Breakfast with Santa

I was so excited on Saturday. I finally got to take William to see Santa Claus this year. My friends Mary Clare and Jerri and I took our children to have breakfast with Santa at the local Junior League headquarters. We dressed them all up in their Christmas finery and fired up the digital cameras. I didn't get any great pictures, but at least William consented to sitting on Santa's lap without freaking out. And later, during a run-by, he even told Santa what he wants for Christmas ("choo choo!").




















This was a much bigger deal for me than for my son, obviously. Last year, David was all hyper-paranoid about turning over his infant son to a stranger in a mall, even for 30 seconds, so he begged me not to take William to see Santa. Plus there was the little not-so-incidental stomach flu that he got last December. That was the bug that sparked the nickname Typhoid William. I'm not sure anyone would have wanted to hold him after that. So anyway, last year got nixed. But this year, we're all relatively healthy (so far), and at least we didn't have to go wait in line in a huge, overheated germ-infested mall for hours on end (and yes, some people were doing that on Saturday at the nearby mall).

So without a paternal veto this year, I dressed our son in his Santa overalls for the big occasion. And coached him on what Santa says ("ho ho"). So when Santa walked into the hallway just as we were entering, William really seemed to recognize him. He was a little unsure, of course. He didn't dash over or anything, but I think he knew the big guy in the red suit was the same as the Santa on his shirt. Of course, I still didn't get any really good pictures of him in the Santa outfit, darnitall. He smiled plenty...just not when I snapped the shutter.





















We had a lovely breakfast of chocolate chip pancakes and doughnuts, the ideal food to give to already-hyped-up toddlers. Rumor has is that Leland just ate straight chocolate chips after awhile.













Mary Allen is trying to get William's attention in this photo, but he is too taken with his second pancake of the morning (or maybe it was his third doughnut):
















The only way William would have been happier with breakfast is if I had also given him a juice box. And maybe some cheese.

Speaking of cheese, Leland had been planning to ask Santa for some cheese and crackers for Christmas--don't you love a child who's so delightfully easy to please?-- but she was a little shy when it finally came time to sit on Santa's lap. So her mom helped her out, and William dashed back and forth in front of them, for some extra festive atmosphere.















All in all, MC and Jerri and I agreed that it was a terrific morning. None of our three kids had a temper tantrum or freakout, not even on Santa's lap. They all played well together, too. We even took them to the nearby bookstore to play with the choo choo trains, and they did great there, too. Other kids were having Saturday morning meltdowns, but none of ours did. It's a Christmas miracle!

Trying for a good picture

I recently put the following photo up on my Flickr page, and Natalie wrote a hilarious note about it. She said that it looked like William was celebrating his successful ascent of Mount Larson-Wyckoff. It does, doesn't it?
















And for that reason, I don't think we'll be doing the big family portrait for a Christmas card this year. Oh well. We'll probably go for something candid of the little prince by himself and hope for the best.

Maybe...



















...or possibly something like this. Look how he looks like he's saluting! It's all that early exposure to the Marines. "Yes, sir, I love Christmas, SIR!"

No, William!

Has anyone here ever read the children's book "No, David!" by David Shannon?

This book is cracking me up. The author's note explains that as a child, he once drew a series of pictures of himself doing all the things he wasn't supposed to do, and all of them were captioned with his mother's inevitable words: "No, David!" So, as an adult, he decided to take that concept and weave it into a children's book.

It is hilarious. David jumps on his bed, plays baseball in the house and breaks a vase, and he splashes water all over the floor of his bathroom. Meanwhile, the narrator-mother says things like, "No, David, no!" and "Settle down!" and "Go to your room." But at the end, as David looks forlornly up from his Time Out corner, she tells him "Davey, come here," and she wraps him in a hug and says, "David, I love you."

Awwww. That's what William always says at the end of the book. (He hugs me, too.)

As for me, I was drawn to the book because I find myself saying, "No, William!" an increasing number of times each day (in an increasingly louder voice), as my toddler explores his independence. His currently infuriating activities are limited mostly to throwing his sippy cup off the highchair tray onto the floor, screeching loudly and joyfully whenever I'm trying to have an conversation on the phone, and dragging every single piece of tupperware out of the one kitchen cabinet without a latch. This is the life, right? Yes, Life with a Toddler.

William already knows he's not supposed to do certain things. But you know, I think he just likes to get a rise out of me by doing the things he knows darn well he's not supposed to do. For example, he's well aware that he is not supposed to toss things off his highchair tray, but he reliably does so anyway. And I have to admit, that's the one thing that really drives me nuts. It doesn't bother David so much, but for some reason, it just makes me so mad! I always have to pick up the spoon/fork/bowl/sippy and wipe up whatever's left behind, and then I have to either get him a replacement or take it away altogether. And when I sternly say, "No, William, we do not throw our sippy cup off our highchair tray!" he just laughs and laughs. Argh!!! Nothing has solved this problem yet. Not ignoring it, not scolding, not ending the meal. Argh argh argh. I know exactly how the mother in the "No, David!" book felt.

David has suggested it's time to institute Time Out when William doesn't stop with a stern "No, William." I'm new at this Time Out thing, so I'm not really sure what to do. How long does a toddler get Time Out? How do you get them to understand what you're doing? And God, how do you get them to stay in the place where they're supposed to be having time out? Is this really going to work?

I've tried it once a few days ago. I plopped William down in this little wooden chair in the living room and turned it toward the wall. I told him, "You're having Time Out right now." He immediately began to slide down and out of the chair, so I had to pick him back up and plop him back down again. Lather, rinse, repeat. Sort of defeats the purpose if I'm having to interact with him every five seconds, I'd think. Finally after about two minutes of this, I let him go. I had intended to let him sit there and think about what he'd done wrong for a few minutes (what? is that hysterical laughter I hear from all the experienced parents reading this?), then I'd hug him like the mother in the book and say, "William, I love you." But, he just gleefully ran off shouting, and I sat down on the floor and sighed.

Don't worry. I hug him and tell him I love him all the time. And I do love him all the time. But sometimes it's hard to say those words after your child has just swept a tidal wave of food off the highchair tray, spattering the walls, floor and nearby cabinets. Sometimes, I just find myself helplessly screeching, "No, William, NO!!!"

More antibiotics please

The knee is still swollen. It still hurts. I have to go back to the orthopedist in the morning. Ugh. I'm worried he's going to want to admit me so they can administer IV antibiotics, and I so cannot be admitted. Who's going to watch William while I'm imprisoned in some hospital room? I don't have time for that! Heck, I don't even have someone to watch him while I trundle off to all these doctors' appointments.

I'm hoping he'll just up the antibiotic dosage or put me on another one. Of course, that would be Antibiotic No. 4, just in case you'd like to keep track, since he put me on clindamycin on Friday, after the other doc put me on augmentin and bactrim on Tuesday. And that doesn't even count the shot of Rocephin. This is getting ridiculous, isn't it? Between getting all my meds and also picking up William's asthma medication, I've been to three different pharmacies in the last six days. I feel like an ersazt junkie skulking from one place to another, trying to find the right place to score her fix.

