First sighting of the water table

How do you know it's summer at last?

Why, it's the first sighting of the water table, of course!
















Released from its umnatural winter habitat (the garage), the domestic water table, or as it is known by its Latin name, the mensa fontis, unfolds its plumage and shakes off the dust in early summer. It then takes up temporary residence in a grassy backyard, typically becoming most active on sunny days and early summer evenings.

The water table's bright colors and water-soaking ability tend to attract small children. Although the water table does not have its own significant call, you can typically deduce that one is in the vicinity by the high-pitched shouts and squeals emanating from its following of the aforementioned small children.

Yes, we dragged the water table out of the garage after dinner, rinsed it out and encouraged William to splash to his little heart's content.
















However, he was enthralled by his daddy watering the trees. So he figured, I've got this whole water table's worth of water and a watering can...let me help, too. And so he did. He wanted to make sure the trees all got a nice cool drink of water on a warm summer evening. He's a thoughtful little guy, William is.




















We're having an early heat wave here, and frankly, I haven't wanted to take him outside during the day that much. But last night, around 7 p.m., it cooled down enough to feel pleasant outside. We doused the little prince in bug spray and set him loose. I foresee many more evenings like this ahead of us this summer, and that's just fine with me.

Making connections

Every once in awhile, I experience one of those unsettling moments where I realize that my child is paying attention to everything. And he's remembering it all, too.

It's amazing to me how a child's brain develops and evolves. Does anyone here remember how I fretted in the early months of William's life? I worried, "How is he ever going to learn anything if he's just got me to teach him? How do I teach him things? How will he ever learn?" Remember how I methodically read stacks of books to him and tried to explain complicated scenarios to him, back when he couldn't even hold his own head up? Remember how I even tried to explain the 2000 presidential election to him at one point?

The weight of the responsibility staggered me, perhaps even more than just being responsible for his general health and welfare. How was I going to raise a productive citizen who could talk and read and be a benefit to society? Heck, forget all that high-mindedness: how was I even going to teach my child how to tie his shoes and ride a bike?

Today, in the car on the way home from my summer book study at church, William and I were discussing his love of his Babybug magazine. It comes in the mail each month, and William lives for the days when he gets his own item in the mailbox. (And yes, we were actually having a conversation. William's got definite opinions on things these days, and he's not afraid to express them. He must have inherited that trait from his father.) And I said something about how when he's old enough to read, we'll subscribe to another magazine.

William replied, "I can't read yet." But he said it in a tone that conveyed that he both understood what that meant and that he didn't expect it to be a permanent condition. He can't read yet. But he knows that he will read eventually.

And I realized, I worried for months that he wouldn't roll over. Or crawl. Or walk. Or get teeth. Or say words. Or say lots and lots of words. And he's done all those things. And I didn't even really do anything to facilitate it. But he's been paying attention, all these months, and he's put it all together. I've never coached him on grammar or pronouns or things like that, and yet, he's coming out with his very own sentences--real sentences--now. Because he's listened to me and his father and his grandparents and his teachers, and he's started making connections. He remembers words and concepts, and he puts them together.

And for an instant, sitting in the driver's seat, I was almost stunned with the feeling that that is really a small miracle.

Home again, home again, jiggity jig

Just so nobody thinks we're dead, I just wanted to say that we arrived safely back in Nashville on Monday night. Yesterday, we ran around like crazy, and today, I took Mom to the airport to fly back to SoMiss.

Whew!

Can I just say how nice it is to finally sleep down the hall from William again? Not that he isn't totally charming when he's reaching out to touch my face while crooning "Good Monning, Mama! Hewwo! I wuv you! Wake up, Mama!" Oh, my, the "I wuv you" is an absolute killer. It's actually worth it to be woken up at the crack of dawn to hear his little cheerful voice saying that, but the thrice-nightly blanket calls were completely wearing me out. That's even with Mom taking William duty for an extra hour or so each morning to let me sleep in a little.

So it's good to be back in our own separate rooms. I've been conferring with other parents of toddlers, and the sentiment is universal. Separate rooms when traveling are all good. Bunking together in one room is pretty much all bad. But temporary. And it was worth it to spend some time in Natchez.

We do miss Mama Judi and Grandaddy Johnny, though. They were very nice to put up with us and our ocean of Thomas the Tank Engines, Knuffle Bunny books and shoes for almost two weeks. We left waves of toys, books, sippy cups, and raisins in our wake, and they didn't complain.















































It was also very meaningful for me to attend my Mama Lou's 90th birthday celebration. I was unable to make it to my Grandaddy Bill's 90th party back in December, so it was especially important to me to make it to this one. Mom organized a big birthday luncheon at the historic Eola Hotel last Saturday, and we had about20 relatives attend. Mama Lou even got a little bit choked up when we asked her to blow out her birthday candles; it's not often we can pull together all of her living relatives, so I know it must have been special for her.

Me and Mama Lou:















And Mama Lou and her great grandson:


















Mama Lou and Grandaddy Bill, who are my father's parents, are very special people, and I've been lucky to have them in my life for so long. Not many women in their 30s can say they have three living grandparents, but I can. And I wanted William to be there, too. He won't remember, but I will. And I can tell him about it, just like my parents always tell me about my visits with my great-grandparents. My parents have a fading photograph of me sitting on a giant pumpkin in the lobby of the assisted living facility where my great-grandmother lived. I don't know if I really remember visiting her, or if I've just seen the photo and heard the story enough times to incorporate them into my own memories. Either way, I'm glad that the memory, wherever it came from, exists for me.

