Items of note

One: The One True Child has apparently mastered the concept of the First Person Singular Pronoun. For those of you who don't speak Insufferable Grammarian, that means that instead of referring to himself by his name, a la Bob Dole, he can now use a pronoun to represent himself in a sentence. Thus, "Day-vuss chair" has become "My chair."

Unfortunately, "my" appears to be the only first person singular pronoun he knows, so it's been a little confusing around here this week as Daddymatic and I, slow as Neanderthals, have finally realized that what he's saying is NOT NOT NOT "Mommy do it" but rather "My do it," as well as charming variations such as "My don't like it" or "My have some." Honestly, it's a wonder this child doesn't lose his patience more often with us, considering that every time he said "My have some" when holding out a bite of food, mommy would, oblivious as she is to Obvious Cognitive and Conceptual Linguistic Progress, eat whatever he was displaying. I mean, at some point, he had to be going "Damn, woman, get your own snacks."

Two: For the first time since I was in the throes of prenatal nausea three years ago, I weigh less than my husband. Yes, he is nearly 5 inches taller than me. Yes, he still has a smaller butt than I do. Yes, this occasionally makes me want to poke at my eyes with a splintery stick. But dude, right now? I weigh less than him.

This woman is responsible for the recent transformation. I have been reading Kristin's mommyblog for months, ever since I found out she was a regular reader who was neither related to me nor paid for her perusals of this blog. I knew she'd done some personal training, and I knew she was tough--I mean, her son Logan is dribbling a soccer ball at a scant 12 months old! But all I wanted was for her to give me a fitness plan. You know, tell me how long to get on the treadmill and how much weight I should be pumping when I do tricep curls or whatever.

What I got was a total-lifestyle-altering, kick ass plan to get my sorry butt healthy and in shape. She wrote out a nutrition plan that frightened me so much I still have a 2-page email I composed to her explaining in the nicest possible way that she might see whether or not her ancestors had ever, say, run the gulag or poked sleeping kittens in the tummy. But I made myself give it a try, and I can say that while I cannot say for certainty that I enjoyed surviving a week without a pop tart, I have discovered that it is, in fact, possible.

She wrote a fitness plan that leaves me feeling like every single muscle of mine was scrubbed by the tiredness machine, rinsed, wrung out and hung to dry. She has promised to write a leg routine next week that will make me cry.

I hate to admit that this turns me on a little.

She makes me warm up. She makes me stretch. She runs me ragged. She also encourages me, cheers me on, and makes me feel like I can actually do this. She didn't even make me sleep in the basement when I cheated on my nutrition plan this week. Of course, I didn't tell her that it was the first time I tried the Utah delicacy that is fry sauce, which is so good that it must be made from God's tears.

So all I'm saying is that if you need a good trainer, and you are hip to the idea of working with a HWAHM (Hard-Working At-Home Mom), Kristin is worth every penny.

Three: I got a sweet new ride this week. Yeah, I know. But duuuuuude, is it a nice car. And so nice to not have to worry about not having enough punch to, say, avoid becoming a hood ornament for an SUV every morning on the interstate. And it's safe! Standard side curtain airbags! "Think of the child!" I keep telling my guilty conscience. Also? My purse fits perfectly in the center console. But I promise I did not know this until I had already committed.

I miss my old car just a tiny bit. She was a good old car. She got us across the country and back the summer we found out D was on his way, and she got daddymatic out here in one piece. Ish. But it was time to split up: we'd fight and then make up, and then something else would set her off and she'd just decide not (!) to accelerate. Or to brake 15 seconds AFTER I slammed my foot on the brake pedal. Very childish behavior. And so we parted ways, complete with a whole "it's not you, it's me" speech on my part.

But here's the problem. D called my old car, inventively enough, "Old car." When Daddymatic got the Subie, it was instantly dubbed the "new car." So my question, internets, is what do we call the new kid? "New-new car" won't do because the "noo-noo" is what he calls the vacuum. Really New Car? The Nice New Car? The Get Your Feet off the Seat, Mommy Has a Lease Agreement to Honor Car has kind of a ring to it, but I dunno. Thoughts?

Bug bites

A number of really nice, concerned and completely great people have written to us to make sure we're okay after the deadly mall shooting that took place about 10 blocks from us here in Salt Lake City. We are shaken, we are sad, we are seriously reconsidering our stance on the concealed carry law, and we are grateful to live in an environment with brave and skilled emergency workers and cops who were able to make sure the situation wasn't a whole lot more devastating than it was. But we are okay.

We've been busy creating a ladybug circus.

Actually, they're not ladybugs per se, they are red and black beetle-y critters that have, apparently, followed us from Pennsylvania where they used to invade our house in the late fall through early spring. But we flout tradition (and common linguistic labels) and call them ladybugs.

And we love them.


