sueeeus

My heart is singing today. I’m smiling from the inside out. I probably can’t put it to words, but suffice it to say that it’s a beautiful thing and I feel very, very happy.

It’s a combination of many things, actually.

Last night, my beloved sang himself to sleep. In his race car bed. “Twink-oh, twink-oh widdow stah, how I wondah (pause) ahhhhh, like a diamond, up the sky, twink-oh twink-oh widdow stah…” My heart just bursts. And better yet? No 3 a.m. wakeup call. The whole night, in his own room. The whole night! Would it be too shocking to admit that I allowed him to stay up until nearly 11 p.m.? Even so, the 3 a.m. wakeup call is independent of such things. So. Smiling inside.

This weekend my grandma turned 90. Such a feat, in itself, and she’s still living independently and has control of her mental faculties. She’s doing remarkably well. She’s been in a relatively steady state of health for the last ten years. It’s quite something. My own selfish longevity goal is to make it to 80, if at all possible. Before I had a child, I didn’t have a longevity goal, but now that he’s here, I want to be here for him and see him to adulthood. She reminded me she was an only child. She produced two, who then produced thirteen, who then produced fourteen, who then produced three. These are the generations.

There has been some family drama of the sort in which things are said to give the impression that the sky is falling. And then, like a ray of sunshine, someone steps in with eloquence, humor, and clarity of mind to set the record straight. The mere fact that the angel gave voice is cause for jubilation. The words that he shared, and the way in which he expressed them, were treasure of priceless value. He helped me see a side of things that I generally don’t see. A side that can only be seen through the eyes of unconditional love. A side that is usually clouded by dark memories. I am humbled by his humility, and inspired. Inspired to rise above the chapters of my life that cloud the sunshine from my own heart. And I am grateful. My heart is bursting.

A certain young man was about to crawl behind a rocking chair, which happens to be a place where a tantalizing (especially to a nearly three year old boy) tangle of various and sundry power cords make their home (take a deep breath, I just love these long and impossible sentences, and there’s oh, so much more coming), when his mother barks in her most stern and commanding voice, “Don’t you go there…”

In a mere blink of an eye, a flash, he twists his body to face her, extends his arm, and webs her. WEBS her.

Oh to have captured the expression on his face (this picture captures the gesture, but not the expression). That picture would paint a thousand words.

Oh to fully grasp the depth of the Spiderman obsession. With that flick of the wrist and glint in his eye, he cast forth his invisible web, using his mighty toddler powers to make his mother stop telling him what not to do. Priceless.

I turned to Mr. Gadget. “Did you see what your son just did? He webbed me.”

If only I could have managed not to laugh, and be visibly impressed by my child’s intelligence, dexterity, and imagination, I might have been able to convey the message that “Mommy means business and no means no and you’d jolly well better listen when I’m talking to you, young man.”

Instead, he was obviously pleased with himself, and amused. And even though he didn’t obey me, I was at least able to distract him away from the nest of cords.

So yesterday morning I was bound and determined to send my child to daycare all nice and squeaky clean, rather than scruffy and smelling faintly of urine. Yes, I’m that nearly middle-aged mother who gives in and lets her child, her only child, the one that took a lifetime to beget and bear, have a cup of milk or juice in the evening. So it should be little surprise to find a small child at the side of the bed, each and every morning, oh, around 3 a.m., saying, “I’m all wet.” And the sleepy mother dutifully changes the diaper, or mutters muffled curses if she finds that she’d put him to bed in a pull-up, because pull-ups? Are supposed to be training pants. They just don’t hold that much. Wet jammies and bed linens are pretty much guaranteed, if the child is put to bed in a pull-up.

Oh yes. The race car bed? Well. It works until the “I’m all wet” announcement. After the diaper change, I let him snuggle up in my bed. I tried returning him to the race car once, but lifting a 46lb boy in my cloudy 3 a.m. state, carrying him down the hall and into his room while not tripping on anything en route, and depositing him once more in his own, and possibly now damp, bed, is just too much effort. So he gets to sleep with me. And three hours later, instead of letting him sleep, I give him a shower and dress him in his soft and cozy and freshly washed superman sweats. See, I make good on my promises.

Half way to daycare, he gets a funny look on his face, clutches his stomach, and spews forth the contents. One entire freshly consumed cup of milk. All over him. All over the car. All over everything. I whipped a U-ey. (It’s one of those things you hear people say, but when it comes time to spell it, well…) …So really, all I did was make a U-turn, pull in to a parking lot, leap out of the car and attend to the matter. I sopped up what I could with the blankies on hand, and was half tempted to go ahead and drop him off at daycare and let the babysitter clean him up and change his clothes. Bad mother. Bad, bad mother. But instead we went home. Good mother. The Superman sweatshirt and pants lasted all of twenty minutes. Back in the wash for another day.

