Of Birth Days and Birthdays.

The internets, they have stolen a week of my life. 

More specifically, BabyZone's newsletter cheerfully informed me this morning that I am 32 weeks pregnant.  

The problem with this?  I had written on my little calendar (a paper and ink sort, because to keep track of anything concrete in my life requires me to rock it like it's 1987.  At least I don't refer to it as a "file-0-fax") that I was 31 weeks pregnant.  

I checked and double checked and asked my OB at my appointment this moning and, um, it appears BabyZone is correct and I am 32 weeks pregnant.

Well, Crap.

I had PLANS for that week, people!  I was excusing myself from stressing about kindergarten supply lists and back-to-school nights, about packing for the beach and perhaps packing my hospital bag.  I was giving myself a free pass because, after all, I wasn't in that final 2-month window of this pregnancy yet.

DAMN YOU, BABYZONE!

Big Daddy mentioned the other night that he thought I should go ahead and pack an emergency hospital bag.  Given that I have never gone into early labor - that, in fact, I have been twice successfully induced, I found his request silly in the extreme.  I asked him why I would want to do something so obviously unnecessary.  His reply? "I'm craving pickles.  It's a sign."  Yeah, it's a sign of something, all right.  *cough*

It is also possible I may be taking my sudden panic-and-hormone-induced mood swings out on my husband.  Just sayin', it's possible.  

It doesn't help one iota that Jack is now officially 5 years old.

FIVE. EFFING. YEARS. OLD.

How did I become the mother of a five-year-old?!  I mean, I know - technically - how it happened. (Several cocktails and a french maid costume for Halloween will tend to make that happen.) But how did five years go by? Where did this articulate little person with more skill for video games than his parents come from?  He even wipes his own behind now.  It's like having a very small adult in the house - albeit one who can still throw the occasional tantrum to make the earth tremble.

We celebrated the Birthday milestone in the usual way: there was cake, ice cream, the odd party game, and there were gifts.  I have photos of all of these things (especially the R2D2 cake, of which I am especially proud) but I've somehow misplaced the camera cable and you can hardly blame me because holy crap five years old!  

The weirdness just keeps getting weirder.  I realized today how horrified the teenagers at Hot Topic looked when the pregnant lady with the two kids came wandering in from the mall corridor to purchase new body jewelry.  What? I needed a new nose stud, and a new ring for my left ear.  But I could see it in their blankly-horrified expressions: This woman is way too old to be shopping at the Hot Topic.  But, hey, in five more years I can go in to buy purple hair dye for my skate-punk son.  The one who picked out a trucker hat that says "chairman of the board" at Old Navy today.  Also the one who told me that high tops were "so not cool, Mom".

And if his growing steadily into a pool of angsty no-longer-baby wasn't proof enough that time is passing me by at an alarming rate, the internet pregnancy calendar had to come along and steal another week of my life away.

I want that week back.  Also, I would like a 2-hour deep-tissue massage, a mini-van that gets 40 miles to the gallon, and one dappled pony.  And if anyone has seen my ability to form coherent thoughts, I'd appreciate the return of that as well.

Thanks.

Garbage Pail Kids.

Because Mama is watching her "So You Think You Can Dance", I'll keep this short and, uh, sweet.  Actually, more sour than sweet.  Allow me to explain.

 The boys got into the nasty, fetid trash on the back deck this morning.  I'm talking empty charcoal bags, old newspaper, and various plastic bags - all of which have been soaking in the rainwater from the storms of the last few weeks.  It was.... gross.  To say the least.  AND it stank.  Which meant that my little angels stank, horribly, and had to be dumped in the tub for a quick hose down.  

Let me reiterate: I had to bathe them in order to scrub off the nasty moldering garbage and muck they had been PLAYING IN.  The next time I decide I need to spend perfectly good money on toys for the little buggers? Remind me I can just dredge the neighbor's dumpster and save myself some coin.

My Milkshake Brings All The Boys To The Yard

Now that I'm married, babied, and hedging on 30, the only (mostly) sane man who would believe I'm a 10 is dependent on me for hot meals and marital favors. Apparently, though, my breasts have taken on a spectacular life of their own. (for photographic evidence, check out my sister's blog here for a photo of us at my other sister's wedding. Fifth photo down, that's me in the red. And yes, I would be the younger sister - by 10 years - even though you would never guess that from the photo.)

