Games little people play

By little people I do mean my soon-to-be three-year old and his little friends, rather than little people as in little people.

Because while I am prone to sweeping generalizations, they don't tend to be along the "stuff white people like" lines. So I would never be all, little people? They love to play Monopoly. For example. Unlike big people. Who tend to enjoy Backgammon. And red meat.

That is, as far as I can tell from the one giant data point with whom share my life.

Anyway, I don't actually know anything about little people. At least, not more than I learned while watching that documentary with the not-dead-dwarf baby. Perhaps fortunately for Nick, dwarfism isn't so present in my mind as a topic along with rabies and raccoons.

And on a side bar, Nick had a girlfriend who once introduced him to one of her friends with, "This is John. You're both tall."

To which I would now add, "Perhaps you'd like a bratwurst?"

Which leads me to Curious George. Why doesn't he have a tail? And seriously, what is the deal with the man with the yellow hat? It's not just a yellow hat. He wears an entire yellow outfit, with his yellow pants tucked into his boots.

The hell?

Anyway. Jordan's birthday is on Sunday. We are having a little party for him. We were thinking some kids, some food some cake...

And then the other night he said, "Daddy, I know what birthday parties are! Curious George had a birthday! You have decorations and hats and cake and games!"

Oh, right. Of course!

So I asked my nursing-about-town friend if she'd like to go to the party store in Bailey's Crossroad and she asked if it was the gay pickup one. Because apparently one of them is, or used to be.

If it was, it wasn't clearly so on a Tuesday at noon.

We got an assortment of Cars-related stuff, as Jordan has always been an automobophile, or whatever you might call someone who loves all things vehicle-related, and is currently enamored of Lightening McQueen and his pals. Seriously. We'll be walking down the street and he'll say, "Hey, there's your car, Mama!"

When to me it is indistinguishable from numerous other old silver Civics. Unless I look up close. Or use the horn-honker on my key ring.

But I'm stuck on games. What kind of games do three-year olds play?

Lisa's had more birthdays than there are sad country songs about trying to love two women and only taking one girl home

Nick woke me up this morning with a flat, square package, wrapped in red and gold paper. Jordan had helped him tape it. There was lots and lots of tape.

I have had a lot of birthdays and have received a lot of gifts. But inside this box was one of the best presents I have ever, ever gotten. It made me cry, in the good way.
Nick came across this note from my dad while going through storage boxes, and had it framed for me.

My dad had tried to commit suicide that spring, and was nearly dead when the EMTs found him. He was in the hospital for two months. It was a rough year, although things were better, much better, by the time my birthday arrived.

Coincidentally, this sweet note was written three months before I met Nick. My dad's birthday wish for me came true that year.

My India was hanging out on the bed, and and just after I unwrapped this, my Jordan came running into the room and said, "Happy birthday, Mama!"

I'm loved and lucky. And I hope you are, too.

Pants-Off Dance-Off

These past two months have been huge for Jordan. Huge.

First, we got rid of the Cold Pants. Wait, this calls for caps: WE GOT RID OF THE COLD PANTS!!!

Every once in a while both pairs would be too dirty to wear, and we could cajole our boy into shorts. So Nick suggested we just say the cold pants were dirty every day.

Fortunately Jordan bought it, rather than being all, "Then do some fucking laundry, why don't you?"

He still asks for them when he's really tired and going down for a nap. But otherwise, we are in shorts! Which is of course fantastic. Because I kid you not, this was him in July. If you enlarge the photo you will see the beleaguered state of the Cold Pants.

Also, he wanted the jacket because, although I pointed out that it was VERY HOT, he said, "But when it's done being hot, it's going to be cold."

He had a point. Plus, he's happy to remove a jacket in the heat. Just not the Cold Pants.

But!

Last week we went to a friend's house for a long weekend. This friend has a yard.

And here's what we learned: Jordan totally knows when he needs to pee. And poop. He just doesn't like the idea of the toilet or the potty.

By "doesn't like" I in fact mean gets all kinds of worked up, ranging from whining to actual hysteria. Like some giant hand is going to reach up out of the toilet and grab his crotch and pull him down into the pipes. Or something along those lines.

I haven't asked if that's his fear, because why suggest, right?

But! Butt!

Much like my brother and me and our Bangladesh childhood antics, this kid loves to pee outside! And so we did a lot of nakey nakey time.

He loves nakeytime! He loves to pee on plants! He can leap up and say, "I'll be right back!" and run out the screen door and pee! And then come back and go about his day.

So I thought, why not see if he'll poop outside as well? He was game for it so out to the yard we traipsed.

I did manage to get him to squeeze out two little turds. We were so proud. (Yes, I've horrified a couple of my friends with this admission. Feel free to be horrified.)

Now that we're back, it's all pull-ups and diapers, all the time. No fucking way is he going to let loose on the potty or toilet.

