dry all day when prompted to go by his day care provider, and often into the evening. And today? Successful peeing standing up. Some resistance -- but overcome by floating Captain Crunch Crunchberries in the toilet for target practice.

This morning he informed me that Superman can't fly because he doesn't have feathers. Smart kid.

A report from the road....

Hubby just called to report that in an afternoon of blistering fast pace and moving from one appointment to another for teen son and hubby and dog, Noah did the ride-along with aplomb. And when they went into the house to quickly change clothes and pick up the dog, Noah did the following amazing things:

• FIRST, he took his shoes off by himself.


• SECOND, he took his own pants off all by himself.


• THIRD, he got up on the potty on his own.


• FOURTH, he peed, unbidded by adults.


• FIFTH, he got off the potty without assistance.


• SIXTH, he attempted to put his pants back on without help. He did this, unfortunately, with his underpants upside down, so with minimal success.

My boy! A potty-going genius! Bring on the preschool!

Some thoughts on being frisked by airport security...

So there we were, we three -- Noah in a stroller, hubby and I each carrying our carry-on bags, and desperately trying to put everything into those little plastic bins that might make the metal detector go off, in addition to stripping off our shoes in close quarters, folding the stroller, and trying to explain to a 3-year-old to go through the weird doorway and wait on the other side for the next one of us to come through, while the one remaining tried to shove the stroller through the xray machine somewhat like shoving a large onion into a Thanksgiving turkey.

And it should be no surprise that SOMETHING had to throw off those amazing coordination efforts -- and it was me. I went through the metal detector and it went off. I took everything out of my pockets, all my jewelry off -- everything into a tiny bin to go through the xray machine. And then it went off again. And they asked me very sternly NOT to touch Noah, and to go sit in the sequestered area for more *ahem* personal attention. Hubby managed to get all of the rest of our cargo together, stroller reassembled, and maintain calm with the 3-year-old, while I sat in a chair with my feet in the footprints in front of it and prepared for the worst.

A very considerate and respectful woman in her late 20s, I'd guess, came over and respectfully and apologetically told me that she would have to wand me down, and *gasp* possibly touch me. As she wanded, I remembered the barette holding my hair out of my eyes, and I called it to her attention. Sure enough, the wand went off as it passed over my head, and she checked out the barette, but she also at that point had to complete a full-body scan with the wand. And politely explained that if the wand went off anywhere else, she would have to *eek* touch me, but would use the back of her hand whenever possible, so I wouldn't feel it was too intrusive. About the third time she explained that she would be as respectful as possible, I stopped her.

Her: "Ma'am, I'll have to touch you now, because the wand went off near your armpit, but I'll use the back of my hand just enough to determine if it was your underwire that set off..."

Me (interrupting): "Honey, you do what you need to. I completely understand."

Her: "Yes, but I want to be sure that you don't feel that this is too intrusive..."

Me (interrupting again; such a rude wanding victim): "Okay, listen -- I've given birth. You can't do anything to me that, let's be honest, hasn't been done before."

Her (laughing): "Well, no one's told me THAT before...."

Me: "They're probably thinking it."

Her (laughing): "Okay, so I'm going to have to check inside the waistband of your pants..."

Me: (Dissolving into hysterical laughter)

It was as fast, painless, and polite as a frisking could be, and dare I say it? I almost enjoyed the opportunity to interact with them a little more than "Okay, here are your shoes back."

That was the outbound trip. On the inbound trip, we came through Newark, and after being in the UK for two weeks, I just have to say that this was NOT the first vision of the US that I wanted. With the exception of the one woman who helped us find the tram to the other terminal, I have never encountered such an unhelpful bunch of "customer service" professionals in my life. For example: After coming through customs (for which we had to pick up our checked bags, go through a tremendously huge line, and then go re-check our bags, on a one-hour layover), we were confronted with a sign that read "Go to the left if your departure is in less than one hour. Go to the right to exit the airport, or for departures after more than one hour." Our departure was now in 30 minutes. The "customer service" rep barked "To your right" at us. We looked at the sign. She sighed heavily. "TO YOUR RIGHT. KEEP MOVING." We read the sign again, and I cocked my head like a puppy. "Our flight is in 30 minutes," I said calmly. She sighed like I was trying to get away with something sneaky. "Oh, alright, go to the left." We tossed our bags back on the conveyer belt and took off at a dead run for our gate, arriving just at the end of boarding....

But not until we'd encountered their security checkpoint. Similarly, someone was barking instructions. We walked up, she checked our passports, and then pointed to a long line waiting to go through the air-puffing device. I thought "oh God in heaven, how are we going to get Noah through THAT?" But we began unburdening ourselves of our jackets, shoes, carry-on bags, crashing the stroller into compact mode... Then it became clear that there was another line that was shorter, to go through a second metal detector. They diverted us around the puffy-machine to a hidden metal detector (presumably because of the presence of 3-year-old), and grunted at us until we went one by one through the machine, then didn't like how we'd done it and we had to go back and they grunted impatiently to do it again, and then once we'd all passed, someone back in the line barked something about the bags not going through the xray machine, and we had to go BACK out through the metal detector to (I can't even understand this) push our bags up the conveyer belt manually to the xray machine, and then go through the metal detector AGAIN. And THEN we ran madly for our gate, arriving at the tail end of boarding for our flight. Only to discover that on this commuter flight which had one seat on one side of the aisle and two on the other, somehow they'd booked our tickets in sequential rows of the one-seat side, so that our 3-year-old would be, and who would possibly allow this, sitting alone. Fortunately the others on our flight were more accomodating than the security staff, and allowed us to swap seats.