So this morning, in the middle of the business meeting for our mother's club, Jack walked up to me and stared thoughtfully at my chest for a moment.

"Mommy? Your boobies look like buns."

(*pause*)

"Do they, then. What sort of buns? Bread buns? Butt buns?"

"BREAD buns!" he giggled. "Why do they look like that?"

"I dunno...."

"I know! Because they're squished next to each other!"

Yup. Still got it.

The Tiny Fist of Iron

Jack's bedtime routine has evolved recently, and he now demands that his evening ends with a story followed by the songs "Itsy Bitsy Spider" and "Silent Night" (which he refers to as "the commercial song", thanks to a Christmas ad from pampers that showed sleeping babies while a woman's voice sang the carol).

Silent Night is my song, and apparently I am the only one qualified to sing it to him properly.

Itsy Spider, on the other hand, is subject to the whims of a moody four-year-old exploring the rules of command and control. I am expected - nay, commanded - to perform the hand motions, but whether or not I sing along depends on the particular evening.

Tonight, as Jack lay snuggled next to me in his bed, I put my hands into the Official Spider Position and sang the opening bars of the ditty.

"NO, Mom! You're not allowed to sing except on Mondays...."

(pause)

"Mom? What day is it today?"

"It's Monday."

"Oh. I said you're only allowed to sing Itsy Spider on Fridays. You just do the hands part. And then you can sing the commercial song."

"Uh... Huh. Okay."

He's lucky he's cute, y'all. That's all I'm saying.

Parental Advisory: Contains Irrational Levels of Cheer

My voice may be cracking like a pubescent teenager (thanks to The Cold That Will Not Die), but I soldiered on and gamely attempted to sing Jack's bedtime song. Sure enough, it was as painful to hear as it was to sing. Like listening to a CD after it's been put through a garbage disposal.

Finally, Jack tilted his head to the side, looked at my quizically, and said:

"Mommy? How did your voice get scratched?"

I so love the way his little mind works. Four-year-olds are awesome.

-------

Days passed, and my voice is now returning to my normal timbre. (If "normal" translates to "roughly the tone and pitch of a sixteen-year-old girl").

My body is still in open revolt - and it is, indeed, revolting at present. I really need to find a home for the rest of the Christmas fudge before the weight I lost creeps back up on me... in the form of dimpled, fudgy thighs. Despite this, though, the last week has been something of a honeymoon period. I find myself enjoying activities I usually dread: doing laundry, washing dishes, consciously breathing before 8am.

I think that my week away was some sort of watershed event -- though, for the life of me, I can't figure out exactly what epiphany I had. Maybe it was being around my family without being paralytically self-conscious for the first time in a decade or more. Maybe it was the reminder of some of the dysfunctional relationships that rampage through my kin. Maybe it was just the opportunity for breathing room and the chance to gain a little perspective.

Whatever the cause may be, this unexpected wave of Joie De Vivre is coming in past the swells and heading for the breakers. Tonight I actually took down the exterior Christmas decorations - and it's not even February, y'all! I may have to stop myself before I put an end to world hunger or single-handedly resolve conflict in the Middle East. Or clean out our basement storage. (That last one, by the way? Easily the most difficult. I would post photographic proof, but then you would all be privy to my dark, dark shame, and then I'd have to avoid your calls and screen all my evites to make sure we don't accidentally attend the same party because ...awkward!!!)

But suffice it to say I am doing my best to accomplish as much as I can before whatever Happy Hoodoo this is wears off and I'm back to glaring menacingly at the breakfast dishes and cursing the heavens when Toby manages to remove his diaper and use his crib as a urinal. At least for now, though, it really is All Good.

Good Morning To You.

I wake to the touch of a pair of small, damp lips on my cheek.

"Good morning, Mommy."

"Good morning to you, Jack."

He climbs half over me to lean down and give his father the same treatment, then retreats back to the side of our bed.

"You want to get in the middle and snuggle, Buddy?"

"No thank you. I just wanted to come kiss you good morning. I'm going back to bed now."

Hola! Soy Mama.

With all the travel in his father's life these days, I suppose it's no surprise that Jack would begin to think of going to exotic places himself. I mean, we keep talking about how Daddy is at the Castles (Prague), Daddy is in "Singaport", or Daddy is at Big City (NYC).

The sister of my next door neighbor, and our sometime babysitter, just returned to Mexico. The kids absolutely adore her, and we were all very sad to see her go.

