Sick Day

I appear to have, as Sundry put it, a touch of the Hamthrax. Or some kind of flu. I went to bed with the beginnings of what I assumed was a cold and woke up in the grips of some horrible, lung-hacking, breath-sucking, stomach-purging, body-aching, I'm-hot-no-I'm-cold-so-cold-oh-my-God-get-these-covers-OFF-ME type of illness.

It's awesome, let me tell you. I managed to drag my diseased ass out of bed and onto the landing where I begged Jason not to go to work and leeeeeeeave me with The Children, Oh God, Not The Children. Then I went back to bed and moaned piteously for awhile. I'm still doing that, actually. Here:

meeeeehhhhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuggggghhhhhhhh

I know! I write just like I whine. It's a gift!

ANYWAY, so I had Other Plans for today's post -- another chapter of the When You Marry book, some discussion on what educational toys can be manipulated into saying profanity, maybe microwaving some Halloween candy just for the hell of it -- but alas. It's going to be another redirect day.

• I kind of wish I'd chosen a more interesting topic at the Advice Smackdown today, like somebody's sex life problems or major parenting dramz, but no. At some point this week I decided to devote an entire column to laundry detergent. Hmm.
• You could, alternately, read about all the really, really stupid stuff you do when you're newly postpartum and sleep-deprived over at Bounce Back. Unfortunately, I still haven't figured out a way to blame that time I got off the train at Newark instead of New York on my lousy children. I will keep trying, though.
• My second entry for the Slideshare MS Office Parenting Toolbox I Don't Remember The Official Name So I'm Including Them All is also up.
• Over at Mamapop, you know we're doing a little video roundtable thing? Where we all ramble about some pop culturery topic into our webcams and everybody else is so much funnier than me and I swear, I don't really wear as much eye makeup as it appears in these things. Past editions are here. I think the next one goes up on Monday. I hate my voice.
• Also, a Project Runway recap that I wrote (last night, so it's only half-infected with swine flu, though you might not want to touch the photos, which I added this morning) will go up at 2 pm ET. I would link to the specific entry here, but I cannot. Because you cannot link to the future. Yet. Oh, man. That's a good idea. I should totally write that down in my dream journal under Brilliant Ideas I Had Under The Influence Of Theraflu. 
• mmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeuuuuuuuuuaaaaaaauuuuuuggggg, etc.

Five Toys That Are Made of Magic

FULL DISCLOSURE: These are not paid product reviews. If they were, I probably would not get paid, because I'm not sure toy companies appreciate being compared to monstrous black magic hell demons. The links are Amazon Associates, meaning if you decide to buy a monstrous black magic hell demon today, you can click through and reward me with a shiny 1/8th of a penny, or you can open up Amazon in a different browser tab and navigate to the toys yourself, muttering "fuck you, Amalah" the whole time. I am totally fine with either.

1. Hasbro Playskool Busy Ball Popper

The Busy Ball Popper works thusly: you drop some balls into a chute, press down on a lever and and the balls pop up and out and back down the ramps as a merry little circus theme plays. And your kids. Go. Apeshit. They lose their ever-loving goddamned minds over this thing. Babies, toddlers, preschoolers. Even a jaded emo teenager would be powerless to resist squealing and clapping and jumping up and down because OMFG BALLS. Do you remember that scene in Knocked Up where Paul Rudd wishes he liked anything as much as his kids liked bubbles? I don't think there's anything in my adult life that has brought me as much crazed joy as the Ball Popper brings to my children, and I'm including the battery-operated stuff in the nightstand. The Ball Popper is a breakdancing TiVo, an iPhone that shits unicorns, the last faint beacon of hope between this generation and a smoldering pile of war and toxic air and financial ruin.

Cost: $27.99  Alternatively, you could probably make your own with some bent PVC pipe and a hair dryer, but I'd be worried that my neighbors would see the effect it has on their children, and then they'd storm the house in the middle of the night, with torches and pitchforks and their best witch-burnin' stake.

