August 29, 2007

I had this vague notion of putting together a nice little video montage for Riley’s second birthday like I did for his first, but technology has conspired against me: my desktop machine is stubbornly refusing to acknowledge peripheral devices and thus the fancy digital camcorder remains clogged with footage from the last few months. Suck.

I’d feel more guilty, but I finally put together his “Baby’s First Year” book (thank you, Shutterfly!) TWO WEEKS AGO, so clearly this whole delayed Precious Memory stuff is par for the course in my household.

Humor me, pretend this space [ X ] contains a lovely video showing my son’s miraculous leaps of development from squalling, angry one-year-old to squalling, angry two-year-old. With fancy transitions and shit.

Riley’s birthday is on Friday, and the current plan is to be hanging out at the family cabin in Oregon, hopefully enjoying some nice weather and eating a big ole Dairy Queen ice cream cake. There was some murmuring about whether or not I wanted to bake him something myself, until I reminded all involved parties that I DON’T HAVE AN OVEN. I didn’t use all caps when I said it, but they were implied. Besides, I still remember last year and the adorable, delicious homemade heart-shaped (HEART. SHAPED) cupcakes I slaved over, and how Riley viewed my efforts with the kind of suspicion normally displayed by customs agents and British headmasters.

It has been a trying, exhilarating, amazing, difficult, and unforgettable two years since Riley entered our lives. I feel like we have climbed Mt. Everest a thousand times over, and the view is always changing, more marvelous than the day before, but the terrain never gets any easier. Sometimes I think that’s the nature of the very best things in life, that they take hard work, because the payoff is that much sweeter. (Of course, sometimes I think that’s idiotic and there’s a reason why everyone wants to win the fucking lottery.)

Parenthood is the biggest thing I’ve ever done, that I ever will do. It is the hardest thing, it is the most relentlessly brutal, and it is a wondrous and nearly painful joy. What can I say that hasn’t been said a thousand times before? I love my boy, so very much.


6 months.

1 year.

18 months.

2 years.

(Oh, how quickly it’s gone by. It’s hard to believe, but there it is in pixels: two whole years.)

Have a wonderful weekend, friends. I’ll talk to you in a few days.

August 28, 2007

Can I just say how much I loved your cucumber stories, especially the thrilling confession left by K, who likes to use her cucumbers for the purpose of cruelly dry-humping her husband, an image so vivid and wonderful I can hardly stand it? Ladies, remember how we’ve all bonded on multiple occasions over the ongoing ridiculous offers of “man sausage” and “protein shakes” and “medicinal beef injections” and so on? Let us all take a page from K’s book, and tonight, surprise your SO with a little vegetative poke to the rear! If he complains, tell him not to worry, you’ve got what ails him. Try waggling it invitingly.

This has little if anything to do with cucumbers, but my son has been a holy terror over the last few days and I don’t know if we’ve got a cold, molars, or just your average garden-variety demonic possession going on. I actually referred to him as a “douchebag” yesterday, but before you automatically throw me out of the running for mother of the year, let me assure you I’m pretty sure he didn’t hear me, as he was awfully busy unhinging his jaw in order to boost his screaming volume to Eleventy Billion Decibels.

If children had mute buttons, this whole parenting thing would be so much easier. I’m just saying.

I will say that in his favor the boy is starting to say some of the, pardon me, darndest things. The other day he was carrying on about how he didn’t like a cartoon lion on Blue’s Clues (by the way, this particular neurosis, unlike the planes, is definitely not our fault, because while we may have stupidly exposed him to terrifyingly loud Blue Angels we have never ONCE allowed him to view lions devouring great bloody hunks of helpless antelope or perhaps gnawing the tender skulls of very small children) and when we asked why, he said, “No yike it. Too feaky.” (No like it; too freaky.)

I mean, “too freaky”, could you just DIE. Although the “too” this, “too” that is getting a bit old. Everything he eats is “too hot!”, even if it’s cold cereal. The sun is too bright, his shoes are too tight, that bite is too big, this bite is too small. He’s like Goldilocks, only there’s no just right in sight, and I don’t remember the part about Goldilocks screaming and crying and throwing a massive fit because her shirt was “too green”.

This is a weird question, but do you think babies raised in grass-thatched huts in Africa go through similar diva-like toddler stages? I’m guessing maybe no. Also, wondering how much a ticket to Africa costs. Guess what, Riley, Africa has LIONS.

Anyway, I was heartened to know I’m not the only person who has experienced Dead Arm Syndrome during pregnancy. I feel like even though I’m much more distracted this time around and less likely to spend hours monitoring my entire body for emerging weirdness, I’m having more oddball symptoms than before. For instance, Dead Arm. Also, weird unpleasant sort-of-metallic taste in my mouth, hiccups whenever I get out of bed, and mutant fast-growing fingernails. Plus, hazy midnight fantasies about being trapped in a broken elevator with Clive Owen, who must manfully comfort me as the lights go out, and as the temperature begins to drop, he wraps my shivering body in his surprisingly warm arms, and whispers that it will all be okay, he has an escape plan that involves taking off his shirt, but first perhaps just a little cucumber action, and—

Well, and that’s when I wake up with numb arms and have to pee. Pregnancy blows.

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