William and the Larson men:































Me and William (couldn't leave those out, could I?)

natchez update

Update on William's Great Adventure in Natchez, Day 8:

Well, I've always joked that William will be eating me out of house and home by the time he's in high school. But now I'm starting to wonder if that day is coming much sooner than high school. William's been eating Mom and Dad out of all their tomatoes and grapes and cantaloupe. I think Mom's already had to go to the store to buy more tomatoes at least twice. Maybe three times? I've lost track. But hey, can I really complain if my child wants to gobble up fruits and veggies? I think not.

William hanging out with his Grandaddy Johnny:


And being silly with his Uncle John on our daytrip to Hattiesburg:


And attending church with Mama Judi.


The reason he looks a bit sadder than usual is, er, well, I managed to cram his feet into his Sunday shoes that morning, and er, perhaps I shouldn't have. Add another bullet point to my "bad mommy" list. It looks like I'm going to have to break down and buy new church shoes for William after all. I mean, sure there's a fine tradition of young children hobbling around in ill-fitting go-to-meeting shoes--I remember wadding up kleenex in my white patent leather Capezios to take the pain of a blister away--but I think I'll try not to purposefully inflict that on my child. Unfortunately, I'll have to wait 'til we get home to buy shoes. Apparently no store in Natchez sells children's shoes. (Isn't that bizarre?)

The upside: he finally has a legitimate excuse to use up all those new Spider-Man band-aids that I bought and stashed away (and which he found because he apparently has a band-aid homing device).

ANYWAY. I would say, "but I digress," but I think that's clearly painfully obvious already. William is having a lovely time. I worried that he might be upset that there are no big balloons to see this time, but he seems to understand that was a special thing last fall. In the meantime, he's getting spoiled by all the attention from his grandparents, from their friends, from the neighbors.

And I think he's enjoying the chance to spend time outside. Each night before bathtime, we take a walk around the neighborhood, and always, there are at least a few people on their front porches who call out, "Hi, William!" as we make our way leisurely down the sidewalk. Plus, he gets to say hello to all the neighborhood kitties and look at all the flowers in the neighbors' yards and gardens. Is there anything more charming than a toddler bending over to smell a rose and smiling because he liked the smell so much?

And he loves hearing the grand old church bells chime the hour. "Church bells, way up high," he says, nodding as the bells ring in the distance. "Way up there."

But for all the fun, I know William misses his daddy. David's got a sore foot right now, and several times today, William has come up to me with a serious face. "Dada has boo-boo," he informs me solemnly. "Dada has booboo on foot. Go doctor." And I reassure him that his dada will be just fine. (So David, please be just fine, okay?)

Two new things

We've only been in Natchez two days, and William has already done two new things.

He met a horse named Pudding this morning:



And he won the first cake in a cake walk at a benefit dinner at the Marketplace Cafe this evening:


Apparently 36 is William's lucky number! That's the number he landed on. He got to pick out the cake that he wanted, and of course, he chose the one with the M&Ms on it. We're about to dig into it, so I'll write more later.

P.S. Just so you know...the inflatable toddler bed is perfectly serviceable...if you discount the fact that it does not contain my toddler, who likes to roam around and open drawers and get into other mischief...

Another haircut, ho hum

My son, bless his little heart, seems to have inherited my hair. That is, it grows ridiculously fast and has a tendency to get big and wavy the longer it gets.



















Even William twisted a lock of hair around his finger and proclaimed himself "shaggy." Hee hee.

















So, in the interest of looking a little neater and more presentable for our trip to Natchez tomorrow, I took William to Great Clips for a haircut.




















I braced myself, loaded down with snacks and books for distraction, and we walked in the door. As it turned out, I didn't even need to worry. William did beautifully. He willingly sat in the big chair and let the lady cover him up with a cloak. He even sat still while she cut his hair with the scissors.

He did reach out from beneath the doggie cloak, however, and hold my hand. He was so brave, with his chin up, but he wanted to make sure Mama didn't leave him. For those of you without children, this one of those moments where you are so glad in your heart that you are a parent to this child.

Near the end, the stylist asked if I thought he'd let her trim up the back with the clippers. I said, "Well, we can see." And to my shock, he actually let her do it! We talked up the "it tickles!" aspect so he wouldn't be scared, and I guess it worked.

I think William earned his lollipop, absolutely. You can bet I lavished praise on him for being such a big boy and being so well-behaved. I think he was proud of himself, too.

His hair's still wavy, and still has the tendency to get big, but at least it's shorter and neater now.

















Side view:

I am stuck on band-aids...

How you know you have a toddler on your hands, number 23: You find yourself plastered in random band-aids.

I remember how I loved band-aids when I was a kid. I lovingly plastered one on the molded plastic tail of my rocking horse, in fact. And apparently, the love is either 1) genetic, and thus has been passed down to my offspring, or 2) universal among all small children.

William not only loves band-aids, but he is obsessed with them. Until yesterday, I kept four or five boxes of various types of band-aids in the top drawer of his bathroom cabinet. We had Sesame Street, neon colors, clear, Finding Nemo waterproof, and Rataouille waterproof. Used to be, he'd open the drawer and look at them, and maybe take one of the boxes out to look at, but that's about it. If he needed one, we always gave him his choice, and he was pretty good about spreading out his choices. Then he started requesting band-aids for his various non-existent boo-boos, which I humored. Most of the time.

