out of Kadesh

Me: “You know, we’re just going to blink and Noah’s going to be 10. And then we’re going to blink again and he’ll be 20.”
Lance: “Yep.”
Me: “Which is why I propose we move to Never Land.”
Lance: “What?”
Me: “To Never Never Land.”
Lance: “Ok.”
Me: “How do we do it?”
Lance: “Well, first we have to find some Pixie Dust.”
Me: “And we have to figure out how to get there. I think it’s somewhere past the third star…”
Lance: “And straight on till morning?”
Me: “Right.”
Lance: “That part is easy. We could google it. The hard part is going to be finding a fairy.”
Me: “They live mostly in forests, I believe.”
Lance: “There are some trees behind the coffee shop.”
Me: “So all we have to do is go back in those scary woods back there, find a fairy, figure out a way to steal her dust, and set Never Land into our GPS. We’re practically there already! Noah, are you ready to never ever ever grow up?”

Last night Lance and I were in a feverishly heated discussion about these articles I had been reading about abortion. (Not heated with each other, but heated on the same side against… THE ENEMY.) (Couldn’t think of another way to put that.) And abortion! It’s not like we were in a heated discussion about the merits of running vs. swimming for a healthy heart or the taste of sugary vs. salted peanut butter. Why I chose right before bed to read articles which I KNEW were going to infuriate me I can’t quite explain. I really don’t like feeling angry, even righteously so. Promise. And I realize it was particularly unfair of me to take my pile of pre-bedtime anger and dump it into my poor husband’s lap, but I didn’t know what else to do with it. I needed him to share the load. It’s not my fault! (Ok, it is, but don’t tell Lance.)

Actually, discussing it didn’t help. I should probably have just quietly smoldered with fury for a few minutes. Maybe my impassioned anger would have turned into sex, which definitely would have been better than the two of us, side by side looking at the ceiling, yelling about how stupid everyone is in the whole wide world. I should have. But I didn’t. And instead of halving my ball of indignation, I doubled it, because I still had mine and now Lance was all angry too. Really I tripled it, because discussing it actually made me feel doubly worse.

And you know how discussions go in which you feel super passionate, they just escalate. Like we start talking about one thing, which leads to how we feel about another thing, which leads to how defiant we are about this other thing, and every sentence ends with some variation of ANDJUSTWHODOTHEYTHINKTHEYARE!, so by the end we’re just furious and sad and feel sort of helpless.

I don’t know if you have ever tried relaxing enough to fall asleep after feeling your blood boil within your veins, but I am here to say that it is not so easy. So after a while Lance was like, “I’m depressed,” and I was like “I’m still SO MAD, like whoa.” I tried to laugh. I was thinking, maybe I’ll just laugh at that senator from Georgia who wrote a bill that demands each miscarriage be investigated to make sure it was accidental. It’s funny, right? I mean there is no way in hell anyone is going to let this bill be passed. And, I reasoned, maybe it is so crazy people will find other, milder versions of this guy also crazy. Which would be good! So I’m like, trying to laugh, and my laughter quickly turns maniacal, which quickly turns into more screaming at the ceiling. (In fact, I’m trying to type this paragraph faster than my brain can pay attention to what my fingers are saying so I don’t get REALLY FUCKING PISSED OFF all over again. Plese disregarrd all typoes.)

In other words, Lance was depressed at the state of the world, and I was ready to climb onto the roof with a megaphone so I could preach to all of East Nashville, and neither of those feelings are healthy for purposes of peaceful sleep.

So I go, “Do you know any jokes? I could really use a joke.” Lance turns onto his stomach and hugs the pillow sleepily and mumbles, “Three guys walk into a bar. You’d figure the second one would have ducked. And… uh… the third one? Um… was uh… blind.” I’m silent for a few seconds before I’m like, “That was the worst joke I’ve ever heard. First, it wasn’t funny. Second, you messed it up.” So he’s like, “Ok, ok, ok. A rabbi, a priest, and an… um… an electrician walk into a bar and the bartender says, ‘Is this a joke?’” And I’m all, “An electrician? That’s not the way it goes.” Lance is all, “Sure, it doesn’t matter what that third guy is.” And I’m like, “Chyeah, what would an electrician do in a joke? It’s supposed to go, ‘A rabbi, a priest, and a blonde walk into a bar.’” And Lance is like, “I think an electrician is just as arbitrary as a blonde.”

And I’m like, “You are no help at all. You need to learn some jokes and how to tell them before I read anything else.”

1. I tried putting Noah down for a nap. It took two hours.

2. Towards the end, Noah bit me. Fucking hard. On the arm.

3. I made a sound I’ve never heard before, something like “Zzz! ZZz-z–ZZZ!”

4. Scared the shit out of my son.

5. I set him in his crib as gently as I could so I could go scream into a pillow, but I hurt his feelings anyway.

6. I ended up picking him up and holding him close. In other words, I comforted my son because he took a chunk out of my arm.

