Unity

Trickery

Very pleased with myself today. I've been getting terrible pictures of Eli lately because he seems to contort his face in the most awkward way possible just as I click the shutter. Today I told him to pretend he was an angel, and lo and behold I got this:



I also figured out that by taking along my little 50mm lens I could eliminate a couple of pounds out of the diaper bag and still get great photos.

Small ideas lead to a happy mom.

You know what stresses me out?

This:


I've almost gotten used to having every single Lego tower I build get knocked over before I'm done and I can deal with the fact that anything I put away gets taken right back out again, but for some reason, mixing the play-doh colors makes me nutty.

But I let him do it because I know it's the right thing to do.

But again for the record, it makes me nutty.

Too smart for my own good

Before Eli's nap each day I usually spend a few minutes cuddling with him. I used to tell him I couldn't, not wanting to form "bad habits," but then one day I realized, "Am I nuts? He's not going to ask me to do this forever." So, now I do it. The first day I said yes it took him by such surprise that his response was, "You can? Why could you?" And now, just about every day, when he asks and I say yes, he says "Why could you?"

Today as we got comfy he asked if I was going to go soon (I always give him a one minute warning) and I said yes. He said, "Why will you go?" And I said, "Because I can do things while you sleep, like cook and clean...." And in a sort of quiet sing-songy voice he repeated it back to me: "Cook and clean and watch television..."

Ahem.

It's not as if the first thing I did when he fell asleep was go grab that piece of carrot cake I snuck into the cart at the supermarket when he wasn't looking and then settle in on the couch to watch the episode of The Hills I knew Tivo had waiting for me. Geesh. It's not like I did that. No.

I checked email first.

A New Year

Eli was born on New Year's Eve, and this year he turned, well, I think you can guess what he turned.

We had a great time celebrating his birthday together. I took a risk and scheduled his annual check up for that morning. Before you accuse me of being an uncaring mother, I did confirm that there would be no shots involved. The whole thing went fine, except there was supposed to be a shot involved. Oops. So I'll suck up the co-pay and go back. I just can't do that to him, even though I know it would only hurt for a second. It's just not fair.

Everyone needs a post-doctor reward, so we headed over to Dunkin Donuts where they had, of all things, a white frosted donut with M&Ms on it. I swear, Eli -- who had never seen anything like it -- thinks they made is especially for his birthday. He was excited, to say the least. Then we headed to our local children's museum (which was happily very empty) for a couple of hours of playing. Home for lunch, the centerpiece of which was a cupcake, and a hard-fought-for nap. He needed to sleep because in the evening hours we headed to a friend's house for a European New Year's celebration. (Actual midnight just doesn't work well for three-year-olds.)



We saved Eli's present from us for the following day because we knew it would require some real time, which we just didn't have on his busy busy birthday. Needless to say, he was pleased with it.



So. Three. He's three. And he's a good three, not that I'm biased. It's true what they say, that they just get more fun. I've thought every age has been the absolute perfect one and then he just goes and gets even more charming, more interesting, more adorable. Some days I can't believe how big he is, that he can reach every light switch in the house now. I can't believe how much he's developed cognitively in the last six months, either, that he actually reads such a wide range of words. And then other days I look at him and think, "Look at that tiny person. He's still very, very small." But every day I love him to pieces.

And guess what? He loves me back. I have very purposefully not encouraged him to say "I love you" to me (or to anyone, really) because as much as I wanted to hear it, I also wanted to know it was coming from him when he said it. He's said it spontaneously a few times, but mostly accompanied by some whining or some manipulation or some other scenario that didn't make it feel like "it." A few nights ago, though, before he fell asleep, he was calling for David (who does bedtime) and I went in instead and he was so surprised and happy, and then even more so when he asked me to cuddle (his usual stalling tactic) and I said yes. I laid down next to him and he said, "I love you, Mommy." That one I count.

Ohhhhhhhh. Okay. Now I get it.

So, this being Jewish in a world of Christmas wasn't hard. At least not until this year. I've alluded to this before, but I was not raised Jewish. I chose this faith after a childhood of Shabbat dinners with friends, a young adulthood of reading and wondering, and a slightly-older but still young adulthood of study and reflection. And somewhere along the way I got lucky and met a wonderful Jewish man, and that worked out rather nicely. So I've been Jewish for six years or so, and the whole giving up Christmas thing? Not too bad. And even when Eli came along, it worked out just fine. Until, that is, this year. And now I get what all of my Jewish friends were talking about when they talked about feeling left out of the holidays.