But it's gone beyond that now. Way, way beyond that. He has figured out to open the box, pull out a band-aid, take off the plastic wrap, remove the adhesive, and then put the band-aid on himself. All by himself.

As if that wasn't enough of an achievement, he had to share the love. Yesterday, I walked into the computer room and found David looking ruefully at his arm, which was plastered with three purple band-aids. "This is going to hurt," he said, sadly. I turned around and confiscated all the band-aids remaining in the drawer and put them in a basket on top of the vanity which, for now. William can't reach. (He pitched a big old fit at this, as you might expect.)

And today, my son marched into my bathroom with a Sesame Street band-aid, unwrapped and ready to go. He then announced that I needed the band-aid for my boo-boo, and when I said, "No," he was very, how shall I put this, put out. Which is why I woujd up with an Elmo band-aid stuck randomly to my left knee. I have no wound there. But I have a band-aid lovingly applied to it. Which is also why the band-aid is still there, six hours later.

William accessorizes

You know, they say the only thing that separates us from the animals is our ability to accessorize.



















I always knew my son had style!

(I'm just a little sad, though, that you can't see the plastic tote printed with monkeys that he was also carrying around just before I dashed off in search of my camera.)

A change of heart

Okay, so I'm about to admit something Big.

(deep cleansing breath)

I've had a change of heart about Elmo.

That's right. Elmo. THE Elmo. I've changed my mind about Elmo.

It occurred to me that I should be really grateful for Elmo. Because of Elmo and the distraction of his little segment on "Sesame Street," I was able to conduct a phone interview today with a woman who is president of one of the country's biggest nursing organizations. Because of Elmo's picture on his diapers, my child will nearly always consent to wearing a diaper. Because of the Elmo potty chair, my child is at least faintly interested in maybe, just maybe peepeeing in the potty one day. And because Elmo always wears his helmet when he pedals his tricycle around on television, I've been able to start preparing William for the reality that will accompany his first trike.

I know. This is a pretty huge confession on my part. I used to hate, hate Elmo. I cringed just in anticipation of hearing his screechy voice emanating from some otherwise harmless toy. I used to swear that I'd never ever ever buy anything that anything remotely to do with Elmo. When a neighbor gave us a baby gym that featured Elmo and sang snippets of Elmo songs, I smiled weakly and tried to figure out a way to disable the on/off switch.

Well. Times change.

I still don't plan to buy Elmo clothes or shoes, but that's mostly because I don't much care for any clothing with characters. But if an Elmo fork convinces my child to eat his green beans or an Elmo potty gets him to start potty-training, well, heck. Who am I really hurting if I keep rejecting the furry little red guy? Can we say "cutting off your nose to spite your face"?

So I'm a convert. Well, a convert with some caveats. I would still prefer to not have to listen to him unless I absolutely have to. I will always prefer not to have to listen to him. And truly my heart will always lie with Cookie Monster and Ernie. But Elmo makes my life better. He makes life with a stubborn, opinionated toddler better. So I have to give Elmo his props.

Whew.

Okay. I feel better now.

(waves sign that says Give Elmo a Chance)

Games kids play

I love the little games that kids make up to entertain themselves. No one but a child could invent these things.

William is sitting right next to me on the floor, playing his own latest game. He's transferring a bunch of wooden blocks and a handful of tangled Mardi Gras beads back and forth between the block tray, a blue tupperware bowl, and a San Diego Zoo lunchbox.

Every time he gets a big mess of beads and blocks in the bowl, he puts the lid on, shakes the whole thing and crows, "Beads! Bocks! Beads!"

Why is this fun? Who knows? The important this is that William thinks it's fun. He has his own little system, which I don't quite understand, but whatever it is, it's working for him.






























However, the lunch box can be problematic. He just put a bunch in the lunch box and hooked it shut. But then he can't get it open. "Can't take beads out," he fretted. "My beads! Help!"

Yes, I helped him. What kind of mother do you think I am? Sheesh.

(If you answered, "The kind who wrote it all down before you helped him," well, er, okay, I plead guilty as charged.)

Anyway, I am marvelimg at his creativity. I once read something that proposed that we hit our creative peak around age seven, and then for most of us, it starts to tail off after that. I wish I could have preserved some of the creativity I had at age seven! I remember making up countless stories and games and songs, just to entertain myself. Imagine if I could channel that now.

Guess I'll have to write down everything that William does until age seven instead...

Mother's Day redux

Can I just tell you that I just got a Mother's Day card in the mail from my little brother, and it made me sort of tear up?

Sniff.

John turned 30 on Saturday, and I still can't believe that. It seems like not that long ago that he was running around in Winnie-the-Pooh footy pajamas. Now it's his nephew who likes to slide around on the kitchen floor in Winnie-the-Pooh footy pajamas.

Anyway, we had a lovely Mother's Day here yesterday. Well, except for the fact that William woke up very early yesterday morning with a major asthma flare-up and a low fever. The boy has quite the sense of timing, doesn't he? We hadn't heard wheezing that bad from him in a long, long time. I guess I should just be glad that my Mother's Day did not include a trip to the ER for nebulizer treatments. These are the times when I'm glad that David takes care of sick kids for a living. A dose of oral prednisone and a bunch of doses of inhaled albuterol and flovent later, William seemed to be doing much better. Thank goodness. And he's even better today: only a half-dose of oral pred today.

