Birthing Beautiful Ideas

Dear Alec,

Lately, I’ve been writing about our mother/child adventures as if they were battle scenes from World War Two-year-old.

I’ve compared your antics to “mashing my brain matter” as if it were a ripe banana.

I’ve compared you to a rabid howler monkey.

And I’ve documented just how much I’m drowning in (among other things) the trials and tribulations of parenting you and your brother.

And I won’t deny any of it.  It’s been hard.  It’s been so. hard.

But.

But.

I don’t want you to ever feel as if I have resented parenting you, or as if I have dreaded spending time with you, or as if I haven’t respected your astounding curiosity and ingenious resourcefulness.

And I don’t want you to think that I’m forgetting just how hard it is for you to be my child, or just to be two.

I know that it can be so. hard.

For instance, I know that you don’t yet appreciate the importance of a good night’s sleep.  You’re too young for that–”appreciating the importance of” is not even in your cognitive horizon right now.  And what you have in its place is this magical exuberance that tells you that climbing over your crib is what your little legs and arms were built to do and that the nighttime holds the promise of yet-unseen adventures and that sleep itself means missing out on all the mysteries that occur under the moon and stars and in our quiet house.

And I want you to know that in these still and silent moments–in the few minutes I have to sit and reflect–I appreciate the importance of that magical exuberance.  I want you to sleep, oh how I want you to sleep.  Both for selfish reasons (oh! how I need these still and silent moments) and for reasons of love and care and concern (oh! how you need this sleep to keep growing, to keep that smile on your face, my darling boy).

But I know, I do know, and I do love that you yearn to know what’s just beyond your little world, what lurks underneath the moon and stars and nighttime sky.  I’m secretly proud of your adventurousness, that frightening twinkle in your eyes.  You’ll scale mountains, both literal and figurative, some day.

But just remember (perhaps with my voice ringing in your ears) that you always need a good night’s sleep before you start climbing.

I know too that it’s frustrating to hear the word “no” over and over again.  And I know that I’m not always the best at choosing redirection or affirmation or patience over the word “no.”

But I also know that, no, you shouldn’t play with scissors, and no, the buttons on the oven are not for touching, and no, you shouldn’t spit on your brother when he makes you mad.  I’m just trying to keep you safe.  I’m trying to keep you healthy.  I’m trying to teach you respect and thoughtfulness and self-restraint.

Maybe, just maybe, I won’t have failed completely with all of my “nos,” and some day you’ll hear my “no” in the back of your mind when you decide not to join your friends in taunting that kid on the playground, or when you don’t pick up that cigarette, or when you don’t do that thing that’s unsafe or unhealthy or unkind.

And maybe, please maybe, you’ll hear my “yes” and “great job” and “wow” and “you’re amazing” too.

You’ll take all of that curiosity and find a way to supply everyone on the planet with clean water, or you’ll take that ingenious resourcefulness and build bridges or schools or sculptures, or you’ll fix leaks or cars or broken hearts.

Maybe you’ll take that frightening adventurousness and fight fires or crime or injustice, or maybe you’ll just take that magical exuberance and be the best damn person that you can be.

And I’ll be right there, right there, shouting “Hell yeah!  That’s my kid!  That’s my kid!!!  The one with the curiosity and the resourcefulness and the adventure and the exuberance!  He’s my boy!“

And I hope you’re able to appreciate the importance of my appreciation then.  Because it will be enormous, and it will be immense.

And it will always have been here, right here, all along.

the climber of cribs (and mountains) and his mother

Love,

Mom

Sometimes I whine.  Sometimes I cry.  Sometimes I whine and cry.  And sometimes I whine and cry and gaze at my navel when I write on this blog.

And by “sometimes,” I mean right now.

What can I say?  I’ve had one of those weeks.

Lately, it seems that I’m flailing about in a sea of problems that, when looked at individually, are just a bunch of small potatoes–just a bunch of little things that, on their own, don’t really warrant cries of “WOE IS ME!” and “SAVE ME, I’M DROWNING!”

But when you add enough small potatoes together, you can end up with a 50 pound bag of spuds–a bag that you might need a little help toting around town.

And what, you might ask, is in my giant sack o’ small potatoes?