So what I need is either 1) a miracle drug, 2) the current drugs to kick in and start working, or 3) a fairy godmother to take care of my son if I have to go to the hospital. Actually, if it's not to much to ask, can I have either No. 1 or No. 2 AND No. 3? I mean, who doesn't need their own personal fairy godmother around? I'll take her even if I don't have to go to the hospital.

Light, light, light!

I knew that having a child would make certain things like Halloween and Christmas seem brand new and exciting again. It was one of the things I looked forward to, especially once William was born. I anticipated the day when he would be able to appreciate all those things that I loved as a child, and I looked forward to experiencing them all over again. And tonight proved again that it was worth the wait.

I bundled William up in his coat, hat and mittens***, and we took a stroll around the neighborhood to look at all the Christmas lights. David's not big on the whole Christmas light decorating thing, and I don't do ladders, so we almost never hang our own lights. But I still love to look at everyone else's. And the gaudier, the more festive, the better. Not that I can't appreciate a house tastefully decorated with the requisite strings of white lights and tailored holly garlands and wreaths, but there's something so fun about a house with lots and lots of colored lights draped over the eaves and shrubs and fake candy canes lining the sidewalk. It's like the state fair: tacky, maybe, but mesmerizing and captivating all the same.

And my child, well, he likes them all. Christmas lights equals love. It's so simple and nice, isn't it? He pointed happily at the animated reindeer in our neighbor's yard and chirped "deer! deer!" He said, "Wow!" at the green and white explosion of lights three houses down. And he stretched his little mittened hand out to respectfully touch a net of white lights on the mailbox at yet another house. He didn't want to come back inside the house, even though it was below 40 degrees outside (I'm sure our neighbors were a little skeptical about the crazy lady taking her toddler for a brisk walk after dark in the frigid cold).

"William," I said, trying to reason with my son even though I know how silly that is. "William, we can come back out here tomorrow night and look at the lights again." He considered that, but he wasn't going for it. Finally, I had to pick him up and bodily carry him inside, as he kicked at me and howled for "light, light, light"!

Tomorrow night, kiddo. Tomorrow night. I promise. I know. I love them, too.



***



















Please note that William is actually wearing mittens in this picture. And he hates mittens. Hates 'em. Hates anything covering his hands. And he was so excited about going out to see the Christmas lights that he grudgingly consented to wear them. And he even left them on the entire time we were outside. I was shocked. I guess it's all about how you bribe...er, talk to them.

My knee

You know how you don't think about your feet when you're wearing comfortable shoes? But the minute you get a blister or your feet are cold, it's all you can think about. You take your feet for granted.

Well, that's apparently how I was about my knees. Until a few days ago. One day last week, I noticed that it hurt a bit to kneel on my right knee. I figured that, in my absentmindedness, I must have bumped into something and bruised it. I'm always running around after William or crawling around and picking up toys/food/sippy cups/etc.

But when I woke up yesterday morning, my knee was sore and swollen. And it felt warm to the touch. I compared it to my left knee and immediately noticed a difference. The right knee was swollen up in an arc, while the left knee was still relatively flat. Uh oh. Of course, in a classic example of worst-case-scenarioism, I immediately diagnosed myself with a fast-growing knee tumor. It's cancer, I concluded. I'll have to get chemotherapy and radiation. Or they're going to have to take off my leg. How could this have happened? I won't be able to have any more children. I'll never find a wig that looks anything close to this hair of mine at all. (Of course, would that be so bad, really?) The saner, more rational side of me thought about how William's had MRSA a couple times this year, and I hoped it wasn't that kind of infection plaguing my knee.

I texted David, and he helped me find a doctor to call. Luckily for me, the stars must have all been aligned properly because my new doctor immediately fit me in for an appointment yesterday afternoon. I couldn't believe it. I wonder if that's a world record? Anyway. The doctor graciously fit me in, and he decided that I have an infection of the soft tissue surrounding my knee. The exam form says bursitis/cellulitis. Man, the things I've suffered through for this child. Professional-strength nausea, Bell's Palsy, tendonitis of the wrist, a big old swollen knee. It's a good thing he's so cute, I tell you what.

I told the doctor about our family's little experiences with MRSA and said that's why I wanted to be seen so quickly, that I was worried about having a serious infection, especially since the knee was warm. (I didn't mention the cancer thing, of course. No reason to immediately tip the guy off that I have a very small, tiny tendency to overreact from time to time, right?) He prescribed a shot of Rocephin, two oral antibiotics and told me to keep a close eye on my knee and make sure it doesn't get any worse. David had ominiously warned me about possibly needing to have it drained, which sounds pretty freaking horrible to me, but we didn't really get into that at the visit.

So then Dr. Anderson asked me, in that rhetorical tone of voice as he looked at William in his stroller, "You probably spend a lot of time down on your hands and knees, right?"

You think?

You never miss your nice unsore capable knee until you try to kneel down on the mat at Gymboree and hoist your toddler into your lap for bubbles and parachute time. Ow ow ow.

So I'm grimly taking my horse pills--seriously, they are bigger than those monstrous prenatal vitamins that I used to choke down--and I'm trying to figure out if my knee looks more swollen today than yesterday. I reported in my phone call to the doctor's assistant that I think it's the same. Of course, as soon as I hung up the phone, I started second-guessing that statement. Oh well.

I think I'll go lie down and put my knee up for awhile. It put on a good show for Gymboree today, and I think it's earned a little rest and relaxation.

Santa hat revisited

It is so hard to get a really good photo of William these days. He's nearly always in motion. And it's hard to coax a smile while he's standing or sitting still enough for me to get the whole thing on camera. He's like a little blur. I really want to get some good pictures of him wearing his Christmas outfits, but man, it's a challenge. And I'm used to crawling around on the floor and taking dozens of shots to get just one final picture that's worth something.

This one was a lucky break!




















I'd like to get a good photo of him to use for a Christmas card, but I am experienced enough at this to know that I may need multiple opportunities to wind up with anything worth using.


Here are some of the other pictures I took this afternoon:





































Playing with the new Little People nativity set (read: unbreakable! yeah!):















This is pretty typical of a picture of William smiling. Hilarious and accurate, but maybe not so great for a Christmas card, eh?


















Last Christmas, I plunked a darling little Santa hat on my dear son's head every time we left the house. In fact, I started doing that the second Thanksgiving was over because I had the little "Baby's first Christmas" hat and I wanted to get as much use as possible out of it. Here, remember it now?
















I won't be so lucky this year with the new, bigger Santa hat. It was a fight to get even a few snapshots of him wearing it. And he's usually pretty good about wearing a hat. Oh well. I'll keep trying.

Thanksgiving revisited

William says, "I'm thankful for Richard Scarry books."