Here is the traditional Mother's Day photo of mother and child:

















And another one:


















And one more:



















William was wearing his Aaron Wyckoff outfit: the yellow button-down shirt and khaki pants. However, unlike Aaron Wyckoff (his grandaddy), William did not have shoes on. And his shirt's not tucked in. But close enough. Ironically, Aaron was not wearing his yellow button-down shirt when he and Diane came over for the big Mother's Day cookout yesterday afternoon. I guess I should have saved that outfit for Father's Day, but I just couldn't resist. And I had to put something on him since, until the picture was taken around 5 p.m., William was still wearing his pajamas, stained with Motrin, oral pred, and other assorted toddler detritus.

Pre-Mother's Day musings

I just got flowers a day early for Mother's Day! Hooray for red roses, purple irises and yellow lilies. Thanks, William (and David, for facilitating).
















Two years ago, I celebrated my first Mother's Day. I don't remember a whole lot about it, honestly. William was about three weeks old, and I hadn't had more than about two hours of sleep in a row since he was born. Maybe three hours a couple of times. Anyway, the day is kind of a blur. I went back and reread my blog entry from that day to refresh my memory and to awwwww over the teeny little little boy that I held in my arms in the pictures. He was wearing a tiny 0-3 month onesie with baseballs and catchers' mitts printed all over it, and he was so little!

Just look at him.



















Hard to believe it's the same kid, isn't it?




















I guess baseball is the constant. We'll always have baseball.

Anyway, I do (vaguely) remember still sort of being in shock over my new status back then. I realized that I didn't really feel like a mother, but I did feel exhausted and sort of stunned by all the changes that had happened. I knew that I had a child for whom I was responsible, but I felt like I didn't even know all the questions to ask, let alone any of the answers. I felt like I didn't really know this small person very well, even though I knew that I loved him. I didn't really know how I loved him, though, and I felt sort of fragmented--which was due, in part, to exhaustion, but also to my attempts to cope with all these changes that were happening.

In short, I knew I had changed and that I would continue to change, but I didn't really know how it would unfold.

Two years later, I take being a mother for granted. It's just part of who I am now. I'm used to changing diapers and unfolding strollers. I'm used to sippy cups and doctor's visits and board books and car seats. I'm used to William being in my life. I'm used to him being a central part of my life.

Of course, he still changes every single day, so I'm still changing, too. But I feel a lot more certain of my identity right now than I did when that picture was taken in front of my rosebushes one mid-May afternoon two years ago. I am not only a mother, as I have sometimes self-deprecatingly referred to myself because I'm still not working full-time yet. But I am comfortable with being a mother. I have accepted that there will be nights when William wakes up crying and I have to go into his room and soothe him back to sleep. I have accepted that he has needs that only I and his father can meet, but I have also accepted that he has needs we cannot meet by ourselves and must count on others to help us. I have (grudgingly) accepted that he is his own person and I cannot force him to like something just because I like it. I have accepted that this is a process for both of us. I've even accepted the fact that I am always going to worry about him and whether he's okay.

Not that I don't despair sometimes--or often! Heck, how many times have I fretted about him being a wild man at the library or during Kindermusik? How many times have I worried that I'll never get a job again? How many times have I worried that if I do get a job, will we be able to work out a good situation for William? How many times have I wondered if maybe he'll grow out of his asthma, so I won't have to wait anxiously for the wheezing that inevitably crops up when a cold or virus threatens?

But at least I think I know what questions to ask these days. And I know, without an ounce of doubt, that I love my son, and can't even think about my life without him.

Happy early Mother's Day to all you mothers out there.

I'm tough

This morning, William wanted to eat his dried green bean things from Whole Foods in the car on the way to school. So I put a handful in his snack-trap cup, handed him a cereal bar and strapped him into his car seat.

A few minutes later, I guess he took a large bite of the cereal bar while he already had a mouthful of green beans. He started to cough.

I said, "Are you okay, William?"

And he said, "Yesh. I'm tough."

I be right back

The scene: young mother (okay, young-ish) sitting at the kitchen table, dressed in her pajamas, with toddler scampering merrily about.

I was reading the paper and slurping up the remains of a bowl of Special K in the kitchen this morning, while William was running from one end of the house to the other, trying to decide what to do with himself. He finally brought me a couple of books to read. I read "Madeline" and "Corduroy" to him, sitting there at the table, enjoying the familiar words and the weight of my toddler on my lap. When I finished, he hopped down and ran off.

But before he disappeared from my line of sight, he turned around.

"I be right back," he said confidently. "I'm going in there. I be back, five minutes. I be right back."

And off he dashed.

I'm wondering, wow, how many times have I said some variation of those words to him?

We're back

Do you know how easy it is to travel without a small child? I had no idea how easy it was until this weekend. Wow. I can't believe I ever complained about travel when I was childless. What on earth was there to complain about? Having a whole seat to myself? Having two hands to eat or drink with? Having too much trouble deciding which fluffy magazine to read?

As you all know by now, I hadn't gone anywhere without William in tow since he was born. That didn't keep me grounded, though. I think he and I took at least seven long flights during his first year or so of life.