What about seven consecutive nights of sleeplessnes, thanks to my overactive (because, strangely, he’s overtired) toddler?

Or the morning that said toddler rubbed crushed chili peppers in his eyes?

Or perhaps the major meltdowns that ensued?

Or the fact that I can’t deal with hearing about yet another sick family member?  That I’m far more prepared to confront my own mortality than theirs?

What about the fact that Tim and I just learned that we are now stuck with paying over $1300 in deductibles and rental car fees because a drunken, unlicensed, and uninsured kid smashed up both of our cars, and his parents’ insurance won’t cover him (because he’s not on their policy) and the insurance company won’t cover the car owner (who is the kid’s girlfriend’s grandfather–UH HUH) since the driver supposedly didn’t have permission to drive the car, even though the owners never filed a stolen vehicle report?  (Have I lost you?  Don’t worry–I feel lost too.)

What about the fact that we’re probably going to have to resort to litigation in order to get this substantial amount of money paid not by us but by the person who is unequivocally responsible for the smashing up of the cars?

Or the fire?  What about that bedtime-obliterating electrical fire?

What about the fact that I threw out my neck and back for the first time ever this past Sunday (and subsequently learned to appreciate just how much we humans use our necks and backs each day)?

Or how about the fact that on the night that my back began to feel better, M (4) came down with a cold?  And I was up with him throughout the night, (lovingly, though still tiredly) rubbing his back and propping up his pillows each time he woke up?

And on the night that Tim went away for a business trip (i.e. Thursday night), A (2) came down with a cold?  Except I didn’t know that he was coming down with a cold, and in my haze of fatigue and pain and stress, I yelled when he kept M and me up until 3:30 a.m. with his constant screaming and flailing and kicking?  And I yelled again when M started whining?

What about the fact that I feel like a horrible parent now?  For all of the yelling, for my short temper, for the way I’ve been gritting my teeth each time one of my children asks me for food or for help turning on the light or to “LOOK AT THIS, MOMMY” for the seven-thousandth time?

The small potatoes–they’re weighing me down.

(You think I could whip them up into a giant, greasy, ranch dressing-slathered batch of potato skins?  Because then I could eat them, and the problems would disappear….into my hips and thighs and butt.)

These weeks are what make sanity a truly precarious beast.

They are what make the difference between asking your partner to be “a little more careful next time” or acting as if he and Beelzebub conspired to destroy you and all of humanity by messing up the garden hose when he used the power washer to clean the siding on the house.

And on these days or weeks or (GOD HELP YOU) months, I think that we parents (and we human beings, because these trying time aren’t just unique to those with children) need a “reset button.”

We need a little life preserver thrown our way.

A bone.  A helping hand.  An offer to take all of those small potatoes and make them into that greasy batch of potato skins (with the reassurance that they are the nutritional equivalent of a heaping bowl of spring greens).

We need a moment to close our eyes, take a deep breath, and begin again anew, afresh.

Sometimes, I make my own reset button when I need one.  Like the days where, if both boys are napping, I tell myself that the work and the cleaning and the responsibilities can wait, and I settle down with a homemade latte and a couple episodes of Sex and the City.

Other times, I’m lucky enough–blessed enough–to have others hand me a reset button.  And sometimes, I need to hit that button over and over and over again.

This post is dedicated to all of those people who have recently showed up at my proverbial doorstep with a basket full of reset buttons.

To my fantastic in-laws and parents, who watched the kids for me last weekend so that I could spend some time with my long-lost girlfriends.  (RESET!)

To my fabulous college roommates, who spent a girls’ weekend with me in one of their fabulous apartments in Chicago’s South Loop.  (RESET!)

To various blog readers, who have sent me all sorts of kind comments and emails and tweets and Facebook replies, all of which make me smile, and some of which make me cry tears of joy and humility.  (RESET!)

To my husband, who brought home Chipotle on Wednesday night and pizza last night.  (RESET!)

And to my children, who gave each other the biggest smiles ever when they saw each other after their naps today, and who love me unconditionally, even when I’m a “bad mommy.”  (RESET!)

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Do you ever need to use a “reset button” in your life?  What do you do to fashion your own such button?  How have others given you one recently?

