Feb
8
JB has accused me of being the sort of person who holds grudges, but much like the many other things he has been wrong about which I have never forgotten ever, he’s way off base on this one. I’m sure eventually I will forgive him for interrupting the one single morning of sleeping in available to me out of, well, my ENTIRE LIFE, practically, by coming in on Sunday and announcing that his parents were packing up so I’d better get dressed and come out and say goodbye, and when I did get up—at 7:30 AM, mind you—his father blared “Well good MORNING, Princess!’ from where he was stationed on the couch and JB’s mother tittered appreciatively because ha ha ha get it, I’m a lazy WHORE, one who cooked and cleaned and did about fifty trillion loads of dishes by myself while they were visiting, thank you very much, and then they didn’t leave for like an hour and a half and instead of enjoying my one chance at relaxing in bed I was picking up the kitchen because god forbid any adult in my house be capable of putting their goddamned coffee cup in the sink. I mean, it’s not like I’m going to be rolling that little situation around in my head like a Caramel of Resentment for months on end, or anything. Or, you know, spending the next several years researching undetectable toxins which can be applied to a coffee cup handle and absorbed through the skin as part of my master plan to eventually exact my revenge long past the point when I would be a immediate suspect.
Grudge-holder. I am SO sure.
Other than what shall be forever known as JB’s Grievous Error, it was a fine weekend at our house. The children were thrilled to have their grandparents around and I was thrilled that their grandparents seem to have inexhaustible resources when it comes to reading books and putting puzzles together. Dylan is particularly besotted with those Priddy picture books which are nothing but carefully photo-masked images of objects on various blank backgrounds and I am here to tell you that the millionth “reading” of My Big Animal Book is enough to drive a person right out of their aching skull. Go ahead and call me Princess all you want—as long as you’re on tap for Priddy duty, I can take it.
I did my long run on Saturday, just under 13 miles. When I first committed to this half marathon I couldn’t begin to imagine running that far, and it’s still kind of hard to believe I can run it now. These past few months of training have been amazing in a lot of ways. It’s been hard physically; it’s been much, much harder mentally, and I’ve grown so much stronger as a result. My legs, sure, but more importantly, in my head and heart. My first reaction to considering a half marathon was a loud and clamoring I CAN’T; I feel like I’ve taken aim and blown that shit away. Pow. And now I know, like really know deep down in my bones, that it’s in me to push through, to keep going when things are hard, to not give up.
Goddamn, I like that feeling.
Lastly, and I know this is all over the place today, but can I just tell you what you can do with Google Image, a printer, and an old photo frame?
You can completely blow your kid’s ever-loving mind, that’s what.
Feb
4
At two years old Dylan talks and talks, he counts to ten, he sings, he climbs on top of things and chirps “Watch DIS, Mommy! Watch DIS, Mommy!” before hurling himself into the air. “Dumping!” he shouts, leaping up and down. “Dumping!”
Unlike Riley when he was the same age, Dylan couldn’t care less about trucks. He likes spotting motorcycles when we’re out and about—”I see a MOTACYCLE! I see a MOOOOHHHTACYCLE!”—but wheeled things are far less interesting than things with fur and hooves and snouts. His favorite activities are sitting in someone’s lap looking at pictures of animals (“Reada book? Finda cow?”) or surfing Flickr for barnyard-themed photos (SafeSearch ON, thank you very much).
All day long he asks what things are, and repeats the word to himself.
“DOING, Mommy?”
“Well, I’m loading the dishwasher right now.”
“Dish . . . washa.”
These days he loves maple sausages, macaroni and cheese, yogurt tubes, Life cereal, crackers, pineapple chunks, waffles, pancakes, and “buttah JELLY” sandwiches. He can be counted on to sobbingly refuse anything I’ve spent more than seven minutes preparing.
He is still a tantrumy little sniglet, but he’s starting to respond to time outs. That is, he’ll at least go to his room and howl there for a while, then sniffle “yes!” when we ask him if he’s all done.
He loves his brother and refuses to give Riley one inch of personal space, crushing up against him when they’re watching Yo Gabba Gabba and trailing him from room to room, grabbing at his clothes. They play frenzied screaming cackling games for hours on end, crashing around the house like mad things. Sometimes they throw a ball back and forth to each other, while Dylan shrieks “Throw it to ME, Riley! Throw it to ME, Riley!” and dissolves with joy when the ball invariably smashes into his skull.
At night Dylan collapses into my chest, a warm heavy weight in my arms. “Horses comin’ ’round,” he whispers, and I sing to him. She’ll be comin’ ’round the mountain when she comes. She’ll be riding six white horses when she comes. He drools into my left shoulder; I emerge from his bedroom with my shirt clinging wetly to me. I never mind. Soon I won’t be rocking my little boy to sleep any more, my shirts will always be dry, and oh how sad to think of that day, coming all too soon, ’round the mountain.
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