But perhaps I digress. OUTGOING security, at any rate, is just as lovely as it can be - enough to make you want to write a glowing note to someone's supervisor, or send a holiday card to the security agent herself.

Inbound through New Jersey? Welcome to the US, m*therf&cker. Just keep moving.

31 hours dry!

This weekend, we achieved a minor miracle -- over 24 hours of dry pants. Since it's only a little over a month into Potty Training Boot Camp, I think this is high achievement!

Saturday morning, I set the poor guy up for failure by leaving him in training pants and taking him to the zoo, with no idea on earth how we were going to do the potty thing there. Fortunately, he ran into one of the mist areas (it was darned hot!) and got soaked to the skin, so hey - his pants were wet, but unattributable. We changed into a pullup at noon after lunch, since we'd be in the car for awhile and potty availability at G-ma and Poppy's house was unclear.

But there *was* a potty seat available, and lo, he was still dry. And an hour later, he asked and went to the potty again, and was still dry. And we got home, and throughout the evening we had two requests to go potty, and he remained dry. And he asked to go potty right before bed, and to everyone's shock and amazement, he slept until 8:30 the next morning (a personal sleep-in record for a guy who is my 6:30 alarm clock most days) and WAS STILL DRY! And remained so (except when we were in the pool, and again -- unattributable) until around 7:00 that night -- by my calculations a full 31 hour stretch of dryness!

Last night? Not so dry. Two sets of wet pants AND an ew-factor incident. And this morning, his pullup was as full as its ever been when he decided to deign to go potty.

But life is full of movement forward, periods of greatness, backsliding, and then moving forward again -- and I'm starting to feel a little sad that there'll be a day soon when I won't have to say "Pick up your tuschie!" to slip a diaper under it, and his little butt will always run around in those little cloth underpants that make me want to knock him down on the ground and nibble on him, he's so cute in them.

Where oh where did vinyl training pants go?

Now really, how hard is this? We have training pants. I bought a dozen extra this weekend for emergencies. No problem. I mean, a little hard to come by, but once I found a source, no problem. Got 'em. Got enough. We're in good shape.

But the little vinyl pants you put OVER them? IM-FREAKIN'-POSSIBLE to find. I've tried online, I've tried stores, I've tried specialty stores, I've been to Toys-R-Us and similar, I've been EVERYWEHRE I could think of.

And then this morning, something said to me "Come! Come to Walmart! One more time! C'mon! Look one more time!"

And lo! There they were. Three packages, three each, a size probably just at the small end of what he can wear -- but HIP HIP HOORAY! Got 'em!

Now I can give back the one his DCP sent him home in last week that I've been harboring jealousy over while it was in our laundry. Whew!

And, I can't believe I'm saying this - Yay Walmart!

Potty Training Boot Camp: HOUSTON WE HAVE LIFTOFF!

Allow me to scream it from the rooftops:

HALELLUJIAH! By George, I think he's got it!

Yesterday morning, we began the routine of going to the potty every hour or so, and each time, we had just missed the window of opportunity. The change was that he was heartbroken each time, and cried inconsolably that we hadn't made it - I felt terrible for the little guy, and did as much as I could to reenforce that we were going to master the potty, and he was doing SO WELL, and we'd get it soon, I could just tell.

Then we went out for the afternoon and got into a pullup because who knew if we'd be near a bathroom.

And then we went to a party, and went swimming in my friend's pool -- and before he'd go into the pool, he insisted that he had to go potty (with little effect) and then NOW we could go in the pool.

And then we got home, and then through the evening, we'd find him holding his crotch, we'd say "You want to go potty?" and he'd run to the bathroom -- AND PEE! He stayed dry the whole evening, peed 3 times, and went to bed in the dry pants he'd been wearing all evening.

Overnight? We'll deal with that hurdle later. But this morning, after breakfast, he went to the potty and IMMEDIATELY peed, and so far, so good today!

I think my boy is figuring it out. I'm so proud.

Potty Training Boot Camp: End of Week Three

I went to a Premier Jewelry show last night, and was out of the house until nearly what would be regular bedtime at our house. When I walked into the house, I was greeted by my jubilant husband.

"Noah made a poopie and peepee in the potty," he announced. Then he went back to watching an alien slaughter most of the life on Earth on the SciFi channel.

I went upstairs to find Noah watching Shrek in our bed, curled up with several plastic dinosaurs, and a wooden skillet and fried egg. "I hear you used the potty!" I said as I entered, and he stood up and shouted that yes, he had made a poopie AND a peepee. Then he began reenacting the scene where Princess Fiona makes the bird explode, and then cooks the eggs from the nest for Shrek.