For what it’s worth, this post is also dedicated to all of you who are in need of a reset button.

Yes, I know how lucky I am to have my darling children.  I love them more than I can fully express, even when they keep me awake at all hours of the night.

And I realize how lucky my family is to have a roof over our heads.  To have food in the refrigerator and jobs and running water and a safe place to live.  And I’m not forgetting all of that luck for one second.

But COME ON universe!  What is UP?!

Yep, that’s the kind of night I had last night.

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Something truly magical happened on Wednesday night.  Something so magical and wonderful and exquisitely beautiful that I almost couldn’t believe it when it happened:

Both boys slept from about 8 p.m. until 6 yesterday morning.  Without any fights, or meltdowns, or freak-outs, or early morning wanderings to snag some spicy banana muffins.

It was a glorious night.

And because of this glorious night, I woke up yesterday feeling like a new woman.  A calm woman.  A still-fatigued woman, but a woman who was beginning to see a little more rest and a little less “attack-of-the-overtired-children” in her future.

So yesterday evening, as Tim was putting A (2) to bed and M (4) was resting peacefully in our bed until A fell asleep (our latest sleep strategy!), I decided to get in a little exercise, a little shower, and then an early bedtime.

It was a good plan.  A wise plan.  I was, after all, taking the kids (by myself) to Chicago to visit their grandparents the next day.  A good night’s sleep was on the agenda.  It was a totally reasonable and magnificent plan, people!

But oh, those wise plans.  How they mock me.  How they ridicule me.  How they tease me like a seventh grade bully.  ON CRACK COCAINE.

‘Cause those plans were about to be demolished.

During my post-exercise shower, I heard what sounded like someone pounding really, really hard over and over and freakin’-over-again on the front door.

And because I have a one-track mind right now (and on that track is a freight train riding to OH MY GOD, WILL MY KIDS EVER SLEEP town), my first thought was “WHO THE F#&K IS KNOCKING ON THE DOOR WHEN WE’RE F#&KING TRYING TO PUT THE KIDS TO BED?!?!”

My mind.  It curses like a sailor.  Especially when I’m exhausted.

Once the knocking of doom stopped, I prayed that the salesperson or the survey-taker or the neighbor-kid or WHOEVER IT WAS THAT WAS TRYING TO DESTROY BEDTIME would just go away.  Quietly.  Quickly.

But then M ran into the bathroom to let me know that he was going to check on who was “knocking at our [second-story bedroom] window.”

Duh, WHA?!?!

I screamed, “NO!  WAIT!  DON’T GO NEAR IT!” and then hopped out of the shower.

Oh my god, what was I going to find?  A mutant squirrel?  A serial killer?  My two-year-old, who had now learned how to climb out the window and swing from the tree branches like a real howler monkey?

So with my hair sopping wet, water dripping all over the carpet, and a towel draped over the front of my body, I tip-toed out of the bathroom to see what was making all of that sleep-obliterating noise.

No hulking rodents.  No serial killers.  No two-year-old.

But there were a handful of neighbors in the alley behind our house.  They were looking up at something.  And there were some flashing red lights a block or two away from us.  Oh, look!  Those lights were coming from a fire engine.  And hey, LOOK!  THE WIRES ON THE TRANSFORMER BOX BEHIND OUR HOUSE WERE SMOLDERING.  They were on FIRE!

FIRE!

MOTHERHUMPING FIRE!!!

Boobs, meet neighbors.  Neighbors, boobs.

I threw that towel down, yelled for Tim to gather the kids, and then told him to run out into the front yard because OH MY GOD THERE WAS AN ELECTRICAL FIRE!

Tim later informed that the room looked like a scene from one of those ’80s sorority films, what with the bouncing boobs and the “FIRE! FIRE!” shrieks.

Which, you know, had to have looked awesome.  To the neighbors.

So Tim scurried outside with both kids as I scrambled to get my clothes on, and then I made a mad dash out the front door.  You see, WITH OUR LUCK that burning wire could have flown across the yard, landed on our gas grill, and then sent the whole house up to the moon.  It’s not outside the realm of possibility when it comes to our lives. And I didn’t want to be near the house when it happened.