It must be that when you're almost three, the world starts to want to know more about you - your hopes, your dreams, your visits with Santa. I can't tell you how many times Eli has been asked by strangers at the mall, "Did you go visit Santa today?" Or by strangers other places, "Is Santa coming to your house?" Or how many people have asked me, "Is he very excited about Christmas?" The answers? "No," "No," and "Yeah, I think so."

I've found myself needing to walk a fine line these days. The truth is, he will celebrate Christmas to some extent. Since my side of the family is not Jewish, there's plenty of Christmas cheer to be found. We will spend the day at my sister's house, surrounded by garland and wreaths and twinkling lights. We'll be serenaded by Bing Crosby. We'll drink egg nog. We'll open presents. So, let's face it, Eli will celebrate Christmas. But he won't be sitting on Santa's lap at the mall and we won't need to open our flue to let him visit on Christmas Eve.

I'm not sure it would be easier to explain if we didn't have this gray area to contend with, but regardless it's confusing. Not to him, to me. I still haven't sorted out how I'm going to explain it all to him. I suppose it's not as complicated as I'm making out to be right now, and that once I really have to give him hard and fast information - once it occurs to him to wonder why Santa doesn't come here but he does visit his cousins, once he becomes more insistent that we have holiday decorations like the ones he so admires on the neighbors' houses - I guess it really won't be that hard. It is what it is. And for the time being, he doesn't really need to know more than he does. It's Christmas, the lights are pretty, and giving and receiving gifts feels really good. So for now I'll put aside my need to intellectualize, over-analyze, categorize his experiences and just let him be (almost) three. After all, you only get to do that once.

Dear Eli #1

Dear Eli:
We're entering your third holiday season (fourth, if you count New Year's Eve and New Year's Day of 2004/2005, your first and second days of life), and what fun it is. You are at this remarkable age where you have no recollection whatsoever of last winter, and you have incredible anticipation of this one. Yesterday I got to explain to you that for the next month we'll be shopping for a lot of presents, and then watch you as you thoughtfully made your way through the outdoor store in search of something for your Uncle Tom. Santa Claus is still a complete mystery to you, and that's probably because we don't talk about him much. You have an interesting background where that's concerned because we're Jewish, but my family is not. We won't ever have a tree in our house, but for as long as we're able to, we'll spend Christmas morning at your cousins' house. Some people will tell you that Jews shouldn't celebrate Christmas - and I'll probably have a harder time with that than you will, since I chose this religion and I'm constantly feeling like I have to measure up - but the truth is, you can do anything you want to do. Christmas is a happy day and you should spend it with people you love, whether you celebrate the religious aspects or not.

Your birthday is coming up too, and the way I figure it, this is probably the last year of your childhood where there is no birthday list, no anxious anticipation of the pile of presents at your party. All you've asked for is a moonbounce and a purple cake with black icing and sprinkles, and I can deliver on both of those things. When you heard there would be goodie bags for your friends, you asked if you could have one too, and the answer, of course, is yes, absolutely. I hope you love being a New Year's Eve baby, I really do. It's not the birthday I would have chosen for you - too much hooplah leading up to it, and you'll never get to bring cupcakes into school on your big day - but there is something to be said for being born on a day where so many people around the world are gearing up for a big party.

But before all of that happens, there's Thanksgiving. It'll be a small one this year, with just your two of your grandparents and us. I don't think you'll eat any turkey - you're still pretty much a vegan at this point, almost entirely by your choice - and of course you won't have any pie (we know how you feel about pie), but maybe you'll try the sweet potatoes, or maybe you'll just eat some bread and then get very happy when you realize "a la mode" is actually French for "break out the ice cream."

All of these holidays, now more than ever, symbolize the ending of one thing and the beginning of another. This year, I see my little toddler fading away and I see the beginnings of a wonderful little boy. A preschooler. As your Aunt Janet would say, a dude. And I say, bring it on. I'm ready.

Love,
Mommy

Phew!

That was quite a month. I think I mentioned - before the chaos and general insanity began - that I managed to drum up some freelance work. I sent out marketing materials for my book indexing business (one advantage to being a former academic is knowing plenty of people who will write books in the future) and it yielded some editing (and later, indexing) work. For the last six weeks or so I have been helping an old colleague edit a book, the topic of which was so closely connected to my own research that it may as well have been my own. And, to sum it up, it was awesome (and tiring).