2) Ocean Wonders Soothe & Glow Seahorse

Okay, so I know this thing doesn't really resemble a seahorse. I think it looks more like a Care Bear crossed with My Little Pony sperm, but NO MATTER. You press the beetle-like shell of a belly and it lights up and plays music, just like dozens of other toys that light up and play music, except that this one has apparently been bewitched with magical sleep powers. Yesterday I put a squalling, protesting baby in his crib while I went to retrieve some socks from a nearby laundry pile (shut it), and he kicked and cried and somehow sort of sat on the Spermhorse and the music played and he went into a dazed, silent, thumbsucking trance. Within 30 seconds, he was sound asleep. I honestly keep waiting for an indicator light to come on and tell me it's time to replace the vaporized opium packet located somewhere near the battery pack.

Cost: $14.99. Also available with an extra X chromosome.

3) Ocean Wonders Aquarium

Also bewitched with magical sleep powers of simulated ocean sounds, but be warned: It will eat through your soul at pretty much the same rate it eats through batteries. It will become the bulky, heavy bane of your existence as you feel compelled to drag it with you everywhere that your baby MIGHT POSSIBLY need to sleep, never once encountering a crib design that actually seems compatible with the straps on the back, leading to various precarious jury-rigged arrangements on Pack-n-Plays and relatives' nightstands, because your baby CANNOT SLEEP WITHOUT THE AQUARIUM. NO. NOT EVER. It will demand nightly sacrifices at 2 am of four fresh D batteries, and of course you have no choice but to placate the bubbling, lullaby-playing monster, because without it your baby might wake up at 2 am, or something.

Cost: $49.99, sucker.

4) Fisher-Price Laugh and Learn Learning Piggy Bank

You know a toy is educational when they manage to cram the word "LEARN" into the name twice. (Just wait until the Fisher-Price Busiest Busy Ball of Poppin' Pop Balls hits the market. It's gonna be awesome.) And yes, while both of my children were uniformly delighted by this toy, I must admit I am really including it because 1) its red curly tail looks EXACTLY like a baboon's ass, and 2) one of the song lyrics says "you can put coins in my slot and you can take them out." 

Cost: $18.72. Slot. Heh.

5) Goodnight Moon

In the great green room there was a telephone and a red balloon and a picture of the cow jumping over the moon and there were three little bears sitting on chairs and one little boy on a big wheeled bike, and an elevator that flooded the hallway with blood and REDRUM REDRUM REDRUM...wait, what? My point is, kids really like this book. A lot.

Cost: $8.99, though don't be surprised to look around one day and realize that you own no less than seven copies of it, even though you don't actually recall buying it in the first place. You back away, a little unsettled. You trip over three or four copies of Guess How Much I Love You. The lights grow dim. And then the bunnytaur is upon you. Goodnight. NOBODY.

Three-eyed two-horned flying blue chocolate phobia eater

Much like last year, Noah refused to wear a costume to school. "NO COSTUME," he shrieked at the merest suggestion of dressing up. "JUST NOAH."

At one point he said he wanted to be the house from UP -- purposely choosing the most terrifying cinematic experience of the past year, as he howled in fear and had to be removed from the theater pretty much every time the house appeared on screen, and he had nightmares about floating houses for weeks. THANKS FOR ALL THE WHIMSY, PIXAR.

Although he's since worked through that fear pretty well -- at his request, we took him to see it again at a second-run drafthouse theater just a few weeks ago, and he loved it -- I was skeptical about this costume request. And indeed, when we did obligingly attempt to thoroughly traumatize him with a trial run of cardboard-box-with-balloons-attached, he would have none of it.

So on Friday, the day of his school parties, I distracted him with a waffle and shoved his green Steve-from-Blue's-Clues shirt from last year over his head.

 

A few minutes later he contemplated a sleeve, and sensing that trickery was afoot, made me promise that the green shirt was NOT A COSTUME. NOT A COSTUME, MOMMY. JUST NOAH.

All of his teachers assured me (when I gave them a heads up on the whole "oh hey, my kid is terrified of Halloween costumes" thing) that this is a pretty normal thing, both for this age and especially for the Kids Like Noah set. Most four-year-olds are still trying to figure out the distinction between real and pretend, while Noah needs and depends on his routines and rituals more than most. He hates -- HATES -- anything out of the ordinary or anyone acting the slightest bit "different." (Last week one teacher had her hair straightened and Noah burst into tears at the sight of her, because her hair wasn't "wiggly" anymore.) Class parties, field trips -- these aren't fun, they're stressful, even scary. 