I cleaned out the car as best I could with 409 and Febreze, and we set out again. He seemed to be feeling well. He probably just drank the milk way too fast, as he does, then had to burp, as he does, and got caught in a gag reflex. At least he’s not actually sick. That would just be icing on the cake. In spite of waking up extra early to arrive to daycare and work on time and in good hygiene, we arrive very very late, smelling of vomited sour milk. Nice.

I kept the windows down for the drive, hoping the air would help. It didn’t. I left the windows cracked open all day, hoping it would help. It didn’t. That’s the end of the new car smell around here. The evening was spent with the Bissell, in a valiant attempt to rid the car of vomited sour milk. The resale value has plummeted dramatically. At least the car seat could be disassembled so I could wash the seat cover. But what to do about the seat belts? How can I get the vomited sour milk out of them? I’m at a loss. Keep dousing them with Febreze until they are saturated and the Febreze wins?

Yes, as long as the smell of vomited sour milk wafts through the air as we journey in our trusty minivan, the memory of this day will live on. And on.

Mondays are sometimes difficult for my little guy. Especially after a weekend loaded with fun and frolic. We had my 7 year old nephew over this weekend, while his sisters and mother spent the weekend unpacking and moving in to their new place. We’re all so happy to have them back in our neck of the woods. Now we can resume our fabulous Sunday family dinner get-togethers, and better yet, the boys can have some boy time together. We shall be having many play dates in the months ahead.

Superman is the hero of the season around these parts. My little man’s super hero senses can detect anything with the Superman emblem from yards and yards away. To don the emblem is to become the superhero. So when I insist that it’s time to put on a clean shirt, in order to wash the Superman shirt that has been worn a full day and night (why not sleep in it, if it’s soft and warm, and works just fine for jammies, and yes, that means he didn’t have a bath last night) –let’s just say there are tears of dissension.

I remember when my niece was his age. She had the most awful pink synthetic nightie with a Cinderella decal ironed on the front. She wore that nightie until it was nothing but tatters, because when she wore it, she was a princess. It’s marketing genius on Disney’s part, but why can’t they make these things less tacky? It could be the coldest winter day, but she’d insist on wearing that whisper of a nightie.

The act of being. To don the emblem is to become the hero or the princess. Maybe becoming a first time mother at the tender age of forty (shy two months, but who’s counting) gave me a bit more wisdom, because we have both heavyweight and lightweight superhero-emblazoned pajamas in this house. We’re prepared for all seasons.

It’s so heart-wrenching, on a rainy Monday as today, to explain through his tears that his cousin is at his own house now. To explain that it’s time for me to go to work, and time for him to go to daycare. And again, once we arrive at the daycare, through a new flood of tears, that it’s time to say goodbye.

Rainy days and Mondays always get me down.

Inside Mr. Gadget’s desk.  In the bachelor pad.
I wanted my own office, so he turned one of the spare bedrooms into his own office –and now I call that the bachelor pad.  It’s the place, besides the garage, where all things that I don’t want to see must be stored.  Remote control vehicles, electronics, gadgets, and whatnot.

It’s one of those corner hutch style computer desks with a few shelves and cubbyholes.

They were tucked neatly towards the back of one of the shelves.

Mystery solved.

One pair red suede shoes.

Last seen Tuesday.

I am a creature of habit.  I take my shoes off, generally in the same place.  We have a shoe rack, also.  Which we use.  And my house, although cluttered, what with a young and very energetic boy on premise, is not that cluttered.  I mean, it could be worse.

So where are my red suede shoes?

Red, Red, Red Suede Shoes…

There is a certain young man in the house who likes to wear his mother’s shoes and stomp about the house.  He also likes to hide things.  I’m not saying that he has anything to do with it…

…but they are nowhere to be found.  Not in the closet.  Or the other closet.  Or any closet.  Not on the shoe rack.  Not in the washing machine (I just checked).  Not under the sofa.  Not under the bed.  Not in the dryer.  Not in the trash bin.  Not in the recycle bins.  Not under my desk.  Not under the table.  Not under the rocking chair.  Not in the cedar chest.  Not in the file cabinet.  Not in the laundry baskets.  Not in the toy box.  Not in the pantry.  Not in the oven.  Not in the armoire.  Not on the porch.  Not behind the sofa.  Not in the bathtub.  Not in the garage.  Not in the fridge (yes, I looked).  Not in the sand box.  Not in the garden box.

I LOOKED!  I can’t find them anywhere.