So I've flown back and forth across the country with an array of diaper bags, overstuffed with snacks, treats, extra diapers and clothes, toys, books, and God knows what else. I've teetered along through miles of concourses, balancing car seats and strollers and luggage and my purse and oh yes, the baby. I've held a squirmy baby with one hand while removing my shoes and putting all my paraphernalia through the x-ray machine at the airport with the other hand, and I've changed a baby on a mat balanced precariously on the toilet lid in an airplane bathroom while the airplane shuddered through unexpected turbulence. I've collapsed a stroller while also holding said baby and trying not to get knocked over by a swarm of impatient fellow fliers bumping past me as they tried to get onto the plane. I've wrestled a huge car seat into a tiny little airplane seat while trying not to hold everyone else up as they entered the plane. And yes, I've sobbed to a gate attendant when she delivered the bad news that I was stranded in Dallas overnight with my fourteen-month-old and no luggage.

In short, I know what it's like to fly with a baby. I know all too well. And can I just say how glorious it was to fly to Houston and back with my husband and NOT have to deal with any of those scenarios?

I had one little tiny carryon bag, filled with three books (all mine!), a bag of Craisins, my cell phone charger and my camera. We checked one suitcase, filled with adult clothes and toiletries. David carried on his laptop. There were no sippy cups, no jars of baby oatmeal, no plastic key rings, no copies of "The Very Hungry Caterpillar," no diapers, no binkies, nada. I read Jhumpa Lahiri's new book and drank a Diet Coke on the plane. I even...gasp!...took a short nap! Neither of us could get over how easy the trip was going. I kept wondering what I'd forgotten.

At the hotel, David went off to rehearse with the other Tigertones, while I found a vacant lounge chair by the side of the pool. I read my book and The New York Times and thought about how lazy I was. Then I met up with David and we split a mai tai by the side of the pool. Later, of course, we went to the wedding and reception. This morning, I slept late. Frankly, that alone made the trip worthwhile. Then we had brunch with the bride and groom--eggs benedict for the good doctor and pancakes for me, which is just about the perfect meal for both of us--and then we departed for the airport.

Yes, we called home a few times. No, William didn't seem to be missing us in the least. He was too busy having fun soaking up all the attention of his doting grandparents. Which left David and me free to not feel guilty about leaving him behind while we sipped champagne after the ceremony or ate steak and wedding cake at the reception. (I did talk about him a lot, though.)

In fact, here we are after five hours of eating and drinking and generally making merry:





































We had such a nice time, although it went by far too quickly. But I have to admit: I was eager to see William again. When we pulled up to the house, Diane was holding him in her arms out in the front yard, and he broke into a huge grin when he saw us. And so did I.

And I've decided that I'm still not going to fly anywhere with him for a long time. Not until he's at least old enough to carry all his own stuff.

Wrapping up the last minute details

Well, we leave early early early tomorrow morning. William's in bed, Diane's in the guest room, and David and I are putting the last few items in our suitcases. David just printed the boarding passes, and I am making sure I have my cell phone charger and camera packed in my carry-on bag. We showed Diane where all of William's food is, how to give him a dose of Flovent, and where his clothes are. She's here often enough that she's pretty familiar with most of that stuff anyway. I think we've done just about everything now but load the car.

Wish me luck! This is (will be) a big watershed moment in my life as a parent!

Coupla quick pictures from the other day of William wearing his snazzy new hat from Leland:

Fear of flying

On Saturday morning, David and I are leaving on a jet plane...don't know when we'll be back again. Okay, yes, we do know. We're flying to Houston for a wedding on Saturday night, then turning around and flying home on Sunday.

I am nervous.

First of all, I am a terrible flyer. I hate doing it. It was torture, living in California for so many years and always having to board a plane to see my family or old friends. "White-knuckle flier" barely comes close to describing me when the plane is taking off. It's amazing I still have skin on my fingers, really.

Anyway, the second and more important reason that I'm nervous is...this will be my first overnight trip away from William. As in ever. I've never spent an entire night away from him. Never. Not since I gave birth to him.

Now, I'm okay with leaving him with his grandmother for a night. They get along like the proverbial house afire, and frankly, she probably takes much better care of him than I do. No, he'll be fine. But I'm all freaked out that our plane is going to crash, and my only son, my sweet little boy, will be an orphan and he'll grow up to not even remember his mama. He'll never remember the person who called him "Butterbean" or spent all those many, many hours over the past two years, reading books to him or playing choo-choos or soothing him back to sleep. And that's when I get all weepy. I'm getting all weepy right now, just thinking about it.

Yes, I realize that statistically flying is safer than driving. Yes, I know that everything will probably be okay. But everyone knows that I practically have a Ph.D. in worrying (it goes along nicely with my Ph.D. in Phillips Head Screwdriver usage). I always envision the worst case scenario. Always.

Everything's going to be just fine, right? Right?

Adventures at Storytime

Oh man.

I had one of those moments this morning. One of those moments when I think, with utter conviction, that I am never going to take my child out in public again.

Yes, we went to storytime again today. What is it with our downtown library? Does it just attract really docile children, or do the parents self-select? Anyway, once again, I had the wild man in the room.

It wasn't too terrible when he flung a fistful of graham crackers around the room, thus provoking looks of alarm from nearby mothers. And at least he didn't do anything bad when the little girl next to us kept stealing his hat from the top of our diaper bag. And he smiled nicely and said "hi!" to the little new-walker who kept toddling over to look at us during the songs and stories.

But oh, when it was time to go sit on the edge of the stage, he managed to push the much-smaller, new-walking toddler next to him. The little guy staggered, and of course since it was up front, EVERYONE SAW. And the storytime lady even picked the little fellow up. And his mom gasped and ran up there. William darted back toward me, but what could I do? I scolded him and told him not to do that anymore, and I apologized to the mother, who said it was okay and that her son hadn't even fallen down.