At first, it sort of made my head hurt, this whole "thinking" thing. It had been a while. But then I got into a groove and I was just digging it. Sure, I neglected Eli a bit (two days ago, in the heat of the final crunch, he was introduced to the joys of Blockbuster, which I utilized to plant him on the couch for a morning) and he didn't love that every spare second brought me to my computer, but given that I pretty much just covered his preschool tuition for next year, I think he'll forgive me. Which brings me to the other awesome part: this whole working thing? They pay you for it. You work, and then they give you money. It is remarkable how easy it is to forget how good that feels. But now I remember. And I'm hooked.

Money has been so tight for us recently that the money I just earned is pretty much already spoken for (preschool tuition, some car repairs, things like that) but in the midst of it all I did manage a couple of splurges. First, instead of regular coffee, I got lattes - not every time, but often enough. (That had been a place where I cut back. I just love going out and buying a hot cup of coffee but couldn't justify $4.50+ for a drink, so I went to the regular American stuff.) Yum, lattes. And, I also bought myself a pair of expensive jeans. Oh, how I love my jeans.

There's a store in Boston's North End which has a reputation for being able to find the perfect pair of jeans for your body. So, one weekend afternoon when there was a lull in the work, I took off in search of my destiny. Unfortunately, the first pair was a miss. I got them home and just though, "eh." So, I took matters into my own hands and emailed the store owner (hey, if you don't want emails, don't put your address on your store's site!). She was very gracious and told me when she'd be there and said she'd be happy to help. And help she did. I love, love, love my ridiculously overpriced denim.

Somehow, another benefit of all this work was some clarity in thinking about the whole grow-this-family plan. We haven't made a final decision yet, but we're leaning very heavily toward raising Eli as an only. Lately I've been increasingly aware of the sense of relief (combined with a healthy dose of disappointment, but still) that I feel each month when there's no pregnancy. I know I'd still be thrilled if it happened, but there's a part of me - a significant part of me, it seems - that would look forward to a family of three. That, combined with the fact that the largest age difference we would like is four years, and the fact that I will be 41 in four months, has led us to believe that we'll probably try for a few more months and then call it a family.

Oh! And I was talking with the woman for whom I was working all these weeks about raising an only child, because that is what she is currently doing (a 15-year-old daughter) and her solution: get a dog. It might sound ridiculous initially, but think about it: She was saying that her therapist's opinion is that her daughter needed not to be so much the center of things, needed for someone else in the family to also "need." A dog accomplishes that. And for some reason, when she shared this with me, a weight was lifted, as if I suddenly knew how I was going to pull this off.

Anyway, that's where things stand right now. I'm looking forward to getting back to this blog in a meaningful way, and with that in mind, I'm changing formats a little - or at least introducing a new one. It occurred to me that I often put off writing because I feel like I'm writing to "you," (the small group of people who find their way here), and then I suddenly feel pressure, and I just don't write. My primary purpose in writing anything is so that Eli has a record of what his crazy mother was up to way back when. So, from this point on, many of my entries will start with "Dear Eli." I thought about switching blogs, primarily because I had all kinds of fun ideas for titles (like "The Eli Papers") but I'll stick with this. I want the option to have other kinds of posts and he's already going to have weed through about 12 different on-line sources to get the whole story (if he even cares), so it seems the kind thing to do.

So, coming soon: Letters to Eli.

And p.s., no that is not my butt in that photo. Ha! As if.

Freedom

Freedom is going in circles in the belly of a giant yellow and purple bear. Freedom is seeing your parents whiz by at every rotation. Freedom is going on a carnival ride by yourself. Freedom is also a little scary. And freedom is this week's Theme Thursday.

(Incidentally, freedom was not quite this washed out in the original shot, but I can't seem to fix it. My boy is not as green as he looks!)

Overheard

Eli took a while to start talking. Until a few months ago he communicated mostly through sign language and a few select words like "mama" and "cookie." (You know, the important things.) Now that he's chatting up a storm, I can't get enough of it. If I could bottle every conversation and save those bottles to uncork them and drink them down when he's grown and gone and I'm a lonely shell of a mother with 18 cats and a collection of bird figurines, I would. Since that's not possible, I must do what's second best: videotape what I can and transcribe everything else.