Well, Thanksgiving has come and gone again, and we ate, drank and were merry and thankful. At our first Thanksgiving in our new home, we had Mark, Diane, Aaron, Mom, Daddy, William, David and me. The only one missing was my brother John. The adults stuffed themselves with turkey, broccoli casserole, stuffing, sweet and mashed potatoes and oh I don't even know all what else. Meanwhile, William, now that he's become a toddler, was a little pickier. He ate mostly his Mama Dee's sweet potatoes and cranberry-orange relish, the Sister Schubert rolls, and a few bites of corn pudding. No turkey for him, thanks. Ah well, the more for the rest of us.















We couldn't talk him into eating any pumpkin pie, either. But he did soak up all the extra attention like a sponge. Four grandparents and an uncle all at once! Here he is with his Uncle Mark and his stuffed pig and his turkle. Yes, a turkle. My father started calling that stuffed turkey a "turkle" because he says it looks like a combination of a turkey and a turtle. And well, it kinda does!



















And William enjoyed playing with his balloon. Mom and I learned that the good folks at Harris Teeter are sneaky. They offer free balloons and cookies to kids to get them to lure their parents into the store. Mom and I just stopped in there to pick up a few small things during our pre-Thanksgiving dinner drive around town to look at all the leaves. And William got the last balloon in the store, since they were fixing to close for the day.




















So anyway. Now that Thanksgiving is over, and now that I've been thankful and I've stuffed myself with turkey and the like, I say now you can bring on Christmas.

Time to be thankful

Since I have no idea if I'll be able to scrounge up enough time to do this on the actual day, I thought I'd go ahead and post some of the things I'm thankful for this year. We've had a crazy busy year, but as we coast into Thanksgiving, I am realizing how much happier I am this year at Thanksgiving than I was last year. I have a lot to be thankful for.

So, with that said, I am extemely thankful for:

*My husband David. He works long crazy hours, but he always gives me a kiss before he leaves the house each morning and tells me he loves me before he goes to sleep. He works hard so that I can stay home and supervise William, and he never complains that I should be bringing home the bacon, too.

*Our son William. He's active and healthy and bright and funny and huge and inquisitive and opinionated and stubborn and hilarious. When I ask him who loves him, he says, "Mama!" And when I ask him who else loves him, he says, "Dada!" Yep.

*My parents and brother. My brother John is a graduate student at the University of Southern Mississippi this year, and for that, I am deeply profoundly grateful. And I'm so proud of him. And my wonderful parents love me and support me even though I was once a teenager. And they've put me and William up at their house for visits a LOT this past year, even though it's entailed lots and lots of noise, toys, and special foods. I am so lucky to have had the chance to spend so much time with them this past year.

*My inlaws. Aaron and Diane have graciously welcomed me into their family and always make me feel warm and special. And they never ever complain about how often I make them babysit William. And William loves nothing more than to get together with his Uncle Mark and pretend to be a monkey. Some people complain about their in-laws, but I am incredibly grateful for mine.

*My grandparents. I am 33 years old and have three living grandparents. All three have spent time with my son. And I will have the pictures to cherish when they are no longer with us.

*The fact that we are now living in Nashville. Everyone knows how much I wanted to get out of the desert! And now I'm here in Nashville. I woke up this morning and thought about that. How this year, I don't have to travel to see family on Thanksgiving. How this year, I don't have to think wistfully about next year. How this year, I know exactly how lucky I am to be here, in our house, just a few minutes down the road from my in-laws and just a day's drive from my parents. And I've already had more company stay with us in our new house than I did in four years of living in Twentynine Palms!

*My friends. I'm always thankful for my people. You know who you are.

And while I won't necessarily put them in bold font, I am also grateful for a lot of other things: the autumn leaves that are blazing around Nashville right now, the new friends I'm meeting, my Monday morning group at church, the music class that William and I are taking together on Tuesday afternoons, the plethora of good places to eat around here, the fact that I can always find a good bookstore when I need one. I'm thankful that William loves going to Mother's Day Out on Fridays, and I'm thankful that David's had the chance to go to several big sporting events here recently. I'm thankful that I never have to worry that the lone grocery store will run out of meat or that the only KFC will run out of chicken.

So that's my list. I know I'll be adding to it. I'm trying to really be conscious of all the blessings in my life. I feel that I need to acknowledge them more often, so that I don't take them for granted. And for me, that means writing them down. Or at least saying them out loud.

I wonder what William would say he's thankful for? His parents and grandparents? His "school"? Cheese? Blocks? Trick or treating? Natty and his blanky? Spider-Man?

Turkey Boy

The moral of this post is: don't turn Diane and me loose in Pottery Barn Kids. Because look how William ends up:




















































Now the monkey boy is a turkey!

But hey, at least I managed to resist buying him a smocked turkey T-shirt at the little chichi children's boutique that I poked my head into on Friday. Even at 40 percent off, I just couldn't justify it. Even if it would have been incredibly cute with the turkey headband. Aren't I virtuous?

The Count

I meant to post about this earlier this week, but we were having keyboard technical difficulties. That is, the wireless keyboard's batteries were gasping their last few breaths, but Luddite Jennifer couldn't figure out how to open the battery chamber and install new ones. Which is especially funny when you consider how many thousands of times I've had to wrench dead batteries out of William's toys and stuff and stuff new ones in. I practically have a PhD in Philips Head Screwdriver Usage, but the keyboard didn't need one, so it kinda of threw me. But, as usual, I digress.

William has started counting! Okay, so he's just imitating us, but still, it's pretty amusing to heard him "count" his way down the staircase. He doesn't put much stock in "one." So he always starts with "two" and almost always adds "feeeee," "fooooo," "fiiiii," and sometimes "siiiiih." Apparently, "seven" is the big bugaboo for him, but a few times, we've prompted him, and he's added, "aaaaa" and "niiiiiii," and even "ten" (like maybe three times). Also, he sometimes studies his fingers while we're changing his diaper, and he'll "count" his fingers--again, always starting with "two" and usually skipping "seven." This is especially hilarious to watch because he gets that David-like look of concentration on his face as he touches his fingers together. Hee hee hee. I wish I had a picture of that, but it's fleeting so I can't make any promises.

Again, he's not really counting. He just memorized what we do when we give him his air chamber of FloVent or albuterol each morning and evening. We count out loud to fifteen for every puff of medicine he's taking at the time, which varies between one and four. Over the months, he's heard us do it so many times that I guess it made an impression. I guess asthma's good for something after all! And hey, it's got to be a good start, right?

Is the Count still on Sesame Street? Remember him? Has anyone watched it recently? Did it ever strike anyone else as an adult how weird it was that a children's puppet show featured a vampire puppet? But hey, no matter what his lifestyle entailed, the Count loved counting. And William apparently does, too, now. Maybe we need to TiVo some old episodes and introduce William to the Count.

All in favor of Thanksgiving, say Aye!

Thanksgiving is next week! I can't believe it. I love Thanksgiving but man, is it really almost here again?