We're not all the way there, but I'm feeling more and more confident that he'll be potty-compatible by September. Or, as my father would say, "close enough for government work."

Caught talkin' naughty at day care!

Uh-oh. Cheese it - the cops! Noah's been caught "talking naughty."

It is not an uncommon turn of phrase in our house to refer to someone as a dumbass, when it's appropriate. I think that's going to have to stop. This morning on arrival at day care, I was told that after several days of pondering, our DCP has finally determined that no, Noah was not calling his buddy Jonathan "Thomas" for some inscrutible reason -- he was calling him a dumbass.

Now, she had to acknowledge that his use of the word and his delivery were perfect. It was always when Jonathan was doing something that Noah didn't like and he was "instructing" him to do something differently, and his intonation was perfect. And yet -- this is bad, and it's got to stop.

Because it came up in the context of something else incomprehensible that Noah's been doing that I was able to shed light on today. He breaks into this little song sometimes, and I finally was able to place it: he was singing Ricky Martin's "Shake your Bon Bon." In one of his movies, some character sings about 2 lines of it, and that's Noah's entire exposure to the song. Here comes the hysterically charming part: he doesn't know the words, so what he's singing is this:

Chicken - BAWK BAWK!

Now he has all 4 boys at day care singing it too.

Other things that we're trying to discontinue include absolutely perfect use of the name of a large segment of our society's savior in vain, and impersonation of an Asian comic. Let me explain.

My beloved husband (SphericalFrictionlessBull?) has an Asian friend who self-parodies when he's said something silly by taking on an exaggerated Chinese accent and saying "You funny, AAAH!" SFBull found this funny and started doing it too. Okay, Jewish American using mock Asian accent strikes me as a little inappropriate for reasons I can't seem to properly express to him, and he persists in doing it, and encouraging Noah to do it. I persist in trying to stop Noah from doing it. Most of the time, at least in my presence, he doesn't add the "AHH!" part, and so I'm okay with that. I'm just praying that he's not setting our little boy up for an Asian gang ass-whoopin' later in life.

Second story: Last week one night, I'm guessing the dog sat down next to Noah and farted. And he responded just exactly the same way that I would -- with a hearty "Oh, JESUS, Lucy!" You know, for us, it's not taking the Lord's name in vain or anything -- I don't think too terribly much about it if I let an "Oh Jesus" escape my lips in frustration. I'll admit -- I've laughed at the occasional "Oh Jesus" from my toddler, too. It seems so adult on him.

But when I saw it from our (oh, egad) delightful and Christian day care provider's eyes as we talked this morning, I realized that it was clearly something we need to put an end to, to be appropriately respectful of her, and you know, the hundreds of Christian friends we have.

And of course this is the perfect time to mention that before he could say Ls with any allacrity, Noah would occasionally address his "flock" (a la Wiley T Sheep from Jakers!), and sound like he was uttering the dreaded F-word....

So, to summarize, clearly I need to maintain the following....

LIST OF FORBIDDEN UTTERANCES

• Oh Crap! - primarily uttered by SS14


• Dumbass! - primarily uttered by SphericalFrictionlessCow and Bull


• Oh, Jesus! - ditto


• The dreaded F-word, or anything that sounds like it


• Any song by Ricky Martin, unless rewritten to refer to barnyard foul

I'm sure the list will continue to grow.

And then, there's normal life

You know, even with the honeymoon, there are occasional bouts of non-honeymoon. Friday morning, I came upstairs to convince my boy to come down for breakfast and put on clothes and go potty, and found him sitting at the top of the stairs reading FOX IN SOCKS to the dog. I rounded the corner, said "Come down for breakfast now," and he responded by shouting to the dog:

Hey look! A great ugly ogre!

It's not all smooching all the time. That's probably a good thing.

Second honeymoon

I read in one of the parenting books that around the 3rd birthday is the start of what the author referred to as a "second honeymoon" between the child and the mother, and I had no idea that it would be so profound. After a period of fairly intense "I do it myself" style independence, suddenly my son is a ball of affection that, if I could find a way to bottle and sell it, would solve the loneliness problems of the entire world. I'm greeted each evening when I get home from work by a child who screams "MOMMY!" at the top of his lungs and runs to hug me. Each morning, a little voice from down the hall calls for me, and when I go see his little descheveled morning face, he looks up at me with beaming eyes and requests that I come snuggle with him. In the evening, he comes upstairs with me before bed, gets into bed with me and we curl up and watch a cartoon together. He pats my face. He holds my hand. He tells me that he loves me. Sometimes he gazes at me and tells me that I'm his sunshine.

Now don't get me wrong -- he loves his Daddy. He likes hanging out with Daddy. He likes going out and playing in the yard, and going for walks, and periodically he announces that he wants to go fishing, which is the way to his father's heart. There's a lot of love there, too.