But still! What can I do? I can't have a kid who pushes other kids like that. I always correct him when he does that sort of thing, but he still does it. Not all the time but he still does it. I'm almost to the point where I'd rather only take him around much older children because he can take care of himself--and the other kids can certainly take care of themselves. I don't have to worry about him pushing a four-year-old down and possibly hurting him. If an older kid pushes him down, he usually gets right back up and keeps going, no problem. And at least I can comfort him if he's hurt, which he usually isn't, and not have to worry about all the other parents glaring at me and my child.

The thing is, William is two. I think he's a pretty typical two-year-old. He shares...sometimes. He gets territorial...sometimes. He gets grouchy or restless...sometimes. Sometimes he hugs and kisses other kids, and other times, he shoves them. The rational part of me knows that this is all a learning process. He's learning how to behave around other children, and all I can reasonably do is expose him to other children and correct any misbehavior. And that there will be failures and triumphs, both.

But it's easy to get discouraged when it seems like all the other kids in the room are these docile little kids who are content to sit in Mama's lap or right next to her and never do anything that would warrant a correction at all. Aren't there other rambunctious two-year-old boys out there? Do I need to start frequenting monster truck ralleys or something instead of storytime?

And here's another thing: William genuinely likes storytime. He responds well. He loves the song about rainbows, and he loves the puppets. He gets a huge kick out of watching the storytime guy juggle, and he even pays attention to the books at least half the time. It's not fair to keep him away from something like that, where he seems to be both actively learning and enjoying himself. I just need to find some way to manage him better.

Halloween in April

William is currently, weirdly, obsessed with Halloween. I tried to explain that Halloween only comes once a year, and we have a long time and lots of other stuff to do before it comes around again. But he's not convinced. It's not like he understands months of the year yet, so it's kind of a tough argument to make.

So lately he's been talking about Halloween almost all the time. And we've been reading as many Halloween books as William can get his hands on: "Corduroy's Trick or Treat," "Who Said Boo?" and so on. At the downtown library the other day, I told him he could pick any book to check out, and what does he pick but some random book called "Trick or Treat on Milton Street." Too bad that Richard Scarry never did a Halloween book. William would be in heaven.

I have no idea why he suddenly has gotten hooked on Halloween again! I guess that's just another item for the "Toddlers are Weird" file.

Happy Birthday, William! (A day late)

On my birthday each year when I was a little girl, my mom would always say the same thing. "(X) years ago today, I was in the hospital, waiting for you to be born..." she'd start. And I'd hear about the hot July night when I made my entrance into the world.

Oh, heck, she still does it, and I'm 33 years old! But I still love it. It's warm and familiar and comforting. It makes me feel loved to hear my mama tell me that story every year on my birthday.

And now I'm doing it for William. Yesterday morning when I went into his room to get him out of his crib, I kissed him and said, "Two years ago this morning, I was holding you in my arms for the first time, and you were brand new and tiny, with these big blue eyes and these tiny perfect little fingernails..."

William's so different now from that tiny little baby that it's hard to believe he's the same person. The quick temper's the same, and the blue eyes, of course, but not much else. He's even different than he was a year ago, on his first birthday.

April 22, 2006: William David Wyckoff is born at 6:35 a.m. at the Robert E. Bush Naval Medical Center in Twentynine Palms, California.



















April 22, 2007: William David Wyckoff cheers on the Los Angeles Angels at Angels Stadium in Anaheim, CA:

















April 22, 2008: William David Wyckoff eats yet another cupcake with strawberry ice cream as his mom, dad, Dee Dee, Grandaddy Aaron and Uncle Mark look on:




















He's had a busy year. He learned to walk, grew a mouthful of teeth, moved to Tennessee, started "school," started Kindermusik, met lots of new friends, learned to count, learned the ABC song, and learned to really, really talk. Sometimes I look at him and I think, "I just never imagined, when he was a little pink seven pounder lying on my chest in the hospital that morning two years ago, that he'd become this complex little person, running around with his shoes untied and chattering on about doughnuts and choo choo trains." It's just amazing. I feel like I can't even do the feeling justice with my words.

Sometimes I feel this weird dichotomy. I fret that time passes too fast, and he's growing up before I'm ready for him to grow up. Then I think, "Okay, he's only two years old. It's way too early to get nostalgic like this! He hasn't even started kindergarten yet." And I remember those long nights when I was nursing off and on all night long, only to have to get up when the sun rose and nurse off and on all day, too. And I think, "Oh, I don't miss that." Not that I love the temper tantrums of a two-year-old, but it's also nice to have William actually be able to tell me that he would like a banana in addition to his strawberries and yoguht, taaannk yuuuu, mama.

Speaking of eating, here's a photo of William eating, circa early May 2006:




















And here's a photo of him eating yesterday:
















Notice that he got his beloved "cheeburger and fire fries" for his birthday lunch.

It's been a good year, William Bear! Let's have another, okay, sweetie pie?

Birthday party pictures at long last!

William's birthday party pictures! Of course, it seems like half the pictures I took turned out blurry. I may try to clean some up and post them later, if they look better. I'll post any good ones that anyone emails to me, too.

Look how much fun he had!

The party, revisited

You know the old adage about how a really disastrous dress rehearsal bodes well for a mishap-free opening night? You don't? Okay, well, trust me. It's a well-established convention in the theater, just like you should never ever say Macbeth's name aloud in the theater.