Sometimes the things he says to me are laughable in their no-holds-barred, tell-it-like-it-is, don't-pretend-it's-not-happening honesty. For example, one of his favorite things to do is poke at or pinch my, um, less toned areas. He'll come up behind me and squeeze the back of my upper arm and proclaim "Fun to do!" Or he'll poke at my pooch and say "Mushy" (though it comes out more like "moochy"). Sometimes the proclamations have a slightly bittersweet edge to them, like the times he'll point at that same moochy tummy and say "No baby in there." Thanks kiddo. I knew that. He made up for that one when a few days later he reached up, stroked my face, and quietly said, "Real Mommy." Thanks kiddo. I'm glad you think so.

Some of my favorite conversations happen right after he's woken up in the morning or after a nap. For a long time, when our interactions were mostly one-sided with me talking and him nodding or gesturing or gibberishing, I would go in and say "Did you have happy dreams?" After a while he started answering yes (usually) or no (once in a while). Now, after a good sleep, he'll wake up and sit on his bed and repeat over and over "Had happy dreams." "Had happy dreams!" "HAD HAPPY DREAMS!" (Apparently, this now translates to, "My dreams were fine, come get me woman! I need processed snack foods!") That's okay, I'll take it.

Often, if he's a little groggy, I can get him to lie back down with me and snuggle for a bit. Sometimes the things that come out of his mouth in this setting are especially random, like the time he announced, "Mommy has a penis!" (I don't.) But some conversations are consistent, like if I ask him what his dreams were about he'll invariably say "Teletubbies came to our house." This has been his happy dream for as long has he's been able to talk, and the best thing about it is that it's slowly evolving as his imagination takes shape. What I mean is that for a long time it was just that they came to our house. Then he would talk about them dancing. When I would ask if he danced with them, he'd always say "No. Danced alone." But then recently, maybe two weeks ago, when I asked him that question he said "Yes." And then another day he told me they went in their hole and he went with them.

If you're still reading this, I give you credit. I realize that the dreams of someone else's two-year-old may not be the stuff of Pulitizer Prizes, but here's why I need to have a record of it: Can't you just see his little brain working overtime to go beyond the things he's seen somewhere else? Can't you just see my little guy coming out of his shell through these descriptions? I mean, first he's just talking about these weird colorful creatures, describing them from a distance. Now he's dancing with them. As the mother of a shy, reserved boy, this is huge.

What strikes me often is how much the little tiny things in motherhood are simply magic. There is no way I can ever communicate to him how much a one-minute cuddle and conversation in his bed nourishes my whole heart. There is no way he'll ever understand that I relish every opportunity to pick him up out of his car seat because it gives me a chance to feel him and smell him and sneak a kiss onto that neck. There is no way he'll do much more than roll his eyes if, years from now, I tell him that I used to like to sit close to him while he was eating because the very sound of him smacking his lips and the sight of him happily inserting almond butter sandwiches into his mouth could make my insides melt. The best I can hope for is that the almost paralyzing love I have for this kid makes him strong, and happy, and content. And in being all of that, on some level, perhaps he'll know.

What a long, loud trip it's been

My poor kid. Torn between his love of trains and his discomfort with the very sound of them. This is a pretty typical visit to the train station for us, watching all the suburbanites take their daily trip into the city. And it just so happens that trip is this week's theme over at Tracey's Theme Thursday. Head over there for more takes on trip.

Sensing Change

To the untrained observer, there is nothing remarkable about the photo of Eli at the top of this post. Your run-of-the-mill, happy-go-lucky two-and-a-half year old. But to me, there is something very important about this photo, taken just 10 minutes ago. What? Eli's shirt.

Eli is developmentally on-track and perfect in every way. Like every human on this planet, though, he has his challenges: For him, smells are a particular struggle, as are (to a lesser degree) touch, visual stimuli, and sounds. To put it succinctly - but also to vastly oversimplify it - he has Sensory Processing Disorder or Sensory Integration Disorder. This is a very wide umbrella that covers so many symptoms ranging from hypersensitivity of the senses to hyposensitivity to the senses to difficulty with the sense of movement or with the sense of one's own position in relation to the world. For Eli, it means he reacts very strongly to certain smells - often to the point of gagging, sometimes to the point of vomiting - and can't stand to look at various foods. He doesn't like loud sounds, he's not a fan of finger paints (or of many other activities that require messy hands). He is also sometimes more aware of the tags in his shirts than the princess was of the pea. And since he began having a say in what he wears he has flatly refused collared shirts.