But the sheer volume of affection at this stage in his development is staggering. I wish I could bottle it and store it away for about 12 years from now, when he thinks I'm the most horrible dumbass to walk the face of the planet.

Weekend 1 - Making friends with the potty!

Things throttled back at Potty Training Boot Camp this weekend. Let's be honest -- there's just a lot to do over the weekend, and staying 10 steps from a toilet is out of the question in some circumstances. So we switched back to pull-ups for the weekend, but maintained a fairly healthy schedule of spending time on the potty both days. And I am pleased to make the following declaration:

I HAVE WITNESSED MY SON PEEING IN THE POTTY!

Now, apparently this wouldn't be exciting news at day care, where it's a routine occurance. But for me, it's a first since we started this process, and I was pretty darned excited, even though most of it ended up on the floor somehow.

We've gone from a lollipop for EVERY trip to the potty to a lollipop randomly, in order to reenforce the behavior more solidly. (I read several places that inconsistent reenforcement is more successful than 100%, because hey! what's the fun if you know you can do it and get a lollipop. But if you do it and SOMETIMES you get one -- that's worth testing again and again! See for reference all those crazies sitting in front of slot machines in Las Vegas.)

The consistent reenforcement method now is that 100% of the time that he actually makes a deposit, he gets to flush, and flushing is COOL. So now it's all about being allowed to flush. How easily he's entertained.

I brought a TV tray into the bathroom, too, which allows him to sit for 10 minutes or more at a time while he plays with playdough, and the extra playdough time has led to some impressive artistic efforts.

In other news, Noah got a new haircut this weekend and actually did not cry to the point of vomiting on his mother this time -- I consider that progress as well. We also had time to go to the pool, where he jumped in from the side (in water wings) without holding Mommy's hand, and other than horking up a good cup of pool the one time he went all the way under and the resulting discussion of how you have to CLOSE YOUR MOUTH when you go under, the pool trip was a complete success. And on Sunday we went to the mall, played in the huge tube crawl thing, and went to see Shrek in the theater, also a first time for Mommy but not a first time for day care.

Yesterday morning we transitioned back into big boy pants for the ride to day care, and again this morning, and each morning a very willing but unproductive sit on the potty before we left and after breakfast. I'm trying to introduce a schedule change to make the potty sit the FIRST thing we do, but he's not buying yet.

So at day 9, not HUGE progress, but all steady forward progress, and some fabulous playdough art, to boot!

Potty Training - Day 4 and start of Day 5

Thursday morning started much like Wednesday. A cheerful "Okay!" when it was suggested that he could get a lollipop for using the potty, and no action, but a banana lollipop. (Banana? Who's idea was THAT?)

Thursday nights, Noah and his Daddy go out to dinner while Mommy fences (for fun, see my blog on the subject here. So although I skipped class, Daddy had soloed at a restaurant with a potty-training 3-year-old, and my hat is off to him for trying it. He got home and needed to be changed, and Daddy, having had enough, put him in a diaper. But we did do another potty-sit after they got home, and in the middle of watching Elmo Potty Time on DVD. Which held Noah's attention, I might add, much longer than I thought it would.

Day 5 was just more of the same morning routine -- a happy "okay!" and willing hopping on the potty, presentation of lollipop, and then a very quick "Okay I done now." I convinced him to stay on while I put on my makeup, but he wasn't there very long. I'm thinking about using the little DVD player in the bathroom to hold his attention, actually.

I talked to his day care provider, Car-Car, about the regular schedule so we can maintain it over the weekend, and she tells me that he does potty-sits 1) after arrival in the morning, 2) mid-morning, 3) before lunch, 4) after lunch, and 5) after nap. They're about 15 minutes each (how DOES she do that? oh yes, she gives him those tiny M&Ms!) and he does actually pee when he's on the potty for her. At home? No joy. She did notice that he's been waiting to poop at home (and frankly so had I).

But after week 1 of Potty Training Boot Camp, I think the progress of him willingly sitting on the potty for any period of time at all as part of his regular routine is a step in the right direction. Here's hoping that the next couple of weeks show the same rate of progress, so that the application and tuition deposit I made for preschool aren't in vain!

And in cute Noah news: Noah's very into THE LAND BEFORE TIME right now. So when he and Daddy got home from dinner, he ran over and hugged my leg and started saying "I'm so glad you're not leaving!" and I thought "what the heck is he thinking?" and then he launched into Ducky's soliloquy from LAND BEFORE TIME 4, I think, about "I'm so glad you're not leaving, I am, I am, and the Great Valley will never ever change nope nope nope." Which shouldn't surprise me, because occasionally he also summons up as much bat-like eerieness as he can and tells me in his best Boris Karlov voice that "Petrie is VEEERY SCARRRRRY!"

Wish us luck on the first 48-hour "solo flight" of potty training boot camp!

Potty Training Boot Camp - Day 3.

Day 3 of potty training boot camp dawned bright and clear. After a few minutes of disorientation when he woke up, which is genetic and he got it from me, he was ready to start the day with unusual enthusiasm. Holding his beanie-baby pig and several plastic friends, he stood at the top of the stairs and announced:

I have to go downstairs! I have to make pancakes!