Thanksgiving is a lovely lovely idea for a holiday. Here's what you're expected to do: eat good food, surround yourself with people you care about, and be thankful for all your blessings. Usually there is some lazing around on the sofa while a football game plays on the TV and a big plate of leftovers lurking to look forward to, as well. No major decorating required. No shopping for perfect presents or desperate last minute dashes to Target for stocking stuffers. That sounds just about perfect to me.

But...and you knew it was coming...here is what is rapidly becoming my standard pre-Thanksgiving rant. Thanksgiving barely seems to exist anymore in the minds of many people (read: retailers) except for, of course, the grocery store people.

Case in point: I wanted to buy some Thanksgiving books to read to William, so I made a happy little trip to a couple of the (very large) chain bookstores here in Nashville, but I couldn't find much of anything! What I found was a piddling little pile of Thanksgiving books for children, nearly an afterthought on a small table or crammed up on one high shelf, nearly completely obscured by the hundreds of sparkly Christmas books. This must be what it feels like to celebrate Chanukah. The Chanukah kids' books get a tiny little afterthought display, with a few defiant titles, while the Christmas books are piled into huge mounds all around them. Sigh. I finally found a boardbook copy of "Corduroy's Thanksgiving," so I bought that. So now we have "Spot's First Thanksgiving" and "Corduroy's Thanksgiving," and that's it. And sadly, that's nearly all there seems to be. I wanted something sort of meaningful, but that was a big strikeout. W is too young for historical books about pilgrims and Indians, but would it be too much to ask to have more than a couple of Thanksgiving books for children for sale this time of year?

I could go on for days about how Macy's hung up its glittery red balls and white lights two weeks before Halloween. Heck, my own subdivision hired people to put up wreaths and garlands on the neighborhood entrance signs....today! Why can't we celebrate Thanksgiving first and then worry about Christmas? Why does everyone have to gloss over Thanksgiving? But it's so inevitable that I am having an increasingly harder time even working up enough energy for a spirited rant, really.

Well, I'm going to eat turkey and put a turkey headband on my toddler and read our (few) Thanksgiving books and then I'll think about Christmas stuff. We're going to do autumn and Thanksgiving first. I know that I am reveling in every drive I take around Nashville right now. The trees are blazing with orange and yellow and even purple and red leaves, and I feel like I have stars in my eyes as I gaze upon the first real autumn that I've seen in person in seven years. I took William out into our back yard today and picked a glorious red leaf from a bottom branch of one of our brave little trees. He was fascinated by it, kept saying, "Leaf? Leaf?" That's right, sweetie. Let's enjoy all this beauty outside while we can, and then let's say our prayers and be grateful for all that we have. And then, only then, will we start making our Christmas list and checking it twice.

William's 18 month doctor's visit

Get ready for this news, campers: I'm growing a giant!

As of 2:30 p.m. today, William weighed 28 pounds, which puts him in the 75th percentile for his age group and gender. And he is 34 inches tall, which puts him in the whopping 90th percentile. I was like, "Get out! Are you serious?" when Dr. Keown laid those stats on us. William is huge! It's not just our imaginations!

For those of you keeping track at home, by the time David was that size, he was almost two-and-a-half years old! While I was sputtering in amazement by how big William is getting, David pointed out that I do have some tall genes on my side of the family. Daddy is well over six feet tall, my uncles both top 6'4", and my brother is about six feet tall. And David's brother Mark is over six feet as well. So it's not that crazy that William could grow up to be tall, too. David said he'd be delighted for that to be the case.

But you know, it's funny. I'm just used to William being bigger-than-average. A mother at the mall today asked me how old he was, and when I told her, she said, "My, he's so tall!" And I really didn't think much about that. It didn't occur to me that he really might be that tall. But you know, now that I think about it...a mother with her toddler in Old Navy last night was asking me how a coat fit William, and she said that she figured she'd better buy the next size up because her 21-month-old son was "so tall." And I looked at the little boy and thought, "He doesn't really look that tall. In fact, I bet William's at least his height." And maybe he was.

Anyway, William checked out just fine overall at his 18 month well baby visit. He's eating and sleeping pretty normally (most of the time), but he's getting to be a pickier eater, which is normal. They asked if William could say 15-20 words, and David immediately was like, "Oh yeah." And I said, "Really?" Because I didn't really know for sure if some of his words counted, because he often leaves the consonant on the end off some of his words. But David said that it counts if he uses the same word consistently for something and that we understand it. So we started counting them up. Yes, no, hi, bye-bye, mama, dada, duck, dog, moon, cheese, please ("peees?"), thank you, cat, car, bus (buhhh), milk, water (which sounds like waaa, but we know what he means), pumpkin (which technically is "puhhhh" but he always uses it when he sees a pumpkin, so it apparently gets to count), school (skooooo), church (chuuuuhch), fish (faaaah), feet, toes, ball, socks, shoes, hat, choo-choo, wow, go, tree, bird, banana ("baaahh"), belly button (which, again, is really "bellbo"), and truck (which sounds like "truuuhhhh"). And occasionally monkey ("mon-mon"). And there are a couple of other words that we think we've heard him say, like door and sheep and watch, but he hasn't used them enough times that I'm completely ready to add them to the list. So not bad.

Oh yes, and David just reminded me that he also says bear, light, fan, and boo-boo. And supposedly he says chair and rock, according to his father.

William knows and can point to at least four different body parts, and he can scribble (when I let him). And walk and run and all that good stuff. He eats with utensils sometimes, and he drinks from a cup, and he doesn't use a bottle, and yes, we brush his teeth twice a day. And often, he helps us brush his teeth, although his technique could use some refining. He can open and close things (gah, like doors and drawers all the time). And he has lots and lots of opinions. Okay, so that last one wasn't an official measurement. :)

And he got his Hep A shot and his flu shot. And in solidarity with my big kid, I got a flu shot, too. Owie. But we have matching fluorescent orange band-aids now, so hey, there you go.

And now, William is fast asleep in his little bed, completely worn out from his big day, which oh yeah, started out with another haircut. I'm not sure I have the energy to fully describe that little experience except to say two things: 1) He screamed so loudly that dogs were cringing and wincing three blocks away, and 2) David had to stand up and hold him while I kept up a silly running monologue over his shoulders to distract him while the hairstylist darted in and out with her scissors. But it is done.

Whew. I'm tired, too. Maybe I should go sleep in my own little bed.

Oh so stubborn

Do you ever remember your mom saying to you, in a moment of supreme frustration when you were your most obstinate stubborn self, "I hope you have a child just like you when you grow up!"

Or was that just me?

Anyway, Mom, just so you know: I think your wish was fulfilled. I have a child who is just as stubborn as I was...am.

Ever since William learned to say "No," he's been even more determined than ever to Get What He Wants. See, sometimes when he doesn't want to do something, he just says "No," and toddles off. But sometimes he also uses his pre-No skills to bolster his point. This typically involves one of two things: the locking of knees and the arching of the back, or the wild thrashing of arms and the frantic kicking of legs. So instead of just doing one of those things, he does one of those things AND shouts "No! No! No!"

