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With the notable exception of two mysteriously unpleasant days last week when Dylan did everything but spin his head counterclockwise while hissing that my mother sucks cocks in hell, I have a feeling that maybe the very worst of the young toddler stage is behind us. Which is not to downplay the rich variety of steaming hell that still lies before us, mind you, but as every day passes he gets more and more verbal, more capable, less subject to the emotional hurricanes that sweep in out of nowhere and transform him into Squalling Fury-Piglet, He-Who-Consumes-Patience (Also, Dog Hair).

If he is not exactly what I would call a calm well of serenity piloted by logic and reason, he is becoming just a tiny bit more willing to be eased out of a tantrum, and he is starting to grasp the notion of boundaries. A firm, no-nonsense “ALL DONE” will actually get him to stop staggering around howling when he’s in the midst of a pointless meltdown, and while he still chews things when he’s mad (his fingers, the hem of his shirt, the couch cushions) at least he’s not sinking his sharp little teeth into, say, my fucking SHOULDER.

He’s a strange and wonderful creature lately. Mercurial and lacking in self preservation to be sure, but also exploding with new language skills and new physical abilities. He’s putting words together into little squeaky caveman sentences, he’s ditching the stroller to bustle alongside of us on walks. I taught him to raise his arms and dramatically drop them to his legs when I ask him where something is, and it’s the best thing ever: “Dylan, where’s your book?” FLAP? FLAP. “Dylan, where’s Daddy’s ability to empty the dishwasher?” FLAP.

He is much more cuddly than Riley was, and even among the nonstop activity and pressing desire to continually fling himself from the couch while trying to imitate Buzz Lightyear (“An beyon!” he chirps, before plummeting headfirst off the armrest), he takes frequent breaks to crawl into our laps and burrow in nose-first for a hug. He runs full-tilt across rooms and into our arms, never once considering that we won’t reach down and catch him.

In my experience, the toddler stage is the hardest when it comes to parenting young children, even more challenging than the never-ending work of caring for a newborn. I’m glad for the moments when I’m able to breathe him in and appreciate this ridiculous, amazing, frustrating, miraculous, dreary, headache-triggering, heart-exploding not-quite-a-big-kid, not-quite-a-baby time.

So the triathlon I’m doing—and can I just interrupt myself, like, immediately here and say that I wish that different lengths of triathlons had different easily-recognized names so it’s more clear that what I’m signed up for is the beginner’s training-wheel version and not an IRONMAN or some shit, I mean I know it’s technically called a super-sprint but that makes it sound like I’m going to try and do it really really fast which is highly unlikely unless my athletic abilities miraculously skyrocket between now and Saturday and/or someone plants a jet propeller in my ass; every time I mention this triathlon I feel like I need to downplay its difficulty which is kind of ironic given how utterly FREAKED OUT I am by the looming race date and, oh, the little matter of having spent most of my summer planning for it and taking swimming lessons, for god’s sake; so let it be known I want FULL CREDIT for the ass-kicking task I’m about to take on, but just so we’re perfectly clear: this is not a full triathlon—is Saturday, and I can tell I’m pretty much having nonstop anxiety about it because every time I remember that it’s in less than a week I have to leap to my feet and run off to the bathroom to pee a tiny little useless pee like a nervous, brain-damaged Pomeranian. It’s going to be a RIOT on Saturday morning when I’m standing around before the swimming stage all sausage-packed into my wetsuit and having to unpeel myself every thirty seconds and scurry to the Porta-Potties.

I’m feeling most squirrelly about the swimming portion, because although I have improved greatly, if I do say so myself, from the head-aloft dog paddle I was doing before, I’m still not the strongest swimmer and I get a little panicky when I have to share a lane with someone at the pool, which doesn’t bode well for my ability to handle the group start when a billion thrashing-salmon racers hit the water at the same time. Despite some lofty plans to improve my open water technique (by which I mean tamping down on the desire to shriek my lungs out like the skinny-dipping girl in the opening scene of Jaws when my hand comes into contact with marine plant life) I only swam in non-chlorinated water twice this summer. So I’ll have to, you know, try and nut up over the fact that the swim segment is in an actual lake that is presumably not perfectly clear or devoid of non-water contents, nor will it be marked with a comforting black directional stripe.

I plan to wear a swimsuit with (non-padded) biking shorts under the wetsuit, and once I heave myself out of the water and get out of the Body Glove that’s what I’ll have on for the bike/run. It is every bit as attractive as you might imagine—the various bits of flesh erupting from the supertight swimsuit, the Lycra shorts clinging in a moist, inappropriate manner— and while I keep telling myself it’s about comfort and not having to slow down to change outfits altogether I’m sure I will experience at least one humiliating moment where I realize I’m out in public wearing this insane getup and I’m not even drunk.

JB convinced me to buy some of those sports gels and I tried one yesterday and damned if it doesn’t taste exactly like the gelatinous substance that forms the goo in those Hostess pies. Which is to say, it’s sort of terrifying and delicious at the same time, like the pregnancy glucose drink. I don’t know if I’ll use any during the race but it’s nice to know I can treat someone’s diabetic hypoglycemia in an emergency. (“EAT THIS GEL! IT TASTES LIKE CHEMICAL PIE!”)

I’m going to try and do one low-key run, bike ride, and swim this week, just to feel somewhat familiar with all three activities, but other than that there’s not much more I can do to prepare. Other than pee constantly, of course. And eat everything in sight, because 1) that’s how I deal with stress these days, and 2) as far as I’m concerned when there’s a sports event in your future, even if it’s many days away, “binge eating” magically becomes “carb loading”. Don’t mind the ever-present Ben & Jerry’s IV stand, I’m carb loading over here.

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