And so off we went to make pancakes, which he ate with gusto.

Belly filled, I suggested that while we were changing into his clothes, perhaps it would be a good time to sit on the potty. "No thanks," he replied. "I don't have to." I reminded him that boys who sit on the potty get lollipops. "I want to sit on the potty!" he announced, and sped into the bathroom, slipped his pajamas off and hopped up. "A purple one!" he demanded, and sat and kicked his cute feet and licked his lollipo for several minutes while I brushed my teeth and put on makeup.

No outcome, but an overwhelmingly happy potty experience.

Last night? Not one, but TWO poop explosions. Somehow I went from needing tequila to recover from the first one, to being up to my elbows in a toilet, rinsing out a pair of underwear. How quickly the world changes....

Potty Training - Days 1 and 2

We arbitrarily selected Monday as the official start of potty training chez cow, and I thought I'd report in on our progress.

But first, let's stipulate who the "we" is. It's me and my parenting partner -- our day care provider. We frankly didn't even tell my beloved husband that we were doing this. Poor guy didn't even know what was coming.

So yesterday morning, we got up, got breakfast, and I put him in a pair of cloth/vinyl pants instead of a diaper, and off to day care we went. When we arrived, he immediately went under the dining room table and pooped. I felt tremendously guilty about it, but I pointed it out and fled the scene of the crime, thanking God in heaven for the woman he brought me to, who I love far more than she knows for being such a wonderful, willing, and supportive third parent to my son.

I got home last night, and lo! there was my son in the second vinyl/cotton pants arrangement, that I'd taken with him for the trip home. I didn't push going to the potty, and sure enough, as it was time for bed, he was wet, but just wet. Okay. Not a big deal. Cleaned up, changed into a diaper for the night, and went to bed.

I had NO idea how things went during the day yesterday, but this morning we gamely went for round two -- and I put him in a vinyl/cotton pants arrangement and off we went. The report was that after the pooping incident, he'd reluctantly (read: crying hysterically the whole time) sat on the potty, and that during the course of the day, all three boys had managed to pee on the rug, which was now outside.

So I went off to work where the challenges pale by comparison with potty training.

Tonight, I arrived home to find my beloved husband instructing my son in the fine art of reading an LL Bean catalog while sitting on the potty. And he got a lollipop reward for sitting gamely, though producing little.

The horror began shortly after.

We went for a walk, and then came up to watch SHREK for the 300th time in 4 days. And when I began changing him into his pajamas, I caught a whiff of something that made my blood run cold. Cloth pants -- poop. Oh no.

I convinced him to pause Shrek and come into the bathroom, and what came next was Benny Hill-esque, and really only lacked the soundtrack, so please, for effect, just sing it quietly to yourself in your head. I peeked into the pants. Not just poop -- no, he could have generated a little pile of rabbit pellets or one of his more "sturdy" bits -- it was a little pigsquish of poop. I inhaled one last time the clean air of the bathroom, and began peeling the wet, squishy pants off him. Got them to his feet with little ill effect, and asked him to step out. First foot okay, second foot okay -- clear! We made it! NO! He lost his balance, and stepped directly back INTO the pants, collecting approximately 80% of the poop onto the bottom of his foot. I quickly dropped the pants to grab ahold of his foot so he wouldn't run off that way, and thought "oh dear God, what do I do now?" No paper towels in reach, no toilet paper in reach -- but if I really stretched.... REEEEEALLY stretched.... I could get the box of wipes.

Ten wipes later, I had gotten most of the poop off of his foot, but there was a nasty pile of wipes stuck to the bathroom floor in a very unsanitary fashion. But, as I told my beloved son who was whimpering quietly through the whole process -- Hey! Everything can be washed! Even Mommy.

Got the boy cleaned up, and managed to find a Target bag to collect up the wipes, and then use more wipes to clean where the wipes had been, and the little bit of dirty rug. Then I took my bottomless son into the other room to get a diaper on for the night.

And then it dawned on me. The pants. The other 20% of the poop was on the inside of the pants. Dear God, what do you do NOW? And it dawned on me -- WIPES! So I carefully wiped out the interior of the pants, and then *ew!* soaked them clean in the bathroom sink. With everything contained in the pitcher from the potty and the Target bag, I left my beloved and now mostly clean son watching Shrek, went down to regale my darling husband with the tale, and take the evidence out to the trash and into the laundry room, respectively.

And then did one last ritual that seemed appropriate to this milestone in my life. I did a shot of tequila.

Other Jews would say Shehekianu:

Blessed are you, oh Lord our God, Maker of the Universe, for giving us life, for sustaining us, and for enabling us to reach this moment of poop.

Me? Didn't even dawn on me. But I did appreciate God handiwork in the distilling of cactus, and its combination with lime. Yay God! Nice thinking.

My boy is in a diaper for the night, and two pairs of pants are bouncing around on "sanitize" mode in our washing machine, for which I also say "Thanks, God."

More reports as they happen. Wish us luck.