We didn't think much of most of the things I just listed; he is two, after all. Wouldn't you expect him to have some very strong preferences, especially ones that make little sense to an adult? But the gagging and refusal to even look at some dinners was making for very tedious meal times. When I saw an advertisement for a seminar on picky eaters I signed right up. The nutritionist who led the group was wonderful and talked a lot about offering reasonable portion sizes and about exposing young eaters to as many foods as possible. Even if they wouldn't eat it, let them see you eating it. I raised my hand: "What if your child won't even let you eat most things in the same room as him?" She asked: "Does he get gaggy, too?" When she said that, it was as if the heavens had opened so the angels could sing. This woman got it. I said "Yes," she said, "talk to me after," and a plan was hatched.

A couple of weeks before this a friend of mine who is an elementary teacher suggested that Eli might have some sensory issues and said I should look into Early Intervention. Not having a clue how it worked, I thought I needed to go to my pediatrician for a referral. So I made an appointment and hunkered down to wait a few weeks. It turns out, as I learned from the nutritionist, no referral is necessary at all. Just call, say you'd like your child evaluated, and they will come. So I called, said I'd like my child evaluated, and they came.

The evaluation was pretty straightforward. In order to qualify for services, Eli's sensory woes had to be delaying his development in one area or more by at least three months. Of course this wasn't slowing him down in the slightest with his language or cognitive development. He did, however, score a little low on "self care." Apparently, the fact that he doesn't show interest in getting himself dressed or undressed and the fact the often chooses not to use a fork puts him behind other kids his age. That (with a couple of other low scores) qualified him to work with an Occupational Therapist (OT).

So for the last couple of months she's been working with Eli once a week, trying to develop his central nervous system and to desensitize him to various tactile, auditory, and olfactory sensations. She gave us the details of a "sensory diet," which requires me to spend 15-20 minutes every two hours or so stimulating his proprioception and vestibular system. What it really amounts to is me helping him to bounce, march, crawl, or roll. Big movements. Being at the playground counts, so we try to make it there every day.

Eli is also very lucky to be part of an Early Intervention playgroup where he spends 90 minutes a week with 9 other kids and 5 OTs having all of his senses stimulated while experts work through the rough spots. For the first several weeks they gave the kids cheese as a snack because it's one of the things that tends to trigger Eli. Last week I watched him through the one-way mirror as they asked him if he wanted crackers or apples. His response? "No cheese this week!" You can't put anything past my boy.

In the fall he'll start Hippotherapy, which is basically work with an OT while he's on a pony. How fun is that?! But the smells of the stable and the texture of the horse and the movement of the ride - these will all be fantastic for him.

There are some days where I feel like all of this is much ado about nothing. I mean, he'll grow out of it, right? But what I always came back to was the worry that he wouldn't outgrow his trouble with smells and I'd have to send him off to school, knowing he'd end up in the stinky cafeteria. Knowing that if the smell bothered him enough, he'd get sick. And knowing that if he got sick, he might be embarrassed or - worse - be made fun of. That was enough to cause me to request the help.

And, as you can see from the picture, things seem to be working. He still has plenty that he doesn't like but look at my boy in his collared shirt! Just look at him! What a little man.

It has been on my mind since I started this blog that I wanted to post some details about all of this. When Eli first started having trouble with smells I googled the heck out the problem and came up with nothing. I didn't have a name for it so I stuck to search terms like gag, gagging, smells, etc., and the only thing I found was an old post to a message board - probably four or five years old - from a mother with the same problem. Sadly, no one had responded to her question. So my hope is that if someone else has the same trouble we do and they're not sure what to call it and not sure where to turn with it, they'll come across my post and know immediately that they aren't alone and that there is something that they can do. So I'm putting out there to the blogosphere, and even if it forever stays with "0 Comments" just below it, I won't care. It needed to be said.

More to chew on

I was talking with a pregnant friend the other day about whether or not she should have an amnio and she was saying she was leaning away from doing it and would be glad when the window of opportunity was over so she could stop thinking about it. I realized today that that's just how I feel. My window of opportunity for conceiving a second child is slowly closing - I've got time left yet, but not a lot - and I honestly believe I'll feel some relief when it's over. Regardless of what happens.