Well, I think the same principle must be at work when it comes to birthday parties.

In the week leading up to William's birthday party on Saturday, it started to seem like the party was just not going to happen. Or at least it wasn't going to happen the way we'd hoped.

I got sick one day, William threw up another day, David started to feel sick one evening toward the end of the week, the weather looked ominous for Saturday and so on. William's friend Leland's mom emailed me to say that Leland had gotten sick and she might not make it. My dad had surgery so he and my mom couldn't come up for the party. My father-in-law got sick, and so his appearance was doubtful. The gloom descended on me. I asked myself why I had thought it was a good idea to plan a big party for a two-year-old. I even, yes, moped around about it.

Then there was the whole patio furniture debacle. We were supposed to have a "let the kids run amok in the backyard" party, but the forecasts all were predicting rain. Then, when the weather reports started looking more positive, we realized that we still didn't have any patio furniture. I won't get into the details here, but let's just say that somehow or another, all the efforts to move Mark's old patio furniture from his former roommate's house were thwarted. Mark called me early Saturday morning with despair in his voice. Neither of us could figure out what to do. I half-heartedly proposed that one of us buy a folding table at Target. Mark wondered aloud if we should try to find someone, anyone, who owned a truck. It seemed like the outdoor part of the party was just Not Going to Happen.

Then a miracle happened. His old roommate had managed to borrow a truck after all, and the two moved the furniture over just before noon. They hosed it down, and it was ready to go! Ready for platters of toddler snacks! Hurrah!

Except then it started raining again.

Then I managed to bump into my mother-in-law's car when I was backing my car out of the garage on my last errand to Publix.

And then the balloon that I bought to put on the mailbox--to distinguish our house from the other three houses in our little area that were also having birthday parties--managed to somehow get away from me in the Publix parking lot. And I didn't realize it 'til I got home.

Oh yes, and William refused to nap before the party. He stood in his crib and sang. Loudly. So that we could not miss the fact that no, he was not napping.

And my hair looked frizzy, but well, that's an everyday occurence, and so probably it shouldn't be on the list.

But you know what? Despite all that, despite all the insanity leading up to it, the party turned out just fine. Better than just fine, in fact.

Just a bunch of old and new friends laughing and eating and hanging out. Plenty of food and drinks. Thrilled with all the attention, William was in his element. I got to actually talk to everyone who was there. And weirdly, when everyone finally left to go home, we looked around and realized, "There really isn't that much to clean up." Except for the typical scattering of William's toys, the house was remarkably clean!

As my friend Mary Clare said, there were no melt-downs, no big tantrums, no accidents and no blood spilled. And that, my friends, is the definition of a successful birthday party for a two-year-old.

More pictures to come.

Birthday party preview

Six dozen cupcakes later, thirty-odd people, and one rainy Saturday later, I can say that we successfully lived through William's second birthday party. And I think we all had a terrific time. I know I did. And given that William had a huge smile on his face all afternoon AND got to drink about four juice boxes AND eat a gazillion cherry tomatoes and a cupcake AND hang out with all his peeps...I'd say he was pretty happy, too!















I'll post more pictures later! In the meantime, the photo above should give you a brief taste. An unqualified hearty thanks to all the people who made the party possible, including but not limited to Mark (for making spinach dip), Diane (for everything, especially William wrangling and diaper-changing), Phuong and Eric (for set-up, cupcake-decorating, ice-cream scooping, tear-down and a bunch of other stufff), and Jaclyn (for loaning chairs and a cooler). Y'all are awesome.

Potholder William

William "helped" me make cupcakes for his birthday party tomorrow. Just so you know, he had them on the right hands for every other picture, but this picture was the best so I posted it anyway.



















He is a very good "helper." He also likes to "help" me unload the dishwasher, and he always volunteers to "help" me load the washing machine or transfer laundry to the dryer. If I can just keep him motivated for another 15 years or so, we'll be all set!

SOOOOOO good!

I had to write this down because it was so funny. This happened on Tuesday.

From William, in his carseat, as we approached McDonald's on the right:

"Cheeburger! SOOOOOOOO good!"

Pause.

"Fire fries! SOOOOOOOO good!"

Pause.

"Yoguht! SOOOOOOOOO good!"

I guess he was hoping to convince me to pull over and drive through the drive-thru at McDonald's and get him some treats. And he was using the hard sell.

If Only I'd Known Then...

Do you ever have those moments where you think, "Hmmm. In retrospect, I wouldn't have done that"?

I've had two of those moments recently. Actually I should clarify. I've had two of those moments over and over again recently.

You can learn from my mistakes.

Case No. 1: The Case of Too Many Blankets.

I put a couple of soft Gymboree blankets in William's crib last fall when it started to cool down. I figured he was old enough for us not to worry about him smothering under blankets in his crib anymore. When it got cold, I started covering him up with the frog blanket....and later, on even colder nights, I started adding the dinosaur blanket, too. And the train blanket.

The problem? William came to expect me covering him up with a series of blankets. And now that it's starting to warm up, he doesn't understand why I don't want to weigh him down with three blankets anymore. He objects. Loudly. This makes bedtime...er, complicated.

The alternative is also a problem. If I capitulate and layer the three blankets on top of him, William is happy. Until he kicks them off in his sleep because he's too warm. Then he wakes up and is unhappy about the blanket situation.