The best compliment EVER.

This morning, my little guy crawled into bed with me, and in no hurry to get in the car, I acquiesced to his request that we "snuggle" for awhile. We turned on Bob the Builder, and cuddled up with his head on my shoulder.

Mommy?

Yes, darling?

I love you, Mommy.

I love you too, snugglebug.

He looked at me very seriously, like he was formulating a complex thought.

Mommy?

Yes, darling?

You make .... glad.

What?

You make .... .... glad.

I make you glad, honey?

Yes. You make me glad.

I'm so flattered....

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.

By George, I think she's got it.

AntiqueMommy summarized it perfectly.

Did we pass?

Noah went for an interview to enter Montessori preschool yesterday. Well, they didn't CALL it that; they called it a "visit." Okay. Sure.

We arrived promptly at 8:45 as scheduled. As if I could make that happen if I wanted to. I count this as evidence that God loves us and wants my boy to have an education. We walked in. "This must be NOAH!" the director's daughter (who's probably the assistant director, too) says with delight in her voice. She guides us down to a classroom where we're introduced to the teacher and her assistant, or rather I am -- Noah charges full-throttle through the door and directly up to a group of children I estimate to be approximately twice his age. "Hey, kids! What are you doing? Hey, what's that on your shirt? It's Lightning McQueen! Look! I have Lightning McQueen shoes! Can I play with you?" Within moments, with the bond of common adoration for a cartoon racecar established, my son is being instructed by a 5-y-o boy in the creation of a Pink Tower. Which would be Norman Rockwell beautiful, except that the older boy's technique for showing Noah that his tower isn't right is to kick it over with his foot and tell him to do it again. Okay, he needs some work on pedagogy. And yet, there was no objection from Noah, who gamely built the tower over and over again until he got it right.

Stark contrast alert: I am CERTAIN that at day care, this same incident from one of his buddies would have resulted in a lot of wailing and gnashing of teeth. Somehow, though, coming from a bigger older child? Totally acceptable.

I was STUNNED by the sudden maturity of my son, and his complete passion for all things in that room. He could barely stay on one task, but only because the siren song of some other little tray of goodies was nearly overwhelming. But in about 30 minutes, he did about 4 different activities, including counting flags, using clothes pins, putting beads on sticks, and building the Pink Tower. He was just ecstatic the entire time, at one point waving a handful of small flags held like a bouquet, and singing "I counted flags! Hooray for me!" at full voice. This prompted the teacher to sweep in, hug him and practically kiss his cheek, and tell me that he was adorable.

Yes, of course he is! As if I doubted such a thing.

The director's daughter came to retrieve us, and we walked back up the hall to the office where he played with the bead maze while we discussed the rest of the admission process. But soon he'd decided that watching us old ladies talk business was no fun. He worked his way to the office door, stepped outside, and leaned back in. "I'll be right back. I'll be back in ONNNNNE MINNNNUTE..." and then he took off for the classroom.

I lured him back into the office as I gathered up paperwork and asked a final question, and he walked up and down the long hallway outside of the office, peeking in doors and windows. Another child arrived for school a little late, darted into the bathroom there at the entrance, and flushed the industrial strength toilet just as Noah walked by. Noah lept back into the office and onto my lap and hugged me tightly. "Mommy! That SKEEERED me!"

I think that last bit clinched the interview. Who wouldn't want that much cuteness in their next entering class?

Noah crawled up into bed with me when he woke up for his morning snuggle, and the cat joined us. We patted the cat and talked about purring and her ears, and then Noah pointed out her tail and said "she gotta tail." I said "yes, she does." And after a moment of thought, I said "I wish *I* had a tail."

He pondered briefly and with a little bit of sadness in his voice, he said...

"No, Mommy - you gotta butt."

Let's fly in an AIRPLANE!

We just returned from a 6-day trip to visit Noah's grandparents in Key West. This involved a 5-leg trip in each direction; in there-ward order:

1. Car trip from home to where we parked the car, a couple of miles from the airport


2. Taxi ride from the car to the airport


3. First leg of airplane trip to Miami


4. Second leg of airplane trip from Miami to Key West


5. Car trip from airport to Nana's house

Reverse to come home.

I don't think we were more than 2 minutes into the taxi ride when Noah made his first announcement that he was "ready to get out of here." Uh, okay kid, but you've got a good long while to wait to be done with this trip, and it's too late to punch out now.

He handled the plane ride with aplomb, other than the struggle over putting on his seat belt. He's actually a good little traveling companion, sat in my lap and identified objects outside the window as we taxied and took off, and wasn't at all taken aback by going to 30,000 feet. He snacked and played with toys and talked to me, and really we just had a real good trip. And he got excited about landing, and was delighted to see his Nana at the airport.

And after dinner that night, he said "Okay, let's go on the airplane and go home now." It took the first 2 days for him to realize we were staying for awhile. But he loved the little sleeping bag/inflatable mattress his grandmother got for him to sleep in, and loved the beach, and LOVED riding in his stroller up and down Duvall Street and napping. He loved being with his grandparents. Really, he just had a great time, and other than a few expected and (I think) normal not-quite-3-year-old meltdowns when thwarted or when things weren't moving to his speed, he was a complete and total angel.