And so Jason and I, FINALLY, ON SATURDAY, LIKE OH MY GOD WE'RE MAYBE CATCHING ON A LITTLE BIT, decided that we would not push trick-or-treating just because it's "fun" and "he'll like it once he does it" and...I don't know. All the reasons we always stupidly drag Noah to things that we THINK are part of a nutritious balanced childhood.

We told him we could go trick-or-treating if he wanted to, but yeah, he needed to wear a costume. We showed him the options (all leftover rejects from last year) and pretty much left it at that. He seemed quite okay with the idea of skipping it all together.

Then our doorbell rang, and our first trick-or-treaters arrived. Within 30 seconds Noah bolted upstairs and came down with a costume in his hand.

He's a monster. He says RAWR and he scares you when he says RAWR. Just FYI.

 

A boy's gotta do what a boy's gotta do for candy, apparently. I asked him what he wants to be next year and he said "nothing! I don't! I won't!" and collapsed in a dramatic, exhausted slump, like OH GOD, AGAIN? This would be much easier if you people would just hand over the chocolate. I have no more patience for you and your weird Earth ways.

 

Ezra has no opinion on the matter, but was just vaguely passively happy to be there. He would like to point out that many houses explicitly gave Noah "candy for [his] baby brother" and yet he has not seen a single bite. Not cool, dude. NOTCOOL.

America's Next Top Influential Opinion Maker

I hit a terrible wall this past week. A metaphorical brick wall of...of MORE metaphors, like paralysis and drowning and suck and ass. SOLID BRICK ASS. Yeah, that pretty much sums everything up perfectly.

I missed a deadline, due to a simple flipping around of dates in my head. And missing this deadline sent me hurtling down the road (OF ASS) into the wall (OF ASS), because I got flustered and frustrated with myself.

I beat myself up over my inability to stay organized and on top of things, and yet instead of... I don't know, sitting the fuck down and getting shit done...I floundered instead. I didn't know where to start. I couldn't prioritize. Everything became a jumble OH RIGHT SHIT FUCK THAT and a scramble to keep on top of the NEW deadlines that were coming in, while everyday I continued to pile up more things that were officially Past Due Goddamn It. Then we all got sick, which helped a TON, and I went into full-on passive aggressive "I can't heeeear you" ignore mode to pretty much everything.

And again, let me remind you, that all I needed to do was 1) Sit the fuck down, and 2) Get shit done. Instead, I often chose 3) Staring at the wall for awhile, alternately chewing on the inside of my mouth and mentally composing blog entries that I would never get around to typing, because how can I blog when I have this and this and this to do, oh my God, I have so much to do.

Hey! I know! Let's stare at the wall some more. Shut up, it's totally helping.

In the end, I needed to do what I've ALWAYS needed to do when I get myself into a state like that. I needed to sit down and write out a to-do list. Holy SHIT, Dorothy, how ever did you come up with an original idea like that? I KNOW. It's so dumb and obvious, but that's all it took. That's all it ever takes, whenever I get myself into a State Like That. Write it out, break it down, get started and cross crap off. 

And oh, ho HO, would you like to hear about the irony? The delicious, mouthwatering irony? The deadline I missed was part of the Parent Toolbox at Slideshare, where oh, HO HO HO, the entire point of the project is to swap tips and MS Office templates that we use to make our lives easier and stay organized and hoooo hooooo hooooooooo ho. 

So. It is with great, timely pleasure that I present: A PAINFULLY OVER-DETAILED TO-DO LIST FOR UNDERACHIEVERS WHO REQUIRE A CONSTANT SENSE OF ACCOMPLISHMENT.

Use it because it WORKS, people. I am living proof. 

(And thank you to Asha and the folks at Slideshare for not firing my pathetic ass.)

(And for you guys, for putting up with a terribly half-assed posting schedule here.)

(Here are some pictures of a baby eating a comically large apple. Are we good now? Good. Onward!) 

 

First Draft Jumble

Or, Stuff That Would Have Gone On Twitter If I Didn't Lose Interest After Reaching 141 Characters

Or, Stuff That's Been Sitting In My Drafts Folder Waiting For Me To Remember What The Hell I Was Talking About

Or, I Made You A Blog Entry, But It Sucks

***

We have three separate garbage/recycling pick-ups on Wednesday morning, which means by 7 am I have had three separate panic attacks over THE BUS THE BUS OH SHIT WE'VE MISSED THE BUS.