Not under the sink.  The place where I keep the little compost bin.  The one that I keep forgetting to diligently empty outside.  The one that is an impressive breeding ground for fruit flies and mold.  The one that is now in the garbage bin.  Because I can’t bring myself to wash it in all it’s ickiness, and recycle it properly (although I did first empty it in the outside compost bin).  And I’m tired of stalking fruit flies with my inhumane airborne insect electrocution device (compliments of Mr. Gadget).  It’s them or me, and I must prevail, humane or not.  War is waged.

But where are my shoes?  They are my favorite shoes.  It remains a mystery.

A sweet small voice.  “I’m all wet.”  I glance at the clock.  5:30 a.m.

5:30 a.m.!!!  That’s close enough to claim he made it through the night, in his own room.  In. His. Own. Room!  The race car bed was a genius maneuver.  Genius!

Do I snuggle with him for another half hour, or do I get up, put his bedding in the washer, and start my morning?  After a few minutes of warm snuggly contemplation, I decided to go ahead and get on with the day.

A quiet morning to myself.  A cappuccino.  A few minutes for  a blog post.  Even so, bets are on that I’ll be late for work anyway.  A night on his own though!  So worth it.

If you were, oh, say, a two and three fourths year old boy who has had some scary nights now and again, and you came home to find this in your room, what would you think?

You might think that your mother was a magical genie who could, in the span of a lunch break, and with the help of Craig’s List, a fortuitous recent trip to the ATM, and a gallon of gas in the minivan, manage to find, buy, load, unload, sanitize, and assemble THIS!

Yes, it’s plastic. Which means it’s easy to clean. I know, I know. Carbon footprint, and all that. But it’s recycled. There’s no telling how many parents have encouraged their little ones to make it through the night in their own room with this particular bait. When the novelty fades or he outgrows it, whichever comes first, this item will find its way to another home, to hopefully make another child’s life just a wee bit more magical.

And my precious little boy child will have to manage some impressive somnolent contortions to fall out of this contraption. I’m only a bit concerned that he’s already too big for it. Nevertheless, I think he will be delighted, if only for a moment.

A piercing scream. I rip the breathing apparatus from my face and leap from the bed as my child emits another shrill, piercing scream. It’s 3 a.m. Hearts pounding. Holding him close. Comforting him. A bad dream? A spider on his face? I tear his bedding apart, looking for any creepy crawly evidence. None found. Could it have been the wispy edge of the curtain, brushing against his face? Possibly. He sleeps like a helicopter. His head may be on the pillow when first he falls, but through the night he turns and twists and ends up under the bed, half on, half off, or upside down. There’s no telling. This night his face was at the foot, near where the curtains fall. It could have been the tickle of the wispy light drapes on his face. Or was it truly a night terror?

Such a troubling start to a Monday morning. My heart aches for what could cause him such terror. Driving back from daycare, through the fog in my brain, I catch a moment of the morning radio show. Health clips. The topic? Night terrors. The doctor explains that virtually all children who experience night terrors are well-adjusted, and that it doesn’t indicate issues with their mental and emotional health. Moreover, children seldom remember the night terror after they fall back asleep.

It was like manna from heaven. Perfect words at the perfect time to set an anxious mother’s heart at ease.

And there’s even better news. We’ve been making great strides in the potty training endeavor. At the ripe age of two and three fourths, he’s starting to get it.

Of course we make a big production of it.

First, the announcement.

“Ohhhhhhhh, I have to go POTTTTTTTTT-EEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

And then we spring into action. “Hurry!” “Try to hold it ’til we get there!” “Let’s get those pants off!” “Hurry!”

And the chorus. “Hurry!!! Hurry! Hurry!!!”

Sometimes there’s a struggle over wanting to bring a companion toy along for the event. Then there’s the decision as to whether to use the stool or not. Or which stool to use. Or whether to use the potty seat, or not. Or whether to have the seat up or down. He used to immediately begin unrolling the toilet paper. Because that is SO much fun. But now he just hands me the roll. He’s conditioned, since I’ve taken it away from him so many times. Often he’ll change his mind about the seat and stool configuration, so he will stand up and insist on changing things up. And sometimes, he’ll actually go. He finds it quite intriguing. As it is.

“WOOK!!!”

While I’m on the subject of memory lane.

One thing an ex used to say. “I paid my dues.”

As if a few years of self-sacrifice entitle one to a lifetime free of any further responsibility.

Hello? What are dues? Life is responsibility. It doesn’t stop until we’re dead. How is it that there comes to be a roof over one’s head, food on one’s plate, a shirt on one’s back?

As parents, we provide these things for our children. When they are grown, off they go to provide these for themselves and for their children. It’s the way of the world.

Grow up.

Ever the hard-nosed biddy.

I marvel at those people who think the world, or somebody, owes them something. I wonder where they get that notion, and so deeply embedded at that.