He enthusiastically got back on the plane to come home, and even willingly put his seat belt on and sat in his own seat during takeoff on the long leg of the return trip, and placidly handled the multi-car trip home. We came into the house just about 10pm, and he was asleep in his big-boy bed (instead of his "new liiiiittle bed") within minutes of coming in.

While we were there, he played in the surf a few times, which in Key West is blissfully low, and ran-ran-ran on the beach, and dug in the sand like a terrier, and threw rocks into the water. We had dinner one night at friends of his grandparents who have a pool, and he swam-swam-swam until he was nearly unconscious and starving. I mean really -- what's not to like about such a trip?

And in the most exciting news of all, we left the house without a single sippy cup or pacifier, and survived the whole trip. He had plastic cups with straws and did just fine, and other than when he was a little freaked out by the strange bed at first, he didn't give a second thought to his pacifier, something I couldn't have imagined leaving the house without a couple of months ago, much less the state for a week.

I can't believe what a big guy he's become, or how much fun I had traveling with him. Or how proud I am of him.

Who knew the moon was so close?

This afternoon, we were outside playing in the yard, and to his surprise, Noah saw the moon in the sky during broad daylight. "Mommy! The moon!" he cried. "Yes, honey - it's the moon, out during the day!" And then he cleared up everything for me:

The moon is up there! On the second floor! Where there aren't any chairs!

I wonder where it will sit?

Suddenly, the ground rose up to meet me....

Noah has spent what is to me an uncanny amount of time plummeting to the ground recently. First it was 2 weeks ago, when with his arms behind his back, he got his feet tied up in one another and caught himself with his nose and a big part of his forehead. The scabs are off now, but the little pink fresh skin is still glowing under his nose, and I hope and pray that it's not a permanent mark. I guess it could be like some kind of dueling scar -- from dueling with the sidewalk.

But he's taken his plummeting antics into the bedroom recently. We moved him from his crib to a bed last summer when he began doing some crazy gymnastics along the top of the crib rail. His new bed used to be his uncles, and is a nice platform trundlebed that provides great storage where the trundle bed would be, and a not-very-long drop to the ground... but it is still enough. We put up rails, but got brave a few weeks ago and pulled them off, which made the bed a great place for reading books and playing with toys and cuddling with his Mama while he got ready to go to sleep.

Two nights in the last week, though, I awoke halfway down the hall in mid-stride to the sound of Noah shrieking in terror from the floor next to his bed. No injury -- just the fear of a little boy who didn't mind the falling, just that sudden stop at the end. At 4:00 in the morning, I reinstalled the side rails on his bed. I guess he's not completely grown up after all.

You are my best friend.....

We are all about Little Einsteins at our house. I mean, why wouldn't you be? Between the musical references, the art, and the problem-solving, I really can't argue with the kid for his choice of TV viewing. We have a dozen or more episodes in permanent rotation on our cable box/DVR setup, and in the morning while Mommy showers, the little guy often sits in the rec room watching little einsteins and eating a bagel.

One of the cutest episodes to get captured on the DVR recently is "Annie's Love Song," the story of two hermit crabs on the beach who are best friends and are separated when the red hermit crab is swept out to sea, and gets caught in a lobster trap. They find the red hermit crab by singing the Best Friend song, which has the words "You are my best friend - I love you!" It's catchy, and for the rest of the day, I'll find myself humming it. So the other morning we went upstairs to get out of pajamas and into clothes, and I was humming it, and Noah was humming it -- and so I started singing it, and out of nowhere, Noah grabbed his plastic microphone and began singing along, and suddenly there we were, singing this catchy duet to one another, just like Sonny and Cher singing "I've Got You, Babe" or something.

This morning, no singing, but we were all about eating "Floop-Loops."

It has begun....

This morning, as we were getting into the car, I heard for the first time those fateful words:

I do it MYSELF, Mommy!

He wanted to climb into his seat from the driveway on his own. Now, granted, he got stuck halfway and had to shout for help. But I believe this may officially be the beginning of the end....

A potty update...

So far, no matter what, if you ask him if he's pooping, he says "Nope!" Any interest in sitting on the potty? "Nope!" As his father where he learned THAT lovely turn of phrase....

But last night, I caught him in MID-POOP. There was NO DENYING what was going on. And so I shouted to him: "Hey! You going poopy?" In a gutteral grunt, I got an unexpected reply:

"YEP!"

I figure it's progress.

Thinking about 3 years ago....

Something about this time of year gets me to thinking about three years ago, when I was wondering if I could manage through the couple of months of spring without buying any more maternity clothes, and getting ready for my life to change. Yesterday, I took a few minutes to hunt up the postings I made to my favorite bulletin board in the day or so leading up to my son's birth, and then the arrival post telling the story of his delivery and some of the subsequent antics.