Once I got to the front yard (with a lovely case of “raccoon eyes” and, hey neighbors!, shirt on!), Tim and I learned that the transformer box had exploded while I was in the shower.  Like exploded, exploded.  Flames shooting up into the air and everything.  And that’s where the noise came from.  THE KNOCKING, BOOM-BOOM, POUNDING SOUNDS WERE FROM AN EXPLOSION!

AT BEDTIME! (Seriously, couldn’t the fire have been a little more considerate of my family’s needs?)

Hours later, after the fire department put out the fire, after the power company had fixed the box, after both boys were in bed, and after the electricity came back on in the house, Tim and I snuggled on the couch with a couple glasses of wine, way past my hoped-for early bedtime.

And we realized that it’s got to be one hell of a week when you tell each other, “HEY!  AT LEAST THE HOUSE DIDN’T EXPLODE TODAY!”

I realize how potentially dangerous and frightening the following situation is, and how frighteningly dangerous one or more of the soon-to-be-described events could have been.  Everyone is safe, so I think it’s permissible to write about it all here and use humor as my motherhood-catharsis.

Yes, that’s the sort of week I’m having.

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If you follow me on Facebook or Twitter, you may have heard me say a thing or twelve about the obscenely chaotic time we’ve been having in our house, courtesy of our resident two-year-old Houdini-howler-monkey, A.

It all started last Friday night after Tim and I had put the boys to bed.  First I heard a thud, and then a thumping, and then a constant pitter-pattering.

When I went upstairs to see what the ruckus was all about, I discovered that my dear, sweet A had managed to clamber out of his crib and sweep tornado-style through the room and all of its contents in the moments between my hearing the thud-thumping pitter-pattering and my doing something about it.

I had figured this day would arrive sooner or later–he is quite the climber, after all–so I wasn’t entirely shocked by what I saw.  I very calmly rocked him, read him one more book, sang him one more song, and snuggled him under his blankets for a good night’s sleep.

Minutes later, the thud-thumping started up again.  And then again.  And then again.  And for the next three hours, Tim and I took turns placing A back in his crib.

It’s an understatement when I say that our patience had been whittled down to a nub by the night’s end.

At one point, we did have the bright idea to place a baby gate at A’s doorway.  But then he took a half-filled box of diapers, turned it upside down, and scaled the gate.

We removed the diaper box, but then he found a canvas toy bin, turned it upside down, and hopped the gate yet again.

And after we removed everything remotely resembling a box, A took to climbing up and over the gate all on his own.

Oh A, how I admire your determination.  All. That. Freakin’. Determination.

I know what some of you are thinking right now: what’s a little climbing?  He was excited!  Thrilled with his new-found freedom!  Let’s celebrate his curiosity!

But let me just put his brand of excitement into perspective for you.

Did you guys ever see that after-school special in which the main character (played by Academy Award winner Helen Hunt!) tries PCP or angel dust (or are they the same thing?) and then FA-REAKS out and plunges out the second story window at her school?

(Hey look, someone uploaded the video on YouTube!)

A looked a lot like Helen-Hunt-on-drugs that night.  And to that, I ask WHO THE HELL GAVE MY BABY DRUGS?!?!

Oh wait.  He was high on the sweet taste of freedom.  WHO THE HELL TOLD MY KID TO CRUSH HIS FREEDOM AND THEN SNORT IT UP HIS NOSE?!?!

Tim and I gave up somewhere around midnight.  And A gave up (in a pile of utter, wild-induced exhaustion) around 12:30 a.m.  And he started back up again at 6 the next morning.

If A were a child who didn’t need much sleep, I wouldn’t have been all that worried.  (Join hands with me and celebrate his beautiful, sparkling curiosity and lust for life!)  But both of my boys are 12-14 hour sleepers.  They are “high energy” kids, both physically and intellectually, and if they don’t get enough sleep in any given 24-hour period, they begin to melt into puddles of whiny frustration.

Isn’t that what all people do when they don’t get enough sleep?

In any case, somewhere in the midst of trying to sidestep the puddles of whiny frustration scattered about the house, Tim and I had the scintillatingly brilliant idea to transition A into the “big kid bed” that was waiting for him in his brother’s room.