When does William like to perform this type of stunt? Okay, to be fair, he is a really cheerful delightful kid most of the time. But he's still a toddler. And he's still my child, as we've established. So the big shows tend to happen when I'm trying to do something truly horrible like buckle him into his carseat to take him home from Gymboree or church, or put him in the stroller so we can run into Target and pick a few things up for the house. You know, when I'm trying to restrain him so he'll be safe. He laughs at safe; he spits in the eye of safe. And he bucks around and shouts, "No! No! No!"

Ah, good times. Somewhere, my mom is laughing.

Now, just in case you thought that I have changed since I grew up and would mildly defer to the wishes of my stubborn toddler, let me just lay that little fear to rest. He may be stubborn, but I am the Master of Stubborn. The Grand Emperor of Stubborn. The Sultan of Stubborn. I've had nearly 32 years more practice being stubborn, in fact. He may be stubborn--and freakishly strong, I might add--but I am bigger and older. He puts up a good fight, but I Always Win. It might take me awhile, but he will ride in his carseat.

And yes, I am also smart enough to know that I'm not always going to win, and that there will be times when I realize I have to pick my battles. In fact, already there are times when he gets upset and behaves like the toddler he is. Sometimes I just let him do it. But when I really need to win, I win. When it's good for him and his well-being for me to win, I win. Sometimes I am bruised afterward, but I do what I have to do.

Now. When he gets to be as tall as I am, we may have some trouble.

The end of DST for now

Witches, ghosts, vampires, nothing. Here's what I'm really afraid of: the end of Daylight Savings Time.

I remember when I used to love the "fall back" half of the "fall back, spring forward" occasions. Spring forward was lousy because you lost an hour of sleep, which was particularly painful when I was in college and needed my extra hour of sleep on Sunday morning to make up for Saturday night. (And for my fellow Rhodents: why did it always seem to happen during Rites of Spring? Could someone not have seen that coming and done something about it?) But, fall back = sleeping late! What could possibly be bad about that, right? Yeah, then I had a baby, a baby who doesn't really care what time it is when he wakes up. 7 a.m., 8 a.m., 6 a.m. Who cares when you're in diapers? William may own a wristwatch, but as anyone who's ever seen it knows, it doesn't really work. His little internal bioclock isn't subject to the whims of Congress.

So, we just put William to be an hour later than usual in the (probably vain) hope that he'll sleep in an extra hour tomorrow and not wake up at his customary time. Which would still be better than the 5:45 wakeup call we got today, right as I was blearily stumbling around, trying to get out of the house so I could volunteer at the local Race for the Cure. Who knows what that was all about. I am hoping it was just a strange freakout that will never happen again.

I guess we'll see. I know that David and I could really use the extra sleep. We had a busy day today, what with the Race for the Cure and a birthday party for our little friend Leland. Leland's party was terrific. Too bad I was sort of a zombie from stumbling around since o'dark-thirty.

Speaking of Leland, here's a photo from her party today:















William made his daddy take him down the slide. A lot.

Trick or Treat, the 2007 installment

Trootree. That's Williamese for "trick or treat." It sounds very similar to his word for "choo choo." An alternate pronunciation is "tricktroo." But in context, you can tell exactly what it means. It helps when he's either dumping handfuls of miniature candy bars in your lap or holding his trick or treat pumpkin up and gesturing to the front door.

Yes, William had a terrific time last night. Althought I don't know: Mark and David and Diane and I may have had just as much fun as William. I was so impatient for the afternoon to end so the evening--and the fun--could begin; it was like being a small child all over again! Diane manned the front door while the boys and I hit the sidewalks for some hard-core trick or treating. We let William see the first few children to come to our door, as the sun was setting, and then we quickly stuffed him into in his frog costume and went outside.










































Our street looked like a Hollywood vision of Halloween. The sunset was a blaze of orange and pink to the west, and as the streetlamps flickered on, the tots in their bright costumes began to toddle down the sidewalks with their parents in tow. At first, it was just a few, and then the numbers began to grow. And we added to them.

















Our goal was to take William to about six houses, and we ended up hitting about eight. He toddled along gleefully in his frog outfit, swinging his pumpkin and pointing to all the lighted pumpkins he saw.
















All our neighbors graciously cooed over William and his costume, and one man even invited him to pet his (small) dog. One lady leaned over and let William select all the candy he wanted from her overflowing bowl, which he loved. He has no concept of candy, but he loves to put things in and take things out, so that was right up his alley. We had to tell him to stop and say "thank you."
















And several times, he did manage a very polite "dank yu," so we were proud. He cried and turned away from only one house, but the rest of the time, he was giggly and happy. I think he got a big kick out of being outside after dark as all these other children were milling around. And of course, he loooooved seeing all the pumpkins. It was not uncommon for him to struggle up the steps to a house and coo "puh!" to the pumpkins while the amused homeowner held out his bowl of candy and waited for him to discover it. I guess that's the Halloween equivalent to the baby who excitedly plays with the wrapping paper and empty box but ignores the toy on Christmas.




















Then, it was time to go home. William was so excited to see his grandmother greet him at the door with a big bucket of candy! He started immediately grabbing handfuls of her candy and putting them in his little pumpkin. Put in, take out. Put in, take out. Put in, take out. You know the drill. The rest of the night, he delighted in moving candy from one source to another, particularly to a person, namely his Uncle Mark. If you sat down long enough, William would toddle over to you and hand you a Butterfinger or some Starburst and then wander off to make sure all his other patrons were taken care of. Before long, everyone had a lapful of candy, which is usually when William would start taking the candy back. It's all about the putting in and taking out at this age.

William also handed out candy a few times--for real. We had a group of small children ring our doorbell not long after we arrived home, and William was clutching a tiny Snickers bar in each hand ( purloined from our stash ). I guided him to the open door and asked him to put the candy bars in the little girl's pumpkin, and he did! It was so cute that I'm afraid just describing it doesn't do it much justice. Just take my word for it.




















And after that, there was no stopping him. He kept a close watch on the front door, and every time he saw a batch of children stomping up the front yard, he made a mad dash for the door. David said that he was still hopefully watching the front door and saying "trootree?" this morning. Now, how do you explain to a toddler than Halloween only comes once a year and that he won't get to trick or treat or hand out candy again for 365 more days?

A Halloween preview

Ever since I found William's Halloween costume at a consignment sale last month, I've gotten a kick out of making him try it on. He's going to be a frog, complete with webby frog hands. Hey, he'll be picking out his own clothes and Halloween costume in a couple of years. I have to enjoy my limited time as the person in charge. I mean, heck. My parents will tell you that my tenure as the Most Opinionated Person They Know started early. (Just ask them about the East Pants Incident.) So I fully expect William to choose his own costume next year and not pay any attention to what Mommy wants.