I feel a great urge to write the whole story up for him, and will probably post it here as well. I think it's a great story -- but of course, I *would.*

The answer, though, is that NO, March through May in DC requires a shocking range of clothing, from heavy knit stuff and coats to shorts and little short dresses. I still have a couple of the dresses, thinking that someday I may figure out how to de-maternity-ificate them. But with a budding 3-year-old, who has the time?

All alarming things also come to an end....

The thought of finding myself pregnant again at 43 fills me with dread. And yet, at some level, the thought of consciously permanently preventing it also makes me feel, well, OLD. Like I've suddenly taken the hyperspace route to cronedom.

And so, when we discussed it this past week, my hubby and I decided it was time to put an end to the madness. Neither one of us wants to go through the sleepless nights of a newborn again at our age. As much as I wish that my life had been one that permitted me to have a whole houseful of children, I just need to thank God for the one He allowed me, and accept that this phase of my life is at an end.

I expect there to be some anguish and mourning as the next events unfold, and then some relief at not having to worry so much each month about Oh Dear God, am I?

I imagine I'll need to talk about it some. I feel in good company, since my hero Antique Mommy has also just gone through this milestone.

Wow, I'm all-powerful!

Tonight our cable went out for about 2 minutes, taking down with it the digital video recorder that we lease from the cable company that contains every episode of Jakers!, Little Einsteins, and Mickey Mouse Clubhouse ever aired. Is there room for adult shows? No, not really -- but I'm so happy that we can control what he watches, give him what I think are reasonably intelligent, educational shows, and avoid commercials....

So it's that period in the evening when we watch a little Little Einsteins after dinner and chill out getting ready for bed, and FOOMPT, the whole system goes down -- DVR, cable box, big huge scary high-def TV -- all of it. I explained that it was broken and I needed to fix it, and then he did heavy-breathing exercises while I fiddled with the remote and tried to will the DVR not to have dumped its contents, something it's done more than once on us.

And lo, about 3 minutes later, I managed to get everything back online, and Noah threw his tiny arms in the air: "Mommy! You fix ANYTHING!"

I feel so powerful!

My husband is so witty....

We're in the throes of starting potty training. "Want to sit on the potty?" "No!" "Hey, look -- Mommy is going potty, want to come see?" "No!" "Are you making a poopie?" "No!" "Do you know that big boys who sit on the potty get a lollipop?" "Yes!" "Do you want a lollipop?" "Yes!" "So do you want to go sit on the potty?" "No!" And then foompt, there's a shocking aroma and it's time to change the diaper. Dang, foiled again.

We're looking for the early warning signs of poopie. You know, the signs that come before THE FACE, when it's just too late. So far the most reliable one is, well, the farting.

So tonight, there's a sudden rumbling noise from the diaper, and my beloved says "Are you making a poopie?" And Noah says "No!" And hubby turns to me with a very serious face and says "Coming soon to a diaper near you!" Who knew he could be so funny?

I forgot one...

Another bit of toddler brilliance:

• Last weekend, Noah crawled up into bed with me one morning, and after a bit of a snuggle and a cartoon, turned to me, held my face in his little chubby hands and said "Mommy? I think-a you CUTE!" And really, how could I ever say no to him again?
• Yesterday on returning home from a jaunt to the grocery store Noah immediately stripped off his shoes and then his socks, announcing to the world "Look! I got cute feet!"
• I wish I could get an audio file to use in my email system that's a recording of him announcing to me this morning when I woke up and lumbered downstairs: "Mommy! I got BACON!"

Has anybody seen my cow?

Wow, a few months go by fast! Shortly after my last post, I "came down ill" with something that nearly turned into pneumonia, and became an ear infection shortly after New Year's for my little boy, resulting in the fact that my hubby and I spent our anniversary caring for a puking toddler. Oh, the romance.

But the amazing things my boy has said in the last month boggle the mind. In particular, the following creative marvels spring to mind:

• Mommy, I want-a you arm! When Noah was a newborn, one of the few ways that I could find to lure him into sleep long enough for me to, oh, I don't know, bathe or something was to very regularly and gently run my finger down the side of his face, from temple to chin, over, and over, and over.... And to this day, when he's tired, he'd like to rub his face on skin. Mine, if at all possible; his own, if mine isn't available. The result of this is that even on the coldest possible days, he wants to pull his sleeve up so that he can rub his face against his own inner arm.
• BOO! This past weekend, Noah developed both comic timing and the ability to make an entrance. Three times, I've been jerked out of blissful sleep by a clever two-year-old standing at the side of the bed and shouting "BOO!" then watching his mother levitate and try to maintain bladder control. When I succumb to gravity again, he looks at me seriously an says, "Mommy, did I scare you?" No, kid -- Mommy ALWAYS wakes up 3 feet in the air.
• The big W. A little boy at day care has developed a hopefully shortlived habit of rushing Noah and pushing him over, or using that blanket-with-a-bear-head-sewn-into-it like some kind of medieval flail to whack him in the head. Other boy's mother rushes in and insists that he apologize to Noah, but his answer this morning spoke volumes: "Oh, Jonathan -- WHATEVER." My boy....