That’s exactly what they needed!  The crib-climbing was a sign!  It was so obviously time for them to begin sharing a room!

Someone?  Get me a drink.  And a magic “DUDE, you gotta start seeing things more clearly” device.

Trying to get the two of them to sleep in the same room was like trying to dress a bunch of feral cats in baby-doll clothes and sit them around a teeny tiny table for a tea party.  Ain’t gonna happen.

Soon, naptime was shot to hell.  (M, who’s four, generally doesn’t sleep during “quiet time,” but he does often benefit from a quiet hour or two in his room while his brother is sleeping.)  And sooner, bedtime was completely obliterated.

And much to our dismay, the kids were averaging a total of seven hours of sleep per day.

If you are a parent (or even if you’re not), you know that this is not. good.

So, geniuses that we are, we began getting A (2) to sleep first, and then letting M (4) stay up until A was in a deep sleep.  And it was working.  It was really, truly working for a couple of naptimes and bedtimes.

Until A woke up at four this morning and started getting his groove thang on once he spied M in the bed next to his.  (“M!  M!  Wake up!  WANT TO PLAY?!“)

And then it took us nearly two hours to get him and his tired, tiny, grooving butt back to sleep.

And then?  THEN?

People, I was in a deep, deep sleep.  It was the deep, deep sleep of sleep-deprivation.

And that’s why I didn’t hear A wake up and climb over the baby gate in his doorway.

That’s why I didn’t hear him walk downstairs, saunter over to the kitchen, and scoot a kitchen chair over to the counter so that he could grab and eat one of the banana muffins that we had made yesterday in my attempt to do something low-key yet fun with the kids–you know, something where A could mash something (i.e. bananas) other than my brain matter.

That’s why I didn’t hear him as he spilled a container of Milakai Pudi (I.E. “FRESHLY GROUND PEPPERS WITH HOUSE SPICES” FROM A LOCAL INDIAN RESTAURANT) all over the banana muffins, all over the counter, all over (and inside) my purse, all over the chair, and all over the floor.

That’s why I didn’t hear him when he scooted the chair across the entire kitchen and over to the pantry to search for more food.  (I sweartogod, we feed him.)

But I did hear him as he let out a blood-curdling scream after he RUBBED HIS EYES WITH HIS SPICE-COVERED HANDS.

A couple of eye-flushes later, he was ready to take on the world just as he had been for the past five days: wearing his new-found independence like a gold lame’ jumpsuit.

And I’m just begging that he soon learns that the entire family (A included) is ready to take on the world with just a little more sleep.

nothing like milakai pudi and banana muffins to perk up your morning.

it's amazing that i've been able to construct complete sentences today.

in a little more-or-less than a year, this will be me.

At some unspecified time between now and January, Tim and I will be trying for our third and final child.

Yes, we will be adding to our brood.  Trying to conceive.  “TTC-ing.”  Having marvelously unprotected sex.

(Oh, pull your fingers out of your ears, family members.  You know where our other babies came from, right?)

And perhaps not like other parents planning to add to their family, I’m excited and nervous and prematurely nostalgic for this next chapter in our parenting adventures.

The excitement has really been building ever since I got that subtle intuition, that deep-seated feeling that we were ready to try to add another person to our family–that there was a space for another person in our family.  And I love dwelling on the mystery of it all: will we have a boy or a girl?  Will s/he be due to arrive in winter, spring, summer, or fall?  Will my pregnancy be difficult?  Will I breeze right through it?  What will my baby’s birth be like?  What will s/he be like?  How will s/he be different from or similar to his/her brothers?  How strange is it that I don’t even know this person who will some day hold one of the dearest and deepest places in my heart?

But Tim and I both have raging nerves about our decision too: Are we really ready for another baby?  Can we really afford another child (and potentially another college education)?  Do we have enough energy for one?  Good lord, will I ever finish my dissertation?  Can we make it through that first year again?  Are we trying too soon?  Will I have a healthy pregnancy and birth?  Where and with whom will I give birth?  Will our baby be healthy?  Will we have more than one baby?  (Twins run in my family!)