It's gotten so bad that I can actually be looking out the window, starting directly AT a garbage/recycling truck and still get all twisty-in-the-heart-region at the sound of the engine and squealing brakes.

Pavlov's School Bus, you guys. WTF.

***

Speaking of the school bus, it shows up close to a half-hour late on rainy mornings. Because, you know, it's raining and wet and therefore we are ALL GOING TO DIE IN OUR CARS. But the return bus shows up perfectly on time, to the minute, no matter what. Now, I don't mean to suggest that I feel a little cheated by that lost half hour of zoning out over my coffee, or that I sometimes resent the efficiency of that second bus...except well. Yes. That's exactly what I mean to suggest. I'm sorry, I don't know where else I thought I could go with that story.

***

I am unhealthily obsessed with Fake Blogs. The people who just make shit straight up, their entire identity and life story. The total full-on trolls. I never seem to hear about them until after they've been exposed, but nevertheless I am compelled to go back and read every. word. of the drama and detective work.

You know, the people who are all, "Look at this picture of a doll/someone else's kid/child model from a diaper package that I'm passing off as my critically ill baby!"

The Muchausen by Internet people who write about their brave battle with seven kinds of cancer AND swine flu AND being the Real Hero, while using stolen photos of their hotter, thinner friend.

The housewives who pretend to be gay men, using everything they learned about gay culture from Brokeback Mountain, or who create a zillion sockpuppets and go completely Machiavellian just to become Internet Famous in a very specific segment of Livejournal fanfiction.

The teenage girls who write about being a SAHM to twins and quadruplets and sextuplets -- all totally not from IVF but from JESUS and they are all girls and identical and their names are Kaylaynia Devion Brintley Kamrie Brialynne Faith Hope Peace Godina Phoenix Ecetera. (That last one is pronounced ma-KEN-zee, of course.)

Seriously, I freaking love that shit. I mean, I really do feel for people who get taken in, and get their emotions and wallets toyed with, or have their photos or writing stolen (I've been there, and it's annoying as hell). I just...man. It's so awesome when the shit hits the fan and the person gets caught and panics and posts non-apologies for awhile before bahbleeting everything, but OF COURSE everybody swoops in and digs all the lies out of Google's cache and is all TEH CRAZY, LET ME SHOW YOU IT. IS SWEET JUSTICE TIMEZ NAO.

I eat it up, I love it so. Don't ever adjust your meds, Internet.

***

Let's see. What else.

The Mighty Zah is taking his Scrunchy Face to new levels, meaning he now smiles so hard that his eyes close and he bumps into things. I keep trying to get a picture of it but the sight of our camera still brings out the Serious Baby in him, so all I end up with are more photos of him giving me the stinkeye. 

 

So not amused. At all. Not even a little. Now take this stupid crown off, you've dressed me like a convict again and a glittery shiny 99-cent crown from the party store doesn't even make sense, much like the rest of this entry.

When You Viral

Wow. Okay. So.

The When You Marry book thing (album? commentary? no, I think "thing" was just about right.) took quite a tour around Teh Interweb last week -- first on Sociological Images, which Kelly tells me means that I am Officially Important to Sociology and Stuff, then to Jezebel (thanks for the link back to the original site OH WAIT NEVER MIND), and then a bunch of other blogs, culminating over the weekend with a front-page mention on Fark, the web's premiere depository of stupid, pointless, too-much-time-on-our-hands bullshit.

This mostly means that I am 1) kicking myself for the massive monetizing FAIL of dumping the scans into Typepad's ad-free photo album format, and 2) absolutely drowning in emails from people who want to tell me their theories about Brenda's boyfriend's name.

As was established pretty quickly in the comments on the first batch of scans, his name is likely Quin or Zion, as I clearly haven't written in proper cursive handwriting in full-on decades now. But I am not sure what I'm expected to do with this information -- find them on Facebook? Classmates.com? Travel to Edinboro, Pennsylvania and attempt to track down the D.C. Heath and Company publishing representative from the front inside flap and figure out what high school this book originated from? And then scan the attendance records to figure out if there was indeed a possibly interracial couple with a possible out-of-wedlock mixed-race baby who went on to live happily ever after In Spite Of Everything & Cultural Mores Of The Time & Also That Judge In Louisiana? Or at least whether they got an A in the class? I DON'T KNOW. But now I feel like I am letting the Internet down because I don't have a conclusion to the story. I should probably upload the last couple chapters, at least.

