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."