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In the last few days Dylan has not only ramped up his crawling skills to oh-shit-time-to-babyproof-everything speeds, but he’s become obsessed with pulling himself upright on whatever object is at hand. Once he gets himself in a teetery, wobbly-knee’d standing position, he’s clearly thrilled beyond measure — as evidenced by his overjoyed DER DER DER DER sounds and beaming, pure-sunshine expression — but his grasp of all the various motor functions necessary to accomplish this task without collapsing facefirst in a skull-shattering kersmash are unpredictable at best, so I have to hover nearby, Maternal Eagle Claw at the ready.

I had forgotten how exhausting this stage is: the rampant, deadly curiosity, combined with a half-assed sort of mobility that requires constant vigilance. He spends his day trying to open drawers, push buttons, pull up on unstable furniture, gnaw poisonous substances, plummet off high surfaces, slip under the bathwaters, choke on tiny plastic toys, wrap himself in power cords, and sweep glasses off tables, and he never stops ever. He never just sits still any more. Consequently I can never sit still either, and I often feel like I’m mired in some hideously challenging yet monotonous video game where I must fend off an endless stream of pixellated dangers and if I take the time to blink then GAME OVER MAN, GAME OVER.

This does not bode well, I feel, for JB’s brother’s wedding in late January, which the children are expected to attend. And when I say “expected”, I don’t mean the bride or groom particularly care whether they are there, I mean my dingbat husband and his parents want the kids to come, for reasons which remain confusing to me but apparently have something to do with being in the photos. I have strongly advocated against bringing them if we can figure out a good alternative solution, because my GOD, it’s a WEDDING, and an evening wedding at that. JB is the best man, so I’ll pretty much be on my own when it comes to keeping both kids quiet and still during the ceremony, which what the hell, someone draw out the logistics of that for me, because outside of canvas restraints and a blow-dart of phenobarbital I can’t picture how it’s going to work at ALL, and I don’t know what kind of crack JB’s smoking if he thinks the kids will cooperate for some nice sit-down formal photographs, have we learned NOTHING from history here, and seriously, it’ll be late and the boys will be cranky and psycho and Dylan will be braining himself on everything in sight and Riley will probably be doing the thing where he waits until there’s a moment of total silence in a public area before loudly asking me about the mole on my neck or maybe even musing at top volume about the mystery of why I don’t have a penis and he does, and am I ALONE in thinking this is just a really, really bad idea and we should hire a babysitter for the evening instead?

I saw a new doctor today, because my previous doctor specializes in prenatal care and as much as I liked her I guess I’m not quite willing to get knocked up again just to see a familiar face on the occasions I drag myself in for a checkup, and it was the weirdest thing, he looked exactly like a less-sexy and grey-haired Dr. Cox (I don’t have to explain why Dr. Cox is sexy, do I? Listen, you either find aggressive, rapid-fire shitheads sexy or you don’t, and if you don’t, then, well, you’re wrong, what can I say? See also: Ari from Entourage, at least in previous years because is it just me or does his dick seem a little limp this season?).

His office wasn’t very convenient to get to and I didn’t get called in until a full half hour past my appointment time so despite the Scrubs resemblance I was already thinking I wouldn’t be back, but then there was this sort of fantastic moment right there in the exam room, and no, it didn’t involve a speculum what is wrong with you people, he was reading my chart and asked how I was handling a medication I’m taking that has a host of rare side effects like depression, anxiety, etc, and instead of running down the laundry list of possible mental tics he just looked at me and said, “How’s the [medication] going, having any of the . . .” — and here he twirled his finger against his temple. He didn’t quite loll his tongue out of his mouth and roll his eyes comically to complete the picture, but it was quite awesome nonetheless. Oh doctor you had me at making the International Sign for Crazy.

I guess if I had been having some of those side effects I might not have found it so amusing, but, okay, this is just me, but I hate a doctor that wants to talk about stress and lifestyle and shit when all you want is a prescription, you know? I like to think this is a guy to whom I can go, Doc, I’m having some — and here I’d twirl my finger against my head — and he’d be all, welp, hokay then! Let’s get you some DRUGS.

That was pretty much the whole of my day, and then I got the sniglets from daycare and we goofed around the house while I snapped a bunch of pictures:

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