Anyway. Hello, 15 minutes of Internet fame! You are delicious, yet ultimately hollow, ranking a few notches below stealing chocolate Easter bunnies from my children. I have two of them, by the way, in case you're new to the blog. I don't think I mention them in the book scan commentary anywhere. Probably because there were no ads. I mean, Christ, what's the point then? You think I had kids to save my marriage, or something?

I spent the weekend visiting family, blissfully unaware that my site was threatening to buckle under the weight of all those extra eyeballs, celebrating the boys' birthdays with my parents (who are doing super-well, by the way, thank you to everyone who has asked) and siblings and nephews and approximately 4,504,092 SQUAWKY BEEPY BLINKY BOOPY BATTERY-OPERATED TOYS. 

Oh, and. Also. Listening to Ezra say his first words.

*pulls sweater neckhole over face, bites fabric from the inside, realizes too late that's it's fucking angora, desperately tries to remove coating of wool from tongue*

On Thursday, Jason managed to half-convince me that Ezra's wails of MAMAAAA, MAAMAAAAA! from his crib were actually deliberate, as opposed to just some horrible proof that the word "mama" just happened to originate from the horrible bleating sounds babies make when they cry. I remained skeptical, even after Ez threw in a finger-point. MAAAMAAAAAAAAAWAAAAHHHwhatever.

On Saturday, he said "outside." Multiple times, in front of multiple corroborating witnesses (but not nine different camera angles, because although we brought three cameras, we forgot at least one vital piece of each one, including batteries, memory cards, and chargers), while plastering himself against my parents' sliding glass door. OWS EYE! OWS EYE! Then he decided to lick the glass for awhile. HE IS CLEARLY A GENIUS.

He will also point to a mirror and identify himself as "Zah." 

MOMMYBLOGGER OUT. *drops mike*

The Bacon Poler Express

So I figured something out, something that should really help my time-crunched, messed-up schedule quite a bit. I just need to multitask. Everything I do must serve a dual purpose. Like, I can put Swiffer cloths on the baby's knees, color my roots while I drive, teach my preschooler how to use his pragmatic language skills to argue with our health insurance. And lunch! Oh, what a pointless uni-task waste of time that is! Until now!

Yep. Time for another adventure in microwavery. On today's menu:

BACON POLES!

So I actually felt a little sad about how terrible that poor souffle turned out, especially since...well, come on. It was a souffle. That I microwaved. Let's not stack the deck too high against any chance of success, shall we? So I chose this recipe because 1) it contains bacon, 2) I had a coupon for bacon, 3) microwaved bacon is actually pretty darn good, and 4) BACON POLES, YOU GUYS.

MEAT STICKS.

BEEFLOGS. (Okay, PORKLOGS, if you buy into the idea of a single magical animal that gives us pork and bacon and ham and logs.)

(Also pictured, top right: "Seaside Cheese Dip." The secret ingredient is canned clams!)

I'm a big fan of things wrapped in bacon, and an even bigger fan of meats on sticks. Put meat on a stick and wrap it in bacon, and I will...uh. I will eat it. Yeah. I'm that serious. (Although if you present me with the other recipe on page 55 -- Microwaved Bacon-Wrapped Chicken Livers -- I may pass on those.)

ANYWAY! It's a pretty straightforward recipe. Packaged breadsticks, bacon, scissors, paper towels and a paper plate.'Twas a simpler time, in a way.

I wish I could say that my perfectly seasonal choice of paper plate was intentional, but it's actually a leftover from last Halloween. (I also may have some fun-sized toffee bars or some other thing that no one in our household likes. You know, in case our BACON POLES! don't turn out so well.)

Cut bacon in half with scissors. Ew. This is actually not super fun, but I suppose it's necessary to achieve true spiral "barber pole fashion."

 

Mmmm, meat barber lollipops.

Now, there was no way I was going to follow the times in the recipe -- while "Defrost" and "Medium" have proven to be fairly comparable, cooking on "High" in a modern-day microwave is the 1977-equivalent to roasting over an open rod of plutonium.

My microwave actually has a "bacon" setting, but it requires math and stuff, like dividing an 8-ounce package of bacon by 10 strips and then multiplying by three strips, which means this is about 2.4 ounces of bacon but you can only enter whole numbers awwww fuck it, let's just nuke the plate for a minute and a half or so.