I think I've written earlier that I am completely at peace with all of our options: biological child; adoption; only child. I mull them all over and on any given day I feel great about one, good about another, and not much interested in the third. And it changes all the time. When I thought the day of the lucky sevens was going to pan out for us (it didn't, by the way) I was thrilled about being pregnant again and about having an infant in the house and about everything that went along with both of those things. The day I knew it wasn't our month I was crushed but by the next day I was back to thinking about adoption. Not international adoption this time, but adoption of a child from the foster care system.

I started research on all of that (it's what I do; I research) and am left feeling pretty good about that option. There are so many wonderful kids out there. I don't have hesitations about bringing an older child into our house, at least not when Eli's older too (this would be several years from now) and boy does this plan take a financial load off our minds. My hesitation lies more with the question of, "How do you get to know a child and then make a "decision" without potentially breaking a little heart?" I'm sure I'm not the first to ask this question and I think an info session is in order. (When Eli was first born I was a "new moms' group" junkie. I do believe I have now become an "info session" junkie.)

But then I have my days when I think having an only child is the right fit for us. Maybe. The thing is, I never fully get there. I want to. I have on-line role models who make parenting an only child seem just how I'd want it to be. The chance to get to know your kid inside and out. The time to really engage with them. Quite simply, a happy little family unit. Whether these women stay the mothers of only children or take a different path, at the moment they make life with their onlies look really, really wonderful.

And like I said, I want to get there. But I grew up with a sibling and so did David. We both always imagined we'd have two. When you don't think you will ever be the one having trouble getting knocked up it's easy to be certain about your choices, and that's what I was. Certain. The only thing in question was whether I'd have a boy first or a girl first (because I also somehow thought that was up to me). It's just so hard to imagine raising a boy with no brother or sister. I know I could do it and I know he'd be a happy person. I just never want to hear him say that he was lonely as a child. (That, and there's part of me that thinks that if I'm going to screw up as a mom, it's best spread across a couple of people. Concentrating my flaws onto just one person seems a little cruel, don't you think?)

So that brings us back to how best to grow this family. We'll keep on with the acupuncture and the TTC or the BD or whatever you want to call it. I'm shying away from international adoption (or domestic adoption, for that matter) these days because of two things: cost and time. We don't really have $30K to spend right now and don't anticipate having it in the future. I know there are tax breaks when you adopt and I also know our families would help out, so if money was the only issue, we wouldn't let that stop us. But, there's also the timing issue. Specifically, if we're going to adopt we should start the process now (or at least very soon). That means plunking down about $5K before we've completely given up on a biological child.

And that is how I have found myself looking at websites with photos of waiting children, asking myself if one of them could be mine. Like I said, if we did decide to adopt an older child it wouldn't happen for a few years so realistically, no, none of those children could be mine. But I'm trying this one on for size and it feels pretty good. More research to be done, of course, but it seems like a good option for us, for many reasons.

In the meantime, I'll just keep loving my only. Not a bad option.

love,love,drip

I love my kid - probably more than he loves water fountains, and that's saying something. This is my submission for this week's theme of "Drip."

Starts and stops, please

If there's one thing I like about blogger it's that you can start numerous posts and then stash them away like old movie stubs or your prom corsage - you know, just in case you need them later. That's what I've been doing lately. Stashing. I keep thinking I have an idea for a post but then when I sit down to write something about it, it fizzles out after a few sentences. In short: I don't have much to say.

I did want to make note of something for myself, however. Yesterday, my son became polite. That's right, he now says "please" without being begged and prodded and today I found myself in a bit of a honeymoon phase. I know where it all came from, too. We had a barbecue over the weekend and one of the desserts was a sort of "make your own sundae" deal. So, we are now up to our ears in chocolate and rainbow sprinkles. I wouldn't have wanted Eli eating any sprinkles anyway, but one of the conversations we had at the barbecue was about the fact that sprinkles, like the eyes of Peeps, don't dissolve in acid. And you thought the french fry in Super Size Me was gross. So, yeah, even with his pickiness and the fact that I am thrilled when he eats almost anything with calories, I wasn't pushing for these.

But, he's two, and he knows they're in the house, and we told him "no" once, and that pretty much means he's going to keep asking for them. So last night he formed one of his longest sentences yet: Some. Rainbow. Sprinkles. Now. Please. (Periods there because forming sentences is still a bit of work for him so each word comes out completely independent of the others.) This request was followed by a very hopeful and - if I do say so myself - adorable look on his face. How could we say no?