Then, one of his classmates from preschool apparently went on a week-long family vacation to Mexico.

So I really should not have been totally surprised that Jack would eventually decide that he, himself, ought to be headed out on some globe-trotting adventures. But none of these things prepared me for the note on his school report card today.

"Jack told us during opening exercises that he is going to Mexico this weekend - AND that his teachers are invited to come, too! YEAH!"

Thank goodness his teacher has the sense of humor to handle these situations. I didn't even have to explain that, no, we're not really headed to Mexico. At least, not yet.

On the car ride home, I felt like I should discuss the topic with Jack. Of course, he was dead certain that, oh YES, we ARE, in fact, going to Mexico this weekend. I explained about buying plane tickets, arranging a place to stay, the time and expense of such an adventure. I said maybe, maybe in a year or two we can take a cruise that stops in Mexico. Wouldn't that be fun? On a big boat?

Jack: Yes, Mommy. But we're going to Mexico this weekend.

Me: No, we're not.

Jack: Yes, we are.

Me: Tell you what? How about we get Taco Bell for dinner tonight instead? That's.. uh... sort of like Mexican food.

Jack: Can I have a quesadilla?

Me: SURE!

If only every parenting dilemma could be solved so easily. And come complete with an assortment of delicious hot sauces.

Textual Healing, Video Appealing

I love you like a ninja loves black masks!

Best random text message from an absent spouse EVAR!

Big Daddy T is in the final leg of Singapore Sling Part Deux. Of course, he still has a 1-day journey to Kuala Lumpur before he comes home next week, but it won't change his actual home arrival.

Thank heaven for small favors, people.

In the interim, I have been attempting to take video and photos of the kids at his request... because he feels like he is missing it! their lives! And, in spite of my attempts to reassure him that nothing very exciting has changed in his absence (I changed diapers! And did Laundry! The THRILL!) he is convinced that I am slacking in my duties to film the every waking moment of our children.

So tonight I hauled out the camera and pointed it at my nonplussed offspring. I got Toby to do our (now well-rehearsed) bit on film.

It goes like this:

Me: Toby, are you a turtle?

Toby: No! I'm not a turtle!

Except that his part comes out more like "Noh-eye-nah tuh-tull!"

You'll have to take my word for it -- the cuteness of it rips your heart out of your chest and holds it up for you to view the shivery, still-beating remains.

The big news here, though, is that I finally signed up for a Vimeo account and, assuming the moon and stars and my brain all reach the correct alignment, I will soon have chest-ripping cuteness to share with the world.

Prepare yourselves!

In the mean time, I'll be attempting to recapture the moment on film sans extras. You see, as I completed filming our exchange, I realized he had thrown in his other well-rehearsed bit...

Removing his diaper and peeing on the floor.

Getting to the Crux of the Matter....

Me: I just cleaned up this room.... How is it that I clean and I clean, and already the floor is completely covered in toys?

Jack: Mom, that's because we were born.

Also Good with Fish and Chips.

There is an understanding around our house that Daddy and Mommy sometimes slip and use words that are not okay. Jack is quick to point out that we do not say "Stupid" at our house, should his mommy be pointing out that - let's say - some vote in the Senate today was befitting of such a slur. (Which sounds entirely more intellectual than saying I was probably calling the teenagers who stole my zombie pirate from our front yard stupid-heads. Which they are. That pirate zombie was the pride of my Halloween decor. The little punks.) So, yes, let's go with Congress talk option. (Although we do discuss politics quite an awful lot in this house. Also? Religion, popular culture, and World of Warcraft. But I'm off topic now...)

(I have no idea why I am using all these parenthesis. I must be having some sort of episode. Just go with it.)

So we have been making a point to teach and/or attempt to use alternative forms of expletive. Seeing as the boys have become re-enamored of SpongeBob since we started playing "Lights, Camera, Pants!" on the GameCube, it seemed that this was an ideal source of material.

SpongeBob's two favorite expletives are "Tartar Sauce!" and "Fish Paste!".

Kids being kids, something is generally lost in the translation. Which begins to explain why I now find myself attempting to relate to Jack's teacher where he might possibly have come up with his new favorite frustrated exclamation...

"Oh DARNIT SAUCE!"

...

On the up side? We finally got him to stop saying "Damnit!". Mostly.

So given the alternatives, I suppose I am going to have to learn to live with Darnit Sauce.

I wonder if it's tasty on fried cod?