Nick suggested we put a big shrub on our back deck so we can continue the outside potty training, but really. No. Just no.

Because then what? We get him a special wagon to haul his pee-shrub around with him?

But I still see this as progress.

I got 99 problems but a boob ain't one

When I say we've tried approximately 537 types of bottles what I really mean is we are getting down to the fucking wire here, and if little miss sugarpoops would just oblige and drink from a goddamn bottle, it would make me feel a hell of a lot better.

I might even cut down on the motherfucking profanity.

Jordan didn't care where his food came from. Boob? Sure. Bottle? Why not? We used Dr. Browns for the most part, but genuinely, he did not care.

This kid, after taking a bottle about every other week starting just after three weeks, which is when the pediatrician told us to start, one day just said fuck it. No. More. Bottles!

She said it LOUDLY. For hours.

Then I read something about excess lipase in one's frozen breast milk, making it taste sour or soapy. So I tasted a sip of my frozen milk. It tasted sour.

However. I'm also highly suggestible. If I read a description of wine that talks about undercurrents of cigar box and magnolia shrubs, I can always taste them. I wasn't the best candidate for hypnosis, but I'm clearly susceptible.

We tried with freshly-squozen breast milk.

Nope. No way.

So then we decided to just try formula in the bottle. Whole nother experience!

Nothing doing.

Besides Dr. Browns we have Medela, and Avent, and Adiri. We've tried a sippy cup. At the suggestion of Miss Dallas, I ordered this fancy boob-shaped bottle. Naturally, I had to immediately pull it out of the box, place it to the side of my boob and ask Nick what he thought about my profile.

Nick was amused, but then asked sceptically, "Do you really think you're going to trick her with that?"

I can't remember what I said in return, but I'm pretty sure it had the asshole word in it.

Which matters not one bit because India was all, "I spit on your fake boob! Fuck you! Give me the real thing NOW RIGHT NOW I MEAN RIGHT RIGHT NOW OR I WILL SCREAM MY TOOTHLESS HAIRLESS LITTLE HEAD OFF!"

I discussed this with our daycare director, whom I adore. She said their hardest case refused a bottle for three weeks. She sees that as worst-case scenario. She assured me this will not happen.

However, she added, if India goes for four weeks, they will not be able to keep her.

This is fair. Just, you know, frightening.

So far, cajoling hasn't worked. A stranger giving her the bottle hasn't worked. Threats muttered under my breath have gotten me nowhere. Same with pleading and bribery.

She comes by her stubbornness honestly. But still.

Additionally, I'm also a grate speller too

I don't know if it's post-pregnancy or sleep deprivation or just the way things go, but anymore, I retain information for approximately 15 minutes.

And I can't remember words.  And I'm regularly unsure of whether I said something out loud or just in my head. Seriously. I'm constantly all: Did I just ask her if she wanted a drink out loud? Or did I just think it?

It can make conversation with me a little awkward. You might think that I really really want you to have a glass of water, for example.

So a couple weeks ago, I had coffee a woman I'd met a while ago through a mutual friend. I liked her and her husband when I met them, and they a daughter about Jordan's age, but we never got together as they were moving away. Turns out they moved back, and I ran into her and her husband on the street one day.

We discovered we both had second children born days apart, and arranged to meet up at Tryst to talk about all things new mothery and such.

The day we met I was having a particularly vocabularly-challenged kind of day. Like, we were talking about our deliveries, and I could not for the life of me come up with the word anesthesiologist. In situations like this, I do a version of out-loud charades. I gesticulate and pantomime and describe.

"You know, the person with the needle, and the pain medicine and they make you sit still..."

(Seven syllables, first syllable...)

"Anesthesiologist?"

"Yes!"

I can't remember the other stellar example, but genuinely, it was something like ice cube.

"You know, it's square and cold and you put it in drinks..."

Here I feel compelled to mention that this woman is extremely intelligent, has a law degree from somewhere impressive, and is friends with a number of my crazy-smart friends.

So.

We wound up talking about everything pregnancy and childbirth and the challenges of juggling a toddler and a newborn. Which led to a discussion of drinking during pregnancy and nursing.

She said that a friend of hers didn't drink at all during her pregnancy or the entire time she nursed, which was well over a year. She contended that her friend's child - the same age as her first daughter and my son - was clearly smarter than her daughter. And she wondered if this ought to be attributed to alcohol consumption, no matter how minimal.

I said, "You know, I drank wine while I was pregnant with Jordan, and while I was nursing. He's pretty sharp and he has terrific language skills."

Then I realized that I probably sounded like one of those assholey ooh my kid is sooo amazing kinds of parents.

So I added, "I think he takes after me. I have to use my fingers and toes to do math, but language has always been my strong suit."

Pregnant pause...

Ice cube! Anesthesiologist? Four syllables, sounds like drink of water? Unless I already said that out loud?