7. I laid Noah in his crib again after a while, which pissed him off.

8. Noah cried.

9. I cried.

10. I went to whine to Lance, showing him the bite welts on my arm. You know. For extra sympathy.

11. Lance asked why Noah was silent.

12. We snuck into Noah’s room. He was asleep.

13. I cried again.

14. Later, Noah scratched me on the face with his caveman fingernails.

15. I clipped Noah’s fingernails.

16. He loved that. He patiently waited and didn’t move his hand around or make everything insanely difficult AT ALL.

17. Number 16? Yeah, that was a lie.

18. We ordered pizza for dinner. Lance’s half had pepperoni, which makes me want to barf. His half of the box was coated with grease.

19. Noah chewed up several bites of cheesy, bready goodness.

20. Then spit them out.

21. Then threw the green bits on the floor.

22. Then the dog mouthed them, and tasted health.

23. Then spit them back out for me to clean up later.

24. It’s like the dog and the kid are in some kind of conspiracy together. I don’t get it.

25. Noah bit me on the leg.

26. I screamed.

27. Lance took Noah, like, away from the screaming, which hurt his feelings. I hurt his feelings for the second time in one day.

28. Ugh.

29. Noah kissed Lance and me goodnight with a big, slobbery open toddler mouth.

30. It was a great day and I am officially the luckiest mom ever.

Dear Noah,

This month you hit the “Terrible Twos.” I know I thought you were only 14 months, but you are definitely two. Because no one talks about the “Terrible 14-Months,” so I just figure I must be off calculating your true age. Right? RIGHT!? Tantrums! Whining! Crying! Looking into my eyes while defiantly throwing food on the floor! Biting me when I specifically ask you not to!

But seriously. The throwing food on the floor. What gives? Is this instinctual or something? Because I’m pretty sure you didn’t learn it from your Daddy and me. I mean that would be chaotic even for us. But you, like a little monkey, have this insatiable need to have a clean surface in front of you at all times. At restaurants or at home, you’re not particular. Just GET THIS FOOD OUT OF YOUR LINE OF VISION STAT. I worry sometimes that you’re not getting enough nutrition, because after a meal when I think, oh, you ate pretty good!, I look at the floor around you and realize that actually all that food I thought you were consuming was going onto the carpet instead of into your belly. But you seem healthy so all I can do is hope this phase passes soon. Isn’t it strange you have to learn how to eat just like you have to learn how to do everything else? Oh, by the way, PLEASE HURRY. I’m getting a WEE bit tired of picking up soggy beans and fruit. Thanks.

Also in the category of things of which I’m a wee bit tired, my little piranha, I have a petition for you. PLEASE STOP BITING ME. Signed, Mommy’s Legs and Collarbone. I promise on everything I hold dear (like my bruised skin), you do not have to chomp on me to get my attention. Those teeth are actually meant to be put to more constructive uses, like eating food. I know it seems crazy, but I think that’s how we have evolved from our uncle, the Ape. If you don’t want to be mistaken for a monkey and hauled off to the zoo, you better learn these important tips.

The thing with the Terrible Twos is, it’s really not your fault you can’t communicate properly with us yet. I know your whining and shrieking, and even biting, is just the way you get our attention. I have nothing else to complain about. You’re pretty much the best thing ever. You have the sweetest personality, and you laugh and smile easily. Everyone in our neighborhood knows your name, and most of the proprietors have held you and given you free stuff to boot.

And despite being in the Terrible Two phase, your patience really surprises me. Last week we took you with us to a distillery, and you quietly sat on my hip while we had a long, detailed tour. You came with us to the art museum before that and you patiently enjoyed the Impressionists. Sometimes when you’re tired of being in your car seat, all I have to do is reach back and hold your hand and you drift right off to sleep. You still charm everyone, especially ladies. I haven’t given up telling you that the only lady you need is Mommy, but I don’t think you’ve quite grasped this yet. It’s ok for now though. Secretly I’m really proud of you for reaching out to everyone. You make people so happy.

You are so funny. You make your Daddy and me laugh every day. This month you have really gotten the hang of mimicking us, which is both delightful and slightly startling. You hold cell phones (and remotes, and toilet paper tubes, and spoons, and the list goes on) up to your ear, you gasp in surprise and put your hands on your cheeks, you pet the dog and cat, you drink out of a straw, and you’re starting to pick out words and say them back to us. You say “hi, Dad” and “Mama.” You can tell me what the cow and the tiger say, you can stick out your tongue, you can point to your nose. You can play pat-a-cake and do the “roll-em-up” part with me. You demand to be held while I’m cooking so you can be part of the action; you take the spoon and stir the sauce, you put the lid on the pan, you taste-test the bread, you shake the spice bottles.