Here's a preview:




















I took Nancy's recent visit as yet another good excuse to pull out the ol' Halloween costume. As it turns out, Nancy and I are big meanies. William discovered he couldn't pick up his pumpkin with his webbed hands. He stood there, bent over his pumpkin, grunting and crying with frustration as he made repeated futile attempts to grab the handle. "Oh, honey, I didn't realize you wouldn't be able to pick it up. You don't have any hands, do you?" Nancy said, as it dawned on her why he was upset. Then, of course, we began to laugh very very hard because, let's face it: it was pretty hilarious. But Nancy quickly too pity on William and pulled his hands out of the mits so he could have his hands free at last. What a softy.




































Okay, I realize I am biased, but I think William's just about the cutest thing ever in that costume. Part of it comes from the fact that he seems pretty delighted to wear it. But really, until you've seen a small fleece frog climb your staircase, his webbed hands going splat, splat, splat on the carpet, you are missing out on a Great Joy in Life.

So late this afternoon, we'll get the frog costume out one last time. I plan to take William trick or treating to a handful of houses just on our street....mostly for the photo opportunities and to show him off. Any candy he collects is incidental (and off limits, at least this year). I think I'm more excited about taking him trick or treating than I ever was about going myself!

Sleep challenges

An email from a friend recently told me about her toddler daughter's sudden resistance to sleeping through the night. Boy, could I relate to that! While William and I were visiting Ma and Pa Larson in Natchez, William suddenly decided that it was time for a nap strike and oh yes, how about waking up a bunch of times in the night or wee hours to cry "Mama?"

I was ready to bang my head against the wall. And rarely do I want to inflict pain on myself. Mom kept reassuring me that the sleep strike was likely because William was out of sorts: he spent a lot of time travelling in the car, then he was sleeping in an unfamiliar bed in a new place with lots of other people around. But I was going nuts. He resisted going down for the night every single night. I put him in the Pack n Play, and instead of rolling onto his tummy and cuddling up with Natty and his blanky, and sighing contentedly, he tightened up and resisted lying down. He'd squirm and wiggle as soon as we got within three feet of the bed, in fact. Then he'd stand up and call out for me. And then he'd cry. Argh. It was more or less the same at naptime. I had to go back and forth into the room about ten times to convince him to just lie down already and go night night.

Normally, my son is an excellent sleeper, something I sort of pride myself on. Other kids may have walked early or speak lots of easily recognizable words, but by George, my son can sleep like a champ! Usually, I can plop him down into his bed, make sure he has all his stuff and leave the room. Once the door shuts, he knows it's time to sleep, so he does. Sometimes, yes, he talks to himself for a little while or plays with his stuffed animals and books or takes off his socks (okay, he always takes off his socks), but within ten minutes or so, all is quiet in William Land. Ah, bliss. Two hours of daytime bliss, sometimes a smidge more. At least ten hours of nighttime bliss, often a bit more.

So of course, that's the weak link in this chain: my dependence on William's ability to sleep so well. And when we were out of town, he decided to exploit that. Ack. The worst night was the night we spent in Memphis. Not only did he sleep in the same room with me and my mom, but he was in that unfamiliar bed AND he woke up with a wheezy, croupy cough. That was a horrible night. My mom is the only reason that I didn't fling myself out the window that night. She got up with the baby twice as many times as I did.

And okay, it was a one-story house, so flinging myself out the window (should we have pried it open more than the eight inches wide that we did) would have lacked something in drama. But still. It was a bad night.

The first night we were home last week, David and I had to resort to letting William cry it out. He didn't really need anything; he had just gotten used to seeing Mama in his bedroom. So we gritted our teeth and let him cry for about 20 minutes until he got the message and gave up. He hit the mattress in resignation, we sighed in relief at 3:30 a.m., and we all rolled over to get some much-needed sleep. No major problems since then, thank God.

And I'm more cheerful now. It's amazing what sleep can do for you!

Also, apropo of nothing, can I just tell you how cute William looked in the car today when he fell asleep on the way home from Gymboree? We'd been in the car about five minutes. He had been eating raisins from a little box, and I could see his eyelids getting droopy. I asked him if he wanted me to take the half-empty box and put it up. But he said, "Nooooo,"* and clutched it more tightly. Two minutes later, he was sacked out, still clutching the open box in his right hand. His little head dropped over to the left, and his mouth was open just a tiny bit. He looked like a little sleeping angel. A little angel with smudges of raisins on his chin.




*He just started saying "No" on Friday night, when his Grandaddy Aaron was feeding him dinner. Naturally he wants to get in lots of practice in his newfound skill.

Wagonneer

Man, I'm so behind on my blogging. We were in Natchez, then in Memphis, then back here, where we've been crazy busy.

But until I catch my breath and can write something thoughtful, here is a photo from Natchez. Daddy dug out my brother's old express wagon and took William for a ride in the neighborhood. It was a big hit. So much so that we took William to a party last weekend in the wagon, instead of his stroller.

The great hot air balloon festival

This is what we're doing today:

































William and I are in Natchez, and we're attending the Great Mississippi River Balloon Race. We're getting to see the hot air balloons up close and in person. And let me just tell you, no way no how would you EVER convince me to get in one of those things. But wow, they are spectacular to look at! William is fascinated by them; well, he's not a big fan of the inflating process because he doesn't like the loud noise caused by the fire heating the air inside the balloons, but oh, he's having so much fun looking at the huge balloons.

We're headed back down to the river bluff to watch the big race at 4 p.m. We've seen them inflate some of the balloons, and we've seen some drifting overhead through the town. Now we're going to watch them take off, en masse.

Prime photo opportunity

So William and I were hanging out with Chewbacca last Saturday at the Southern Festival of Books...



















Why was Chewbacca at a book fair, you ask? Presumably in honor of some guy who has written a series of Star Wars novels.

I'm sort of feeling bad for all the authors at the festival now. They slave and slave over their books for years, and yet at the big event that ostensibly celebrates them and their work, everyone wants to have their picture taken with Chewbacca. And not even the (gasp!) real Chewbacca, but some sweaty, undoubtedly underpaid guy on stilts in a mangy furry costume (er yes, not radically different from the real guy who played Chewbacca--a sweaty guy on stilts in a mangy furry costume). And his arms were noticeably too short. (Seriously, look at the picture.)

Even me, a writer myownself. I made my toddler son have his picture taken with me and fake Chewbacca.

But man, how often do you get to have your picture taken with Chewbacca?

(And for what it's worth, we also took William's picture with Clifford the Big Red Dog and the Berenstein Bears. You know, the real literary types.)

Binky free at last?

Last night, we put William to bed at his usual time. David read the bedtime story to William in the rocking chair, while I hung up the damp bath towel and put fresh water in the sippy cups in the crib. I turned out the light, and David pulled up the crib rail, and we both told William that we loved him. And we left the room, pulling the door shut behind us.