So there it was. In that brief moment our son discovered the power of "please." All day today he's been adding the word onto every request. "Go up escalator, please?" "Eat french fries, please?" "Go home now, please?" And because it's new and adorable and sweet and exactly how I want him to ask, I say "Yes" to everything. He's getting everything he asks for and I'm busting at the seams with mother-pride.

It can't last, though. One of these days he'll ask for something that I can't possibly agree to and he'll realize that the word is not magic after all. And I suppose at that point we'll regress a bit and I'll have to start dragging it out of him again. But for now I'll just enjoy it. And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go hire a magician and learn how to juggle fire. (Hey, he asked!)

It's all in the numbers

One: The number of children I think we might wind up with.
Even as I ruminate over all of our options (acupuncture, charting, OPKs, adoption, donor eggs, adopting Vicki the Robot, you get the picture) I still keep coming back to the fabulousness of having just Eli. I mean, think of it: I can devote scads of time to him AND still have some time left over for myself. Pre-school of our choice, regardless of cost? Done. The cool sneakers when he's in 8th grade? No problem. A car when he turns 16? Sure, let's get him a safe one with airbags everywhere. College education? Not cheap, but we can manage it. Wedding? Sure! We'll spring for half. I mean, it all just seems so manageable. It's not lost on me that most of the things I just mentioned are financial, and we happen to be operating with a rather squeezed budget at the moment. I would never want to make this kind of decision based solely on money, but finances aside, sticking to one is very tempting. I've said all along that I'm content with whatever course our family history takes. It's the uncertainty of it all that'll be the death of me. But the number one does keep creeping back in to my head, and there must be a reason for that. I'm sure there will be other posts on this at other times, but this is all there is to say about it for now.

40: My age and, apparently, the shelf life of eggs.
For years I'd heard the statistics about fertility in your 40s and I figured, "Not me." I mean, I haven't had a cavity in years. My blood pressure is awesome, if I do say so myself. And sometimes I'll be very still, in the midst of doing something, and I feel like it's very possible that I haven't even breathed in the last minute or so. Seriously, this happens to me. Given that I actually question whether my body needs oxygen to survive, why would I think those blasted statistics would ever apply to me? I mean, I might not even be mortal, for goodness sake. And yet here I am, wishing and hoping that my tired ovaries will crank out a decent egg this weekend. And while I'm pushing for that, my best friend from childhood just had her ovaries removed the other day. She tested positive for the breast cancer gene and lost her mother to ovarian cancer, so this was what she considered the logical choice (and personally - though I know it's controversial - I don't disagree). So I'm thinking there's a shelf life on these things. It's not hard and fast, but it's there, it appears to be 40(ish), and it's annoying me.

Seven: The day, the month, the year.
I know a lot of very pregnant couples are hoping for their children to be born on this date, what with the lucky symbolism of it. I'm asking the Vegas gods to spread a little luck this way, though. The way I look at it, those couples are already lucky. Those babies are coming out one of these days anyway and there are some of us that could really, really use that luck. Like me, for instance. I'll be ovulating today (is that TMI? My blog; my personal details - sorry!) and I think conceiving a kid on this, the luckiest day of the century, could be very nice. And think of the fetus nicknames! Jackpot. Jackie P. Little JP. Yes, it's the perfect day indeed. So come on, sevens. Mama needs a new pair of baby shoes.

Spectacle!

It's Theme Thursday over at Tracey's and after a several week hiatus (following a lonely, solitary week of participation), I finally have something to share! The theme this week is spectacle, and that, on the surface, was hard for me. My life is not about spectacle. My family - in particular, my boy - is not about spectacle. Trying to cajole my quiet, somewhat introverted, never-one-to-make-a-spectacle-of-himself little one into doing something spectacular is like trying to squeeze milk out of a juice box. You'll get something, but it's not what you were going for. But, scratch the surface of the word "spectacle" and you find an "s" you can tack on, and voila! Spectacles!

One of my favorite things about this shot is being able to look over his shoulder to see a fuzzy image of one of my favorite baby photos of Eli. Something about the past being off in the distance, still recognizable, but not the focus. Something about my two-and-a-half year old being right there, front and (slightly off) center. Just how it should be.

Scrooge

I am well on my way to becoming one of those crazy old ladies who stands on her front porch screaming nonsensical orders at innocent people who happen to travel by. It's sad but true.