Despite these nervous wonderings and second guesses, I still feel that the time is right, and that we are ready.  And knowing that this will likely be my last adventure through pregnancy, birth, babyhood, and breastfeeding makes me nostalgic for all of the “last times” that Tim and I are about to experience: the last time I feel a baby kick for the first time.  The last time that Tim and I get to feel those baby kicks together.  The last time that I birth a baby, and the last time that I nourish a baby just with my own body.  The last time that I smell my new baby’s smells, and see my baby smile for the first time, and listen as my baby coos, oohs, ahhs, and slowly builds those first words.  The last time for sleepless nights and tiny onesies and little feet and first steps.

It’s all thrills and nerves and hellos and goodbyes and final chapters and new beginnings all wrapped into one, giant, transforming experience.

For what it’s worth, I’m not sure how much of our TTC journey I’ll actually share here on the blog.  I’m all for publishing the ins and outs of my birth stories, and I’m going to blog the hell out of my pregnancy (for the free therapy and commiseration and cheering squad), but I feel strangely protective of those moments (weeks? months?) that precede pregnancy and birth.

On the one hand, I’m just not sure I have the stamina to go through months and months of TTC-ing in public.  On the other hand, I’m also not sure I want to rub an easy-peasy “pregnancy on the first try” in other people’s faces–especially those who have been trying for months and/or are struggling with infertility.

Nonetheless, we will be trying at some “secret” time within the next six months.  And the moment I spot those pink lines, I’ll make sure to start documenting the whole journey here.

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Did you or do you have the same feelings about trying to conceive a(nother) child?  How did you know when the time was right to “TTC”?  Did you or would you document your TTC journey, your pregnancy, and/or your birth on your blog?  Or did you/would you feel protective about one or more of those experiences?

I think it’s fair to assume that my kids aren’t the only small children who spend a few mornings (or afternoons or evenings) each week wanting food, food, and more food every three-or-so minutes.

I get it.  They’re growers.  Sprouters.  Calorie burners.  Bottomless pits.  Grazers.  Ravenous bipedal cattle.

But even though I get and accept all of this, I’m not about to pretend that it’s always fun to play octopus-arms with my fridge and pantry as I pull out raisins, then cheese cubes, then graham crackers, then juice, then cereal, then strawberries, then bananas, then sweet potatoes, then peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, then milk, and then eggs for approximately three hours each morning, all while listening to the boys’ nonstop “I’m hungry” refrain.

(I’m not bitter.  I’m just exhausted.  And not entirely selfless.)

So I finally did something about my selfish exhaustion last week–something that not only stopped the boys from asking me for more food every thirty seconds but also offered them a splendid array of vitamins, minerals, and all-around yumminess:

I set out a “food rainbow” around 9 a.m. and let them snack and graze on it all morning.

“What the heck is a ‘food rainbow,’” you might ask?

Food rainbows are something I made up for M a couple years ago, back when he was in one of those phases where he would fixate on one or two types of food and then ask for them (and only them) for an entire week.  (Trust me, you do NOT want to be on the other end of a diaper after a child has insisted on eating blackberries and black beans morning, noon, and night for two days straight.)  To ensure that he would get a variety of foods during these phases (without coercing or cajoling him), I’d choose five differently-colored foods, set them out on a plate (sometimes even in the shape of a rainbow), and call it a food rainbow.

Ta-da!

(You might be amazed to learn what you can accomplish with a small child when you re-brand certain foods, tasks, or activities as rainbows, games, carnivals, or vampire slayings.  Notably, that last one might only work in my house.)

In any case, just as these rainbows once saved M from eating a diet comprised solely of apples and Cheerios, they now save me from having mornings comprised solely of getting food, food, and more food for the kids for hours on end.

And that’s just about as glorious as a real rainbow.

yes, there are goldfish crackers in this rainbow.

The boys and I were thrilled to see a robin building her nest in a bush outside of our dining room window earlier this summer.

She fussed and fretted and built and toiled, and then she laid four turquoise eggs and settled in for a few days.

A and M were lucky enough to see the eggs hatch into chicks, and the chicks grow into larger birds, and the birds make their first wobbly attempts at flight.

We even got to watch the mama (and, we think, a few other robin-friends) bring worms and berries to the last little timid bird in the nest as s/he waited…and waited…and waited to take flight.