As we were walking out of the room, David held out his hands toward me. Nestled in his palms were a half-dozen binkies--all the binkies from the crib. William's last stash. Without telling (that is, warning) me in advance, David had declared the night to be the start of William's Binky-Free Life. Binky Independence Day. The Liberation of the Binkies.

"He is not going to be happy," I told David.

"He doesn't need the binkies anymore," David defended himself. "He has Natty and his blanky, and he loves them. He doesn't need a binky."

"Well, you're going to have to deal with him," I said. "Because he doesn't know that he doesn't need a binky anymore."

See, I was the child who stubbornly held onto her own pacifier for a long time, long past the age when my parents wanted me to give it up. (Please don't ask how long that was.) And I turned out okay.

So I really didn't think it's a big deal that William still uses a binky when he's going to sleep. Still don't. Months and months ago, we started limiting his binky use until he only had access to one when he was physically in his crib. So, it's not like he walks around with one in his mouth. It's not like anyone other than us even sees him with one. The ladies at Mother's Day Out never even give him a binky for naptime there. He's not one of those kids who is speaking complete sentences around the pacifier in his mouth. Er, not that I would have any idea about that. Nosirree.

But David insisted that William needed to give up his binky habit altogether by the time he turned 18 months old. William turns 18 months old on Oct. 22. David's (artificially imposed) deadline is looming. So David took binkies into his own hands. And believing that parents need to present a united front, generally speaking, I sighed and said, "Okay, fine."

William sobbed pitifully for awhile after he realized there were no binkies drifting between the stuffed animals in the crib. I looked at David and raised my eyebrow. "He doesn't need one anymore," he said defensively.

I love how David has decided what William needs to go to sleep. Can you imagine how David would react if someone else decided what David needs to go to sleep!? I mean, we, the parents, make all the decisions for William: what pajamas he wears, what stuffed animals stay in the crib, even whether to leave the ceiling fan on at night. It's appropriate that we make all the decisions. But is it really so bad to let him choose to use a binky or not? Is it so terrible to give him a tiny bit of control over something so small?

David said something about William needing braces one day if we didn't act now. I muttered something back about how any kid of ours was going to need braces no matter what. But I didn't do anything.

So, as the crying escalated, David and I each took a turn going into William's room. We patted his head and back, handed Natty to him and draped his frog blanket over him. He finally settled down, putting his head down on the mattress and clutching Natty to his chest. I held my breath as I tiptoed out of his room. I sat down in front of the computer in our home office, and leaned sideways, wondering if I was hearing some fussing. Luckily, William must have been tired enough to drop off to sleep.

At 12:30 p.m., the sound of angry crying roused me out of a deep slumber. Confused, I rolled over in bed. David heard the crying, too. "This was your idea," I muttered. "It's your turn." David stumbled out of our room. When he returned, he said something about still not giving him the binky. "You can put this on your blog," he said. "You can write about how mean David took away William's binkies."

I decided right then that if I had to make a trip down the hall in the middle of the night, my son was getting his binky. I had enough nights of interrupted sleep when I was getting up and down to breastfeed. At least that served a purpose.

But the next thing I knew, National Public Radio was blaring across our bedroom. David turned off his alarm clock and headed for the shower. There had been no more middle-of-the-night wakeups. Hallelujah! I gleefully told my friends Emoke and Phuong at lunch how William managed to make it a whole night without his pacifier.

As an experiment, I put William down for his afternoon nap today without a binky. He was already pretty groggy, haven fallen asleep in the car on the way home from lunch. I honestly didn't expect him to give into a binky-free nap, but so far, so good. Maybe this really will work. Maybe William really doesn't need a binky anymore. Maybe Natty and the frog blanky are comforting enough.

But I'm still taking a couple of binkies with me to Natchez this week.

Keep the streak alive

We have now gone two full weeks without darkening the doorstep of the pediatrician's office. Go, us! Maybe we can make it three full weeks. Who here's a betting man?

That is, I think we can make it three full weeks if William doesn't contract something, like, oh say, anthrax. See, we went to the zoo Thursday. It was the perfect fall day, and I was itching to get outside. We just meandered around, checked out whatever was in our path. And William got to pet a sheep!
















Afterward, David says to me, "Make sure you wash his hands really well before he eats, just in case the sheep has anthrax." I think he was kidding. I think.

I mean, who's the most likely person to contract some really weird disease? Hello, the doctor's kid!

Checking out the elephants:
















Two boys, out for a leisurely stroll:

What's in your purse?

Some people (fashionistas) can tell a lot about a woman by what kind of purse she carries. Well, I see an important corollary to that theory: you can tell a lot about a woman by what she carries in her purse. It's like that credit card commercial slogan: what's in YOUR purse?

When Miller was visiting a few weeks ago, she was very amused by the choice of reading material that I carry around in my sizeable purse. Once upon a time, I might have carried a novel, perhaps something reasonably challenging. Now, if I so desire, I can choose from "Colors!" and "Mr. Brown Can Moo! Can You?"

Yep, a key sign that you're a mother: your purse is stuffed with board books and small boxes of raisins. And a dusty binky at the very bottom, to be used only for extreme emergencies. Used to be, I carried around about forty-eleven lipsticks, but now I have raisins. Okay, the truth is I still carry around a bunch of lipsticks in my purse, just only about six or seven, but I also stuff in the boxes of raisins and board books. At least I only have one cell phone now, though. That helps.

Also, I am never without a package of Wet Ones. And also a small bottle of Purell. I never bothered with these things, pre-baby. I mean, I was a big girl. I could wash my hands in the sink. Now I won't leave home without them. I can actually feel a frisson of panic when I get down to the last couple of Wet Ones in the travel case if I don't have a spare pack stuffed in there, too. Have you ever tried to hoist a squirming, excited 27-pound toddler who's wiggling all three thousand of his arms and legs up to a (sopping wet) sink counter in a public restroom and tried to wash his hands? Uh huh. And then you have to deal with the drying issue. Hot air blowers? Perhaps not. Wet Ones are my friend, my loyal friend.

It's not so much that I don't want to carry around the interesting novel anymore, though. I just flat out don't have room for it, not even in my giant saddlebag of a purse. So my own books live on my nightstand. I've got Don Delillo's "Falling Man" on there right now. And Lucinda Franks' nonfiction "My Father's Secret War." Plus, er, some mindless fluff that doesn't require me to read, er, every single page.

But I refuse to cull out any more lipsticks. A girl's gotta have standards.

Scarecrows!

Cold! Cold! It's supposed to get cold tonight! At long last! Cold!

Okay, not really cold. Not fire-in-the-fireplace cold. Not turn-on-the-heat cold. Not even fire-engine-sweater cold. But my trusty old pal CNN.com reports that the forecast for tonight is 46 degrees. Say, maybe that IS fire-engine-sweater weather. Maybe I should wake William up and put his fire engine sweater on over his fire engine pajamas....mmmmm, okay, maybe not. Let sleeping toddlers lie.