 

The crackling sound means it's working! Or that it's about to explode. Definitely one of those two things.

 

Okay, so the first batch came out a leeeeeettle well-done. They tasted distinctly burnt, with playful undernotes of char-broiled nitrates. The bacon-wrapped section of breadstick was cooked to the point of blackened petrification.

(STOP MOCKING ME, STUPID JACK O' LANTERN PLATE.)

 

Take two! I was determined to succeed this time, since DUDE. It's a fucking microwave. Surely I can not fuck up a fucking recipe that involves little more than pressing a a fucking button. I mean, for all my mockery of this cookbook, I am running dangerously close to being run over by a GE-powered truckload of irony.

I also wanted to eat some bacon, so I made a few modern-day concessions: the rotating turntable went back in, and I used the "bacon" setting, figuring that even if the cooking time wasn't exact, the power level would be. I aimed for underdone, and checked on them compulsively. Come on, BACON POLES!

Huzzah! Close enough, more or less. Eh.

 

For cookbook-photo comparison purposes. I am so serving these at our next Key Party! They'll be awesome dipped into some Canned Clam Cream Cheese Dip!

Okay, so of course I tasted the BACON POLES!, despite the fact that the end product sort of alarmingly reminded me of these dog treats we used to give Ceiba, until we figured out that she was just gnawing off the bacon-like wrapping and then hiding the rawhide stick-part under the sofa cushions.

These were neither especially bacon-y nor pole-like -- eaten warm, the breadstick was kind of chewy. Once they cooled, the breadstick STILL tasted overcooked and the bacon was rendered down to little more than salt. A thick, reddish-brown crunchy coating of salt.

The first one was pretty good, in a "wow, it's like they figured out how to sell bacon in a vending machine" sort of way.

The second one was...uncomfortably salty. What is this world, where bacon is something other than completely delicious? I am distinctly unsettled.

By the time I nibbled on a third one my tongue was shriveling up and I needed WATER WATER MAYDAY WATER.

 

Ceiba really liked them, so...that's something. 

(It will probably surprise absolutely NO ONE AT ALL that Paula Deen has her own recipe for BACON POLES! She makes hers in a fancydancy oven. And then she covers them in cheese.)

(BACON POLES!)

How's Noah?

Phone calls, voice mails, emails. Messages on Facebook and Twitter and blog comments. How's Noah? How's Noah doing? You haven't written much about Noah this month, about the schools, about how he's doing. So how's Noah doing?

When I was busy assembling his birthday video, I admit my jaw dropped a little when I came across the stuff from this time last year. This time last year, may I remind you, was months after he'd graduated out of early intervention and speech therapy, yet still a couple months before his preschool decided to stop being polite and start getting real, before we started living under the shadow of Various Ominous Acronyms.

In about...oh, 90% of the video from last year, I cannot understand a word he says. I could at the time, and in one particular video from Ezra's birthday I can also pick up some barely-veiled annoyance at my in-laws for misunderstanding Noah for the 50th time during a 20-minute hospital visit, like ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO HIM? ARE YOU EVEN TRYING?

Of course they were. And I'm sure his preschool teacher was too. It's so obvious now, when I hear his garbled little babyspeak, that he was having a hard time communicating with anyone who wasn't US, who wasn't on Noah's Day & Routine Auto-Pilot. Once Ezra arrived even we started falling down on the job -- getting irritated at his lack of flexibility, having less patience for his tantrums, depending on him to make his needs known in some way other than freaking out because Grandma put his Cheerios in the wrong bowl.

Anyway. Cliffs Notes version of This Past Year: TOTAL. BALLS.

But if you go back and read my entries from the Great First Weeks of Preschool (and oh God, please don't. and definitively don't tell me about them, or call me on the phone and read them out loud into my voice mail like my one friend used to do whenever she thought I was being particularly jackasstastic.), I am pretty sure that I am brimming with boundless optimism and pride. There have been QUITE A FEW points in our special-needs journey (my voicemail: your JOURNEY? where the fuck are you going? on a vision quest? shall I now serenade you with a few bars of Don't Stop Believin'?) when I've had an itchy trigger finger and written some kind of summary final-chapter "and now I shall never use the speech delays or SPD category labels again, huzzah!" entry.

