Poor Reed. I hope if, you ever make me happy by feigning interest in your mama's blog later in life, that you'll forgive the major omissions and refrain from asking me questions like, "When did I first x? What was my favorite y? Although I've got answers for a few of these, and I'm keeping birthday moments recorded in a yearly "birthday book" (which OMG is about to be filled out again), most of the significant or detailed stories I have and hold are about things other than "firsts". For instance.
For months now, you've demanded we sing "Old McDonald" every.single.time.we.put.you.down. be it nap or for the night (ahem: for however many hours you're going to sleep before you wander into the office to pester me while I'm feverishly trying to work, which usually leads to us doing laundry and vacuuming at one in the morning). You don't like any standard version of this probably centuries-old lullaby (does this count as a lullaby or just a song someone made up while drunk?) Nope.
As we pose the question, over and again, "and on this farm he had a . . ." you've become increasingly creative. Sure, cats, dogs, cows, and pigs make it in here and there, but you're ever so much more likely to say starfish, dolphin, yapok, drill, fossa (if you're wondering, and you probably are, these are indeed real animals. To some extent), cougar, jaguar, uh, stegosaurus or T-rex, anteater, warthog (a perennial favorite), . . . mama, dada, or Reed. Good thinking -- the three of us do live on a farm of sorts, just not the kind of farm Old Mc-whoever-he is was singing about. (This kind of farm is prefaced with the word "funny" or ends with "asylum", whichever you choose. You'll understand when you're older and you meet Nurse Ratchet). Let me tell you, it's been difficult to come up with appropriate sounds for animals like starfish, who I'm pretty sure never make any noise, and those like fossas, who, for all I knew blow "Whistle While You Work" through their nostrils. (If they have nostrils. Hard to say -- ugly, funny, tiny little things).
Of course, now that I'm getting around to this post, you're just about over your Old McDonald obsession. And on to beating me in the chest with the palm of your hand. I'm pretty sure I prefer 15 rounds of singing.
You also seem to be pretty much over trucks . . . which is breaking my heart. I never, ever, thought I'd say that -- or feel it. I didn't want you to be all into so very typical "boy" stuff, you know? But seeing your extreme obsession, er, enthusiasm for them, and the mind-boggling amount of knowledge you amassed so young and so quickly ultimately had me sold. We bought a truck pillowcase, which you still like but no longer beg to drag to the rocking chair, truck decals for the playroom. ... I already bought you a dump truck card for your 2nd birthday, which, oh god, is coming up very soon. I'm so sad. I want you to be six months old forever. No matter how much I like each season that comes along (and believe me, this one is a toughie), I hate the thought of you growing older. Thinking about you past toddlerhood is inconceivable. I've never been a fan of little boys who aren't cute toddlers any longer, but I suppose, since you're mine, I won't mind. :) This morning you looked at me and said, "I love mama SO SO much" (which is what I usually say to you, minus the "mama" part), and that pretty much covers you for the next two years or so.
Ah. I can't end this post without documenting a few of your newest little sayings for posterity. Right now, I can't imagine how I would ever, EVER forget them, but since I forget absolutely everything else and usually in an impressively brief amount of time, I'd better put them here. Ahem.
"I have tears" -- I'm crying. "Mama (or Dada) fix it" -- I'm hurt. "Mama (or Dada) kiss it" -- I'm hurt. "You want some" -- "I want some" (I secretly love that you use second person in place of first person for nearly everything. And I have yet to figure out how to make you understand that you need to use first person even when I'm constantly using the word "you". How confusing. And endearing." "Want no!" Another personal fave -- and this one is fairly recent, bellowed any time you don't want something -- I'm guessing this is shorthand for "No! I don't want it!" And it's awesome. "S T O P stop" -- it is what it is -- you're spelling some things now (courtesy of Grandma's introduction of this skill) and can, when you're feeling like it, spell Mama, Dada, Reed (though for now, it's "Red" as you've yet to understand the concept of a double vowel), go, and no. I'm amazed and frightened at how much you soak up, and I wonder what on earth you're going to do in terms of kindergarten. First grade. Dada and I long ago decided you'd never, ever go to public school, and your little personality and intellect have made us nothing but more firm in that decision. Luckily, we aren't going to have to deal with that for awhile.