It was sweet, and lovely, and even miraculous.

And looking at my sweet and lovely and miraculous little boys, growing up in the “nest” that their father and I have built for them, I can’t help but feel a strange sort of kinship with that mama robin.

Newly hatched

Worm-fed and growing

Mama's here, little one

Waiting to fly

A has decided–yes, decided–that he is ready to use the toilet.

My two-year-old.  My newly two-year-old.  Ready for the potty.  And he told me so.

Now, I know that some of you might be all like, “Yeah, right.  He toddled over to you one day and said, ‘Hey, wassup, Mom?  I think it’s time we do some of that potty stuff: you know, the toilet sitting, the toilet-flushing obsession, the scaring-the-crap-out-of-you when I pee up and over the toilet and onto your lap because boys don’t always have the best aim even when they’re sitting on the potty sorta stuff.  Ya hear me?’”

And I’d have to respond, “Well, no, it wasn’t entirely like that.  But yeah, it was sorta like that!”

One evening last week (I don’t know which, but we can all agree to call it the “DAY OF AWESOME”), Tim and I heard A shouting for us from his bedroom.  I, who can pretty accurately decipher between toddler-shouting that signals an emergency and toddler-shouting that doesn’t, made a leisurely journey up the stairs to see what all the ruckus was about.

And at first, I was a bit frightened by what I saw: a pants-less and diaper-less child standing at the edge of his crib with a giant grin on his face.

(For those of you who don’t know, this image generally signals mayhem, chaos, and late-night laundry-ing.)

As I scanned the room to see where the errant urine-puddle and/or turd was waiting for me, A chimed in with a truly glorious refrain:

“Sit on potty, Mommy!  I sit on potty!”

Initially my eyes did one of those cartooney “boy-yoy-yoing” things.  Totally bulging out of their sockets.  I mean, sure, we had introduced A to the potty before.  But we weren’t exactly “training” him to use it yet.

As my eyeballs finished their last “yoing” (and as I realized that there were no runaway poos rolling across the floor), I sputtered out, “Um…alright!  Let’s go to the potty!”

Wouldn’t you know, that clever little two-year-old peed right into the potty.  Didn’t even get a drop on me, himself, or the floor during the journey between his bedroom and the bathroom.

And oh, the celebrations that ensued.  The rejoicing.  The hallelujahs.  The late-night calls to grandparents.  The repeated throwing of hands to the heavens to thank Jesus, the angels, the gods, and even the dearly departed Rue McLanahan for sprinkling so much awesome onto our lives.

And you know what’s even better?   You know what makes me marvel even harder at this marvelous-ness?  A has continued his self-led toilet-training every night since.  He’ll even initiate potty-sitting a couple times during the day!

We might be a diaper-less family by the end of the summer!

In fact, we might even be dangerously close to that point where, just as one eventually forgets the pain of childbirth, we’ll forget the pain of teething and toilet-training and not-sleeping-through-the-night so much that we’ll start thinking about having another child.  And about a year later, I’ll be all like, “WHERE WAS THAT NOTE-TO-SELF ABOUT HOW MUCH TEETHING SUCKS FOR BABIES AND THEIR PARENTS?!  YOU’D THINK I’D AT LEAST REMEMBER THIS BY THE THIRD TIME AROUND!”

I digress.

(Oh wait: allow me to digress even further.  If you’re jealous–if you’re thinking to yourself, “Well isn’t that special, you mindless gloater.  Not all toilet-training is this easy, you know”–just know that I know.  Oh yes, I know.  Tim and I have joked that A’s ease with the toilet is simply God’s/nature’s/the universe’s way of taking pity on us for everything we’ve gone through with our other child when it comes to the potty.  Trust me.  We know how hard it can be.  Oh yes.  Oh yes we do.)

But back to A’s glory.

I couldn’t be prouder of my little boy.  I am still shocked, amazed that he is so in tune with his body, so curious about how it works, so adapting to the roads ahead of him.

And I couldn’t be more thrilled to hear these words, and to see their accompanying mile-wide-smile, after each and every time that A sits on the potty:

“I did it, Mommy!  I did it!”

Self-initiated potty-training is one thing.