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Here we are trying to take a picture of the ladybug, kiss it, and make it better. In other words, harass it within an inch of its life, as if being an insect in Utah in the winter wasn't bad enough. If you click over to our dropshots site, you can view the sequel: Ladybug II, which is about two minutes long and includes such hilarious hijinks as looking at the ladybug "on the tummy," feeding it goldfish crackers, and nearly squishing the poor guy for his trouble.

The picture's dark, but the audio's pretty funny. But then, we are a strange and easy to entertain people.

Oh, and happy valentine's day. Daddymatic and I decided awhile ago that the real V-day love was going out to the preschool teachers, who made our month when they announced last week that preschool would, in fact, be continuing through the summer. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I was ready to offer them celebratory sexual favors when I heard the news. You know, because it would be awkward if Daddymatic tried that.

Instead, we settled on Tar-zhay gift cards in a festive heart design that said, if nothing else "We love you, even if we are so lame that they were out of Valentine's day cards when we got to Target."

Words and wishes

There are days when my child makes one of my wishes come true to such a degree that I almost wonder what I was doing wishing for that in the first place. Case in point: I could hardly wait for his first words, for him to talk and be able to communicate with me. And now? He. talks. constantly. Yes, the child who Would Not Speak before 19 months now rivals his grandmothers, his garrulous Aunt Katie and his very own mother in the constant chatter competition.

I have said before, I think, that having breakfast with this child is often like attending an auction, what with the endless stream of babble:

Dates.
I want dates.
Dates! ((because, you know, we must not've heard him, or they would have materialized instantly, right?))
Cut in half.
CUT IN HALF.
More cereal, daddy.
More sugar.
Don't mix it.
More sugar.
Bib.
Need a bib.
No, don't like it.
No bib.
NEED A BIB.
Milk.
No milk.
Milk onna cereal.
I want milk onna cereal. ((pause)) pleeeease?

And that's just to get his food in front of him. Of course most actual eating ceases after the first two minutes, but we feel we must at least try to get the child to ingest something other than the fine rime of brown sugar that sits atop his oatmeal. But my formerly good eater just won't do it. No vegetables. No meat, fake or carnivore-approved. Not even pizza or noodles or, in rare moments, even Daviscoffee. I have heard rumours of the Toddler Starvation Diet, but had not seen this particular beast face to face yet. So far? Not impressed.

And why is it that the kid can remember that, for instance, back in September after the loss of our Eldest Cat, one of the felines had an accident in his room (every night he says "GUN-GUN PEE-PEE ON THE CARPET. BAAAAD GUN-GUN". And the cats always look at him like "Hello, broken record. Plus? You totally dropped a brown trout of your own on the carpet once and we have YET to bring that up, dude. Thanks"). And yet this same child with the steel-trap memory cannot recall that EVERY TIME we check out in the grocery store, the cashier is going to need to scan whatever bag of celery/hawaiian-themed rubber duck/pack of hotdogs/plastic plate he has suddenly glommed on to and, more importantly, that he/she WILL GIVE IT RIGHT BACK. Toute suite, in fact. My friend is convinced that "if you want your children to remember something, do it once. If you want them to forget you did something, do it all the time," and I wonder if this might not be the key to the mystery here. Either way, this catchy phrase has become my new mantra for whenever I catch myself using more, ah, quote-unquote colorful linguistic terms in front of The One Who Notices.

And yet, the impossible cuteness continues unabated, strategically placed, I'm sure, in between moments of great duress, such as unwelcomed diaper changes, transition of food items to/from highchair tray and any time one of the cats approaches a Cherished Possession such as a bowl of goldfish crackers, a favorite fleece blanket, or Mom.

Which he now calls me, by the way. When I get home, instead of our old ritual of exchanging a hug-and-kiss combo that would embarrass those who grace the covers of cheesy romance novels, I now get a decidedly platonic but joyful "Hi, mom" and a wave. A wave! Oh, sure, if I ask for it, I can get a hug or kiss, but it's clear these are concessions he makes because One Of Us hasn't figured out he's a big boy now. I just know the days where we greet each other with wedgies or by burping "what's up, dude?" can't be too far in the future. *sigh*

I have some incredibly cute video I am going to post when I can get it edited, but for now, I leave you with D's rendition of our nightly routine:

Have a bath.
Brusha teeth. Need toothpaste. Turn it on ((it's an electric toothbrush)). Oooh, new batteries.
What's THIS? La-la on the penis. ((riotous laughter))
Diaper on. Need lotion. Put some onna hand. Put some onna tummy.
Fire engine jammie shoes. Car jammie shoes. Motorcycle jammie shoes.
WANT FIRE ENGINE JAMMIE SHOES.
La-la.
Binky.
THAT binky.
See Daddy.
Night-night, daddy. KISS!
Read book.
Read it again.
Read it again.
Lights off.
((and then? To drown out the sound of my heart breaking in half?))
No sing, mommy.