And then a few months after that I have to eat my words all over again. Oh, remember when I said he was fine? Okay, scratch that. Maybe not totally fine. Or the kind of fine I thought I meant. Something is not quite right! Something is wrong! Hold me, Internet! I'm neurotic and have lost my mastery of basic punctuation!

So...I have been treading lightly, this past month. Noah takes the school bus to our local public school four mornings a week. He gets home, I spend 30 minutes trying to coax a peanut butter and jelly sandwich into his mouth hole and then we all get into the car and drive several highway exits north to the private school, where he attends five afternoons a week. I start the week the off in the writing-deadline weeds and by Wednesday or Thursday the weeds are up to my chest and have developed opposable thumbs and a penchant for kneecap-whacking. I realize I can't ignore the catch-22 situation of needing to continue working -- and likely up my workload -- to send Noah to the preschool in the first place, but also needing to secure just a few hours of babysitting during the week for Ezra so I can even come close to keeping up with my current deadlines. I actually need to be back in the car in about 15 minutes from now, even though I'm still thundering through a first draft with no real point or cohesiveness, thus in 15 minutes I'll shrug and hit the publish button and wake the poor baby up from his afternoon nap AGAIN and drive up there and pray that no one notices that I'm not showered. Hey, I was working out! I did The 30 Day Shred!

I did it last night, before bed, but whatever. MERE TECHNICALITY.

We're working harder at this -- this THING, this WHATEVER -- than we ever have before. I don't have time to write about it, I don't have the stomach to put it all down into words because it feels like the roller coaster never ends, but in fact sends you through another plummeting free fall and loopdeeloop whenever you start thinking it's slowing down. Sometimes I'm just so tired of it all.

So for now, we just keep going with it.

But still. Dear readers and friends and family. Noah is fine. Noah is great. Noah is entirely too preoccupied with kicking ass to bother with any of us. He loves school, he loves his teachers. He made a ladybug out of a rock and a giant tree out of construction paper. He loves the school bus, practicing his letters, both of his music classes...and one particularly pretty little dark-haired girl in the afternoon program named Zee. They hug a lot.

Sometimes he gets a little too tired to talk about it all too. But who can blame him?

Look Who's Walking

One tentative first step yesterday, one that I only barely happened to notice, right after I turned to look at him for no particular reason. One second his hand clung to our bedframe as usual as he made his way across the room in search of mischief or perhaps an errant steak knife, and then he let go and continued to shuffle and wobble forward. Two seconds, tops, and then he dropped back onto his diapered butt and looked up at me in surprise. I shouted downstairs to Jason: Ezra took a step! He just took a step!

And then silently, to myself: I'm so glad I got to see it. 

Less than an hour or so later, at a neighbor's open house party, Jason and I watched him take two, three more. We pointed and grinned at each other from across the room, like big fat pantomiming loons, both just overly pleased that we both got to see it that time.

It's hard not to be super uber-cheesy about the first steps. Sure, mobility = giant sucking suckhole of hell and headbruises. And walking = the end of babyhood, the official passage into full-tilt toddlerhood. But it's still such an AWESOME milestone. I remember contemplating the spindly chicken legs and floppy heads and torsos of my newborns and trying to picture them walking. It seemed ridiculous, like there was a better chance that goldfish would spontaneously evolve and crawl out of their bowls on newly sprouted haunches than one of these helpless flailing creature actually walking upright within the span of 12 months or so.

And then before you know it, they're up, and they're off.

But I'm so glad I get to be here to see it.

The Obligatory

 

Ezra, being his typical charming self, voicing his displeasure over being deposited in his high chair when he was right in the middle of disconnecting the refrigerator's water hook-up, and also over his hand-me-down 1st Birthday Boy bib, like SORRY, Novelty Bib Establishment, I also reused a Baby's First Christmas bib and there's nothing you can do about it.

But wait! What's this?

 

I am...curious. Strangely...drawn to it.

Though also a little baffled by it.

 

Aha! Food! I like food.

Yep. I do like...

 

OMG.

 

OMG.

 

OMG. OMG.

 

OMG.

 

Whoa. WHOA.

 

<NOMNOMROMROMMOMMOM>

 

<SNARFSNARFSNARFMMMPHHH>

 

Wut?

 

Dude. You have no idea.

It's like, soooooo goo-

 

OH CRAP.

 

HULK...GETTING...ANGRY...

Aaaaaaaand scene.