Anyway, I'm all jazzed up about the weather finally cooling off. I know, I know, it will likely heat back up again before it's all said and done. But still. Here I've been, all fretting that it's going to be 90 degrees on Halloween and William will cook to death in a little blonde puddle inside his fleece frog costume. But maybe it will be chilly enough by then after all.

On that note, it certainly wasn't cool for my mother's visit this past weekend. I had hoped it would be nice and crisp, but alas. We did, however, have a lovely time with her being here. Mom, Diane and I took William to the botanical gardens at Cheekwood so we could walk around, have lunch and see the scarecrow exhibit.

William was not too sure about the scarecrows.





































But how do you explain to a 17-month-old kid who lives in the suburbs what a scarecrow is, anyway? "Well, son, you know what a farm is, right? Well, sometimes these birds called crows like to come and eat the crops before they're harvested...yes, crops, um, well...they're like really big plants...see, you can grow things like big plants on farms, they're not just for animals. Yes, cows go mooooo....Ah, yeah, and sheep go baaa....um, now where was I again?"

Anyway. We had a really nice time, just ambling around the grounds, seeing the scarecrows, admiring the people and just enjoying the sunshine and the company. William got to get out of the stroller and walk a fair amount, which of course he loved.





















And he had three women doting over him and admiring his every move, which he loved even more.







































































Afterward, we had lunch in the Pineapple Room. William methodically tore apart his grilled cheese sandwich but didn't actually eat very much of it. We don't think he really quite gets the concept of a sandwich yet. He did, however, put away some french fries and fruit. And we enjoyed some ladies-who-lunch food, since we were indeed lunching ladies.

We said goodbye to Mama Judi yesterday morning, but we reassured William that he'd see her again soon.

Kitty Cat William

I'm pretty beat, so I'm just going to post and run tonight, if that's okay with everyone.

Here's a funny photo of William clowning around in the kitchen before dinner tonight. He was wearing the kitty cat ears that I bought to wear when I take him trick or treating.



















It was a toss-up as to whether he thought it was funnier for me to wear the ears or for him to wear them himself. He also liked it when his Mama Judi wore the ears.

Okay, more later. 'Night!

Busted lips and skinned knees

We made it through the whole week without having to trundle down to the pediatrian's office. Woot!

However, William now has a rather spectacular mosquito bite on his cheek AND a busted lip to go with the existing bug bite on the bridge of his nose and the scratch above his eye. And there seems to be a faint scratch on his nose, too. And a huge welt of a mosquito bite on his wrist. And a skinned knee. Thank God the black eye already faded away.

My goodness, rereading that description makes me want to call CPS on myself. My poor little guy's face! But there are easy explanations for everything. Yeah, they all say that, don't they? No, really. No, really!

The weekly installment of What's Wrong with William's Face started with my picking him up at Mother's Day Out. The teachers apologized profusely for the mosquito bites, saying that apparently a lot of them were on the playground today, and even though the teachers were swatting them away, a few got to William. He seems to be allergic to them, too; they develop into big red welts, just like they do when I get bitten.

The busted lip and the skinned knee are the results of a triumphant run through the courtyard at Montgomery Bell Academy this evening. We took William to the big annual spaghetti supper and homecoming football game at David's alma mater. W was getting antsy in his stroller, so we let him out to walk around a little before the game started. He shot off in an instant. He streaked through the crowds of people, trotting along in his little navy Keds, until his toe caught a lip of the sidewalk and splat! He bellyflopped onto the sidewalk and his face came right down and bumped the pavement, too. He realized that he had fallen and began to cry, but a few Wheat Thins and some water cheered him right up. I spotted the busted top lip immediately, but at least it didn't bleed. It's more or less a blood blister at the bow of his top lip. The skinned knee, I didn't see until we were putting him in the car seat to go home. It's not that bad. It didn't even warrant a band-aid. Which probably disappointed William, now that I think about it.

As I told my mother on the phone this evening, "Well, William looks like a toddler." He sure does. Once upon a time, he smelled all sweet and was pink-cheeked and soft and round and cozy. If he was dirty, it was usually as the result of a diaper mishap or maybe some baby food dripped beneath his bib. Boy, those were the days. Well, he still smells sweet and still has the pink cheeks, but as often as not, he is also coated in a thin layer of playground grit and Goldfish cracker crumbs. With a few cuts and scrapes here and there to break things up. I've actually had to swab him down with a wet wipe a few times before putting him in his car seat. And remember the days when we gave him a nightly bath just to preserve the sanctity of the night-night ritual? Yep, not so much. Those days are looooong gone. The bathwater gets good and grimy now after we dunk him in it. The bath is a major necessity, not just a nice calm-you-down thing. I should probably soak all those bath toys in clorox. Or something stronger. Is there anything stronger than clorox?

Anyway, William's still sweet and soft, but he's also pretty exuberant. That's my new euphemism for "being a toddler."

The good news is that, regardless of the lip and knee, William enjoyed himself at the football game. He really paid more attention to Byron the Big Red Dog, MBA's mascot, than he did the football action, but that's okay. We had to stand down against the fence because the stands were so crowded. William actually got to get very close to Byron a few times when his handler walked by. That, plus more Wheat Thins, made William very happy. Then he started squirming to get down again. With the last bellyflop fresh in my head, I said, "Why don't we just go?" And we did. We brought him home, cleaned him up and slathered his bites in antibiotic cream. It'll be interesting to see what he looks like in the morning!

Oh yes, and remind me to post later about he's started moonwalking.

My goal for the week

I have a goal.

My goal is to make it through this entire week without having to go to the pediatrician's office.

We went to the doctor's office at least once a week for four straight weeks. (Or was it five?) And during at least two of those weeks, we went twice. Nothing super serious, mostly just to assuage David's and my paranoia. MRSA. A viral rash. Something that looked like MRSA. Another rash. A strep test (negative). A skin lesion (MRSA again?). A rash. That sort of merry-go-round. Nothing life threatening.

But exhausting, nonetheless. So my goal is to avoid the pediatrician's office for a whole week.

And now that I've officially said that, I am also...knock, knock...knocking on wood to protect myself against a jinx. Normally, I might not actually speak the sentiment or write it down for fear of the jinx. It's sort of like we don't speak the "q" word when David is on call. (That's q-u-i-e-t, for those of you unfamiliar with one of David's typical crazy call shift. If you say or use the "q" word, it will automatically negate any tiny little chance that David might have of actually having a q-u-i-e-t night.) You don't want to mess things up. But I'm going to take the chance and put my goal out there for everyone to know.

So that's my goal. William has a bug bite on his nose and a scratch above his right eyebrow. And we're using a special anti-fungal cream for diaper rash that David brought home from the drugstore. So he's not entirely blemish free. But so far, so good. Nothing has necessitated a trip to the doctor. Not yet, she says darkly.

Cross your fingers. And maybe your toes. And just for good measure, don't use the "q" word for the next few days. You know, just as an all-purpose protective charm.