But watching your child be so proud of himself–well, that’s quite another.

I have always baked and decorated the boys’ birthday cakes.

This is not because I am the victim of any supermom complex.  It’s not because making homemade cakes saves us heaps of money on professional cake-decorating expenses (although that’s certainly a welcome bonus).  And it’s not because I’m a particularly talented cake-decorator either.  (There’s the Ace of Cakes, and then there’s me–the four of hearts of cake, I suppose.)

I do this because it’s fun.  And because I think there’s some prematurely self-aware part of the boys that recognizes that their birthday cakes express just how much joy they bring to my life.

One of the things I do to load up on the birthday cake fun is to choose a “theme” for the cake that represents the boys’ interests/passions/obsessions.

So for A’s second birthday party, I decided to make a train cake (using a train cake pan that I already had) that would snake through a mountain of ice cream containers (A’s favorite dessert-food), upon which a little Caillou figurine (another of A’s obsessions) would be standing.

(That image is either woefully unclear or disturbingly clear to you right now, depending on your knowledge of PBS cartoons and your ability to picture mountains of ice cream.)

My mother-in-law, who was in town for the party, stayed up with me the night before the big day to keep me company while I baked the cake.  And at 11 p.m., after the cake had cooled, I went to turn the cake pan upside down onto the wire rack and…

…the entire thing crumbled into, well, crumbs.

(I learned later that I had made the grievous baking error of cutting a cake recipe in half, an error that I had never made before when using this recipe and will never make again thankyouverymuch.)

After a couple f-bombs growled their way out of my lips, I resolved not to let my cake disaster ruin my evening (or A’s birthday dessert, for that matter).

And so, thanks to a little bit of brainstorming with my mother-in-law, I pulled a box of lemon cake off the pantry shelf, whipped up the batter and poured it into two small pans, baked them exactly according to the instructions, turned out two perfect cakes onto the wire rack, let them cool, frosted them with lemon frosting, and stacked one on top of the other (with blueberries in the middle).

And I turned my “lemons” into a lemon-blueberry FIRETRUCK cake.  Though not aesthetically perfect, A was absolutely thrilled to see his very biggest current obsession (i.e.firetrucks) in edible, sweet, delicious form.

I think it was pretty darn cute too.  Even if it does look more like the work of a two-year-old than a 29-year-old.

Why yes, that's Caillou and A at the helm of the firetruck.

Want to see more of my “work”?  Oh, I know you do.  (And yes, it’s fine if these cakes make you laugh at me rather than with me…)

Here they are, in their “made with love and little skill” glory!

COOKIE MONSTER for M's first birthday. Nom nom nom.

The (successful) train cake, for M's second birthday.

A bug and worm "dirt" cake for M's third birthday. Nothing says "appetizing" like spiders, scorpions, and worms.

A puppy dog and kitty cat banana-cream cupcake "cake" for A's first birthday. With, for some odd reason, "font" that looks like it belongs on a poster for a horror film.

An animal habitats cake for M's fourth birthday.

Dear Alec,

It’s your second birthday today–a day that many consider to mark the beginning of the “terrible twos.”

And I’ll admit, there have been some meltdowns, and some temper tantrums, and some roller-coaster emotions in the house over the past few months.

But when it all comes down to it, there is little about you that I would describe as “terrible.”

Unless, that is, I were to describe your terribly sweet charm–the way you pat me gently on the back when you give me hugs, as if to say, “it’s alright, Mommy, it’s alright.”

And then there is your terribly astute sense of humor–the ways in which you have learned to the fine art of making people laugh, and knowing what makes people laugh, long before most children do.

Or your terribly keen sense of how things work–the way you figure out how to do things (like dress yourself) and build things (like block towers) and get things (like the toy that is just out of reach) and imitate things that Daddy and I do (like using a potholder to pull food out of your toy kitchen’s oven).

And then there are the seeming contradictions in your personality, like your terribly fierce independence and your terribly loving bond with me; your terribly shy nature and your terribly uncanny ability to MAKE YOURSELF HEARD when you need to be heard.

You are terribly and utterly marvelous, you know.

You have transformed me from the moment of your birth, and life has been terribly wonderful ever since.

I love you,

Mommy