And we also love that you keep pointing to both of us multiple times a day and exclaiming, "Thaaaat's Mama!" or "Thaaaaat's Dada!" as if we were either on some really great game show or just so important to you that you have to point it out regularly. It doesn't really matter which. You've also started (usually when I'm rocking you to sleep at night), uttering some version of "Mama sleep. Reed sleep. Dada sleep. Mama and Dada BOTH sleep in bed." While this is cute, it ain't going to happen often, little one. Mama can't sleep through snoring, Dada can't always sleep with you rolling over and smacking him in the face or kicking him in the nose, so we wind up everywhere -- Mama's on the couch, or Dada. Ike's here or there. You, God willing, are in bed . . . but not always. You've been known to take refuge in the family room or office every once in awhile.
I thought I'd point out, to those of you who might be reading this and thinking, "he's STILL in your bed? You STILL rock him to sleep? You and your husband DON'T sleep in the same bed? Tsk, tsk. Self-congratulatory, smug chuckle. Yes, you -- stop making comments about it. We (as in his, um, parents) don't mind. In fact, we're quite happy with the arrangement. Yes, he might be in our bed for a long time. Yes, it does take a lot of time to put him to bed, and NO, he can't just "go to sleep" if we lay him down (especially as he can simply roll out of bed and cruise down the hall, since he's always equated his crib with anthrax). And no, we aren't going to get divorced because we rarely sleep together (that would be Ed and I; Reed and I have slept together pretty much every night since we brought him home to the hospital). In fact, I find it far less stifling -- I've never really like sleeping with other people, and I sleep so much better alone. Dada apologizes for his snoring, and we do sometimes go to sleep together . . . inevitably, I roll over and punch him in the shoulder, and he heads for the couch. You, Reed, can sleep through it, no problem, which makes us wonder why you can't seem to stay asleep for more than 45 minutes sometimes. (Today's nap? 23 minutes and 42 seconds). Those of you who know me well know I don't really sleep, period, so I take what I can get, in peace. So that's out of the way. Bravo to those of you with perfect sleeping arrangements. We like our quirkiness, though we'd really love it if Reed would sleep through the night more than once every two weeks.
I often think I should start yet another "Mommy" blog expressly to wax annoying about the loads of uninvited, sometimes (often) unwanted advice or chiding. I might do that rather than using this one for that purpose, but as I've got five blogs and another on the way, I might not, too. If you want to read some hysterical Mommy blogs, check out a few of the links.
In other news, we just got a library card as Mama's decided buying each book we read is getting expensive and unnecessary. Thank God Temecula saw fit to build a new library, since the original had four books in it. Today we went for the second time, looking for more of your beloved Sandra Boynton board books. Since you already have a lot of them, this is challenging, and we failed in that endeavor. We did, however, find quite a selection of chicken, rooster, moose, frog, and fish books, so those should tide you over for awhile. Dada just started his two-day a week work schedule. Mama's continuing her six to seven-day work schedule. We don't know if Ed can go to school this fall or if Amy will be moving her stuff into her new office at MSJC . . . but since Fall semester begins in a month, we're really hoping to know soon. Amy just turned 33 and has decided it's time to stop celebrating birthdays. I'm good here, thanks.
See you next time, which, if things go as usual, will be in about two months. Maybe three. In any case, if the blog bores you to tears (and really, such blogs are usually amusing only to other mothers of young children, and only mildly so at that), check out the video of our young cherub pulling his night-owl antics. Good times, good times. Or not, since it's apparently too long to load (which I discovered after leaving it to load overnight). So here.
...The photo blog! (Also
We just got back from Reed's first ("trial") gymnastics class. He'll be going two mornings a week this month, and we'll see how it goes. It seems a fitting enterprise for someone who wants to hang on countertops (and appendages) and somersault off furniture. So far: R votes yes on walking on the balance beam, jumping into the foam pit, and hanging/swinging on the bars. Sitting on the rope swing? Not so much. I think we've just entered the next phase of "wow, raising kids is way more expensive than I thought" as we trade in former expenses for these sorts. Still, I think we'll find it worthwhile, and I'm excited that we can afford him various opportunities that might help him on a number of levels. If I can just find the kind of art class I want, we'll be all set. Good thing I just took on another class for October . . .
Ah, the ubiquitous CAT. Here it is in all its brain-rattling glory. He's got one here, one at Nama/Crappa, er, Grandpa's house -- and he plays with it all. the. time. I can't believe I have a kid who's super into trucks and cars -- he'll probably end up wanting to go to Nascar and riding dirt bikes, and I'll have to promptly poke my eyes out while those near and dear laugh at the irony. At least he likes it, I suppose. While this is a "c" post, let's not go on the assumption that he actually calls this thing a caterpillar; no, it's a "buh-dozer." Should have probably put that in the "Bs", along with "Bonnie", his other grandmother's, name -- like I said, my Swiss-cheese brain can't be counted on for a lot of details -- thus the blog.
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