Lately you are really learning the Art of Play. Sometimes when you’re especially quiet, I get nervous and go check on you, and I usually find you on the floor with scattered bits of Mr. Potato Head around you or with seven or eight books open in front of you. You love your Daddy and me to play with you, and you bring us cars so we can zoom them around the floor, puzzles so we can put them together, stuffed animals so we can animate them, etc. You love to be chased, and now that you’re walking it’s so cute to watch you try to run away. You’re still toddling along precariously, but your shoulders are seized up and you’re making fists and I can tell you think you’re sprinting across the house.

Saturday mornings are my favorite time of the week. Your Daddy and I have a tradition: Daddy makes pancakes and then we play Wii golf while we eat them. It makes me so excited that you’re joining this tradition. You sit in your chair and throw pieces of blueberry pancake on the floor while you watch the screen, and then we offer you one of the Wii controllers and you shake it around. It’s so much fun, Love Bug. And even though it’s something small, I hope we can always do fun things together as a family. When you grow up I want you to have beautiful memories of your childhood.

But Step 1 is, stop the biting. K? K.

I love you so much.

Love,

Mommy

This morning, while I was dozing after Lance took Noah to eat some breakfast, I dreamed we moved back to DC and I went back to work. I was talking to my boss, and he was giving me some task that had something to do with newspapers, and it was very involved, and he was trying to explain it all to me. And I was all, uh-huh, yes, I hear you, but the truth is I didn’t have a clue what he was saying. Because I wasn’t listening to him. I was thinking about Noah. I was picturing him walking around some day-care, playing with toys and talking to the day-care workers, and I was fighting back tears because I realized how meaningless my job was. I was missing the only time I have with my little boy – I was wasting it on newspaper articles.

I woke up feeling sad, y’all. I woke up and wanted to hold my baby. So I stumbled into the kitchen and when he saw me, he lit up like I was Christmas morning. He toddled over and lifted his chubby arms over his head (ok, who am I kidding – he lifted his chubby arms and they ALMOST came to the top of his head) and I reached down and picked him up and breathed him in. He smelled like eggs and baby shampoo. I could have eaten him in one bite. And I thought, yes, this is exactly where I want to be.

A friend asked me the other day if I ever get bored staying home with Noah. Is it boring? YES. OMG sometimes it’s soooo boring for real. Like the hundredth time he wants me to make that vroom-vroom car noise with his wooden truck. Or when I’m reading the first four words of The Little Red Hen AGAIN. Or when I’m following him around from room to room, or picking up yet another grape or hunk of soggy bread or cheese after he’s mashed it and thrown it on the floor. Sometimes I long for a work atmosphere, where actual adult human beings inhabit my world and not tiny aliens bent on putting pocket change and lint into their mouths or emptying the contents of their dresser drawers or biting my legs or putting smooshy banana hands in my hair or unrolling every roll of toilet paper in the house. I crave conversations in English instead of the language of whining, whining, whining, shrieking, whining, crying, yelling, whining. I long for neural stimulation in the place of mindlessly stacking wooden blocks or plastic rings so they can be toppled and sent crashing to the floor.

But the thing is, despite all of that, today my tiny alien knows more than he knew yesterday. He knows how to stack those blocks by himself. He can say “mama.” He can tell me that the cow says “moo.” He can point to his nose when I ask him where it is. He can almost RUN when I’m chasing him. He finds the oddest things funny, and he can belly-laugh in appreciation for his sense of humor. He can take that wooden truck from me after I’ve “vroom-vroom”ed it all around the floor and make a “bbb-bbb” sound as he mimics me.

And let’s not even talk about all the times during the day when he stops whatever he’s doing just to come over and put his arms around my neck or crawl up in my lap for a second or turn and grin at me for no reason whatsoever.

And I haven’t had to miss that. I’ve been here for each and every precious, heart-stopping moment of it. You get what I’m puttin’ down, Reader? I feel moments like this morning again and again when I see Noah’s smiling face. I’m exactly where I want to be.

I know there are many women who are unable to stay home with their kids even though they wish they could, and I am one of the lucky few that can. I mean, let’s not make any mistake – it’s hard going without my paycheck. We’ve had to sacrifice and learn to scrimp and since we’ve lived here we’ve managed to bury ourselves under a mountain of debt we’re trying to crawl out of, but still. We’ve got plenty of food to eat and running water and electricity, so we’re truly doing just fine, and I know that would not be the case for a lot of people trying to live on only one income. I recognize how blessed I am that the choice to stay home is mine to make.

And I recognize how much it kicks ass, for serious.

After the heart palpitations from the dream this morning subsided, I remembered something someone recently told me when she learned I stayed home with my son: “You’ll never regret that decision.” I’d never thought of it that way before. If I chose to go back to work, I can see myself looking back in anguish at missing so much of my baby boy’s life. I’d never be at my son’s college graduation wishing I’d spent more time at work. If I look back on these years the way they are, I’ll never be sad I didn’t go back. I’ll always cherish this wonderful, career-killing, boring-ass time, and I mean that with every fiber of my being.

Signing off, y’all – I got another boring day ahead of me tomorrow. (Just kidding.)