Eli has been napping for an hour and forty five minutes and I like it. I want to keep him sleeping because it is quiet and I am content. So the fact that my neighbors across the street (teenagers) are outside playing basketball does not please me. The "thud" "thud" "thud" was not awful. Sort of a rhythmic white noise and Eli was sleeping through it. Then they brought the dog outside. The dog barked. Quiet! You... DOG! (That was in my head.) Neighbor girl yelled at the dog. While the sentiment was appreciated from this side of my front door, the noise level was not. Quiet! You... neighbor girl!

These are not the only noises that I think of as my nemesis. The worst one? The &%$*! ICE CREAM TRUCK! The damn thing manages to circle our house several times, almost always during nap time. There have been a couple of exceptions which only means that Eli has seen it and now when he hears it but doesn't get to the window in time to see it, we have a problem. He spends the rest of the day whining "Want mucack (music) truck!" (Yes, I told him it's a music truck. I don't think he really needs to know what's inside there, do you?)

So, yeah, I'm the crazy lady who utters obscenities at the sounds of children and animals playing and at the ice cream truck. Great.

Don't you wish your boyfriend was two like me?

It's a marvel, this unconditional love. I would have (and probably have, in fact) dumped men from my life for far less than I tolerate with my current constant companion. And yet, aside from the occasional parenthetical complaint (like this one), my son gets away with some of the worst habits I've ever encountered from a member of the opposite sex.

To wit:
*He orders me around with no manners whatsoever. I can weasel a please out of him when I remember to try, and he'll offer the occasional ill-timed "thank you" (after he's hoisted himself into his car seat on his own, while I'm busy doing something in the front seat, for example), but more often I get "take away" or "don't like; move" and I quietly comply.
*He doesn't know the meaning of personal hygiene. He loves tissues, but mainly sees them as an activity - as in "how many can you take out of the box in 30 seconds flat?" - rather than a tool. Instead, he prefers to offer his boogers to me. And I take them. Gladly.
*I generally put all of the effort into this relationship. I'm constantly coming up with things for us to do that involve... Fantasy! (Let's pretend we're elephants!) Travel! (Hey, let's go to that new playground!) Adventure! (Let's make a fort!) And 87 times out of a hundred, I'm met with a flat "No." The other 13 times the "No" is accompanied by a high pitched whine. Hey, kid, let's see you make some effort!
*His sense of humor is questionable. His favorite joke is decidedly unfunny, and yet he unapologetically acts it out over and over again, completely oblivious to the sensibilities of his audience. And how could you fault him for that? Even when your strongest wish in the world is that he would please stop taking off his shoes every time I put the car into park!
*He has no qualms about groping me in the most public of places. Breastfed until he was 20 months old, I guess he still finds comfort in the old gals. And did I mention he seeks comfort mainly in public places?
*He has no sense of physical space. Every time I rack up a new bump or bruise from an accidental encounter with my son's hard, hard head I am reminded of that age-old question, "If a tree falls in a deserted forest..." Because really, if a mom gets a black eye but is more concerned with calming her crying boy than icing a swelling, purple cheek, does it really even count?

This morning when I realized that if had ever dated someone with my son's habits he'd've been gone in a second I also realized something else. When it comes to Eli, none of this matters one lick. I am henpecked and boogered-up. I am unamused and beat-up. And I am completely and madly in love and I wouldn't trade any of it.

Spin!

Well, I haven't done particularly well getting this blog up and rolling, have I? You know what happened? Right about the same time I started the blog I also discovered even more blogs that I just fell in love with. I already had a short list of women's blogs that impressed me beyond words but my recent finds really took it to a new level, not just in the quality of the writing (which is impeccable) but also in the topics these women address. Their words make the most mundane events poetic and the most tragic situations palpable. These are books I can't put down; these are blogs I can't live up to.

But the conclusion I've come to is that I don't need to. I admire these women and I drink in their words. My own words still need to be said. Sure, I won't think they're as eloquent and I'll probably never have Starbucks wanting to advertise on my blog, but I still need to say them, right? Today seemed like a good day to start. One blog where I've been lurking is Picture This, run by a very talented and wise photographer, Tracey Clark. She's just instituted Thursday Themes and I happened to have a shot I like for today's theme: SPIN!

So, in keeping with the theme I'm dusting off this blog and taking it for a little spin and I'm sharing the shot of Eli and David up top. Let's see how long we can keep this thing moving. :)