For the record, David thought of suggesting that we cover up his stuffed animals with two of the blankets, while telling William that "Mimi and Elmo need blankies, too." Sometimes that works. And sometimes, it doesn't.

Sigh.

Case No. 2: (I feel very Nancy Drew with these subtitles.) The Case of the Wrong Yogurt.

I've been buying six-packs of mini-yogurt containers for months now, and he often eats one for lunch. A couple of weeks ago, we were out of William's yogurt. So I offered him one of his father's full-sized Yoplait yogurts. I figured, they're the same brand, they're probably the exact same yogurt. And since William loves blueberry yogurt, but it's very hard to find in mini-containers, I thought a full-sized blueberry yogurt would be a fun treat for him.

Sure enough, William was delighted. He polished off the whole thing in about five minutes. I was suitably impressed. And I didn't think much of it.

The complications arose...a few days ago when I pulled a nice little strawberry yogurt out of the fridge for William's lunch. He saw the friendly little Dora the Explorer container, which he normally adores, and threw a Donald Duck-style hissy fit. Under no circumstances was he going to eat THAT yogurt! (I'm translating here.) Oh no. He wanted some of Daddy's yogurt. David and I looked at each other and shrugged. David fished out a full-sized container and handed it to William, and the crisis was averted.

The real problem: Today William turned his nose up at his own mini-container of blueberry yogurt and insisted on one of Daddy's yogurts again. Again, he threw a temper tantrum. David even tried to show him that the yogurt in both containers was the exact same kind. No dice. William was not convinced. Finally, after a frustrating struggle, David just gave up and put both open containers of yogurt on the high chair tray. William contentedly ate one bite of yogurt from the big container, then one bite from the small container, then another bite from the big container, and another bite from the small container. And so on, until he was stuffed full of blueberry yogurt. Now I'm all worried that he's only going to want David's yogurt and won't eat all the kid's yogurt that I just bought for him.

All together now, folks: "If only I'd known then..."

Please, please let this be a phase.

A quick trip to the zoo

William at the zoo today:



































If you look just to the right of William's head, you can see the giraffes:




















No, he's not supposed to stand up in the stroller, but sometimes he does anyway. He stood up right as I took the picture here.

The terrible twos

A few weeks ago, I took William over to "play choo-choos" at Davis-Kidd, a local bookstore with a really terrific children's area. As he studiously pushed a set of worn Thomas the Tank Engines along a wooden drawbridge, I eavesdropped on a couple of young mothers sitting in rocking chairs a few feet away.

One was watching her son, who was probably about William's age, play across the train table from William. She also held an infant girl who I supposed was eight or nine months old. The other woman had a son who was probably about a year old, toddling uncertainly around the play area.

The first woman said that her daughter was giving her fits. "My pediatrician said, 'oh, she may only be eight months old, but she's just got the terrible twos really early,'" the woman told her companion, who clucked sympathetically. (Really, I always thought that was just a figure of speech but something about the way this woman clicked her tongue really sounded like a cluck.)

Dubiously, I glanced over at the baby girl. She seemed to be a total angel. She was sitting in her mother's lap, bouncing gently, and smiling around a handful of drool-covered fingers. I didn't see any evidence of terribleness at all. But I know that looks can be oh-so-deceiving. One minute a child can be beautiful, clean and smiling beatifically. The next minute he or she can be a raging red-faced maniac. One minute, you're proud of your angelic child, and the next minute, you want to drop through the floor when all eyes are suddenly on your child, melting down in an ear-splitting puddle because you are out of graham crackers. Oh yes, looks can be deceiving.

William may not be terrible, but he'll be two in exactly two weeks. In the past 24 hours, he's managed to pull down and spill the following all over the floor: an open box of uncooked spaghetti, a half-full bag of taco chips and crumbs and a neatly packed diaper bag full of stuff like tubes of ointment and cups of Goldfish. He's stood up in his high chair countless times, despite my countless admonitions to stop, STOP doing that. He's pried open the pantry doors and plunged his fist into a box of graham crackers even though I had just told him that we were about to eat dinner. He's punched all the buttons on the television and DVD player in the family room. He's rubbed spaghetti, yogurt, applesauce, and apple-cinnamon cereal in his hair. He managed to get blueberry muffin stains on the back of his t-shirt. He wiggled out of my lap and ran out of the storytime room today in about a quarter of a nanosecond, and I had to chase him down, not once but three times. And he's cried indignantly because we put him in pajamas with feet one night and then pajamas without feet the next.

In short, I'm tired. Man, I'm tired. If this is what two is like, I am going to need some vitamins.

Of course, I should say that two also seems to be bringing me a glimpse of the divine, a reminder of the angel who's still there, under the yogurt-covered hair and crumb-covered t-shirt.

William came over to me while I was getting dressed and gently reached out to touch two large freckles on my back. "Boo-boo," he said, softly, with sympathy. "Boo-boo." Then he leaned over and carefully smacked a kiss on each freckle. Then he pulled back and looked around at me and smiled the sweetest smile.

And that, I think, is why I love him so much.

Knock knock

William's Dee Dee recently taught him a joke. So behold, I present William Wyckoff's very first joke.

William: Knock knock.

Me: Who's there? (Sometimes you have to beat him out to say it, because he likes to answer his own joke.)

William, with much glee: Nobody!

And laughter ensues. Yes, it may be a case of "you had to be there," but I swear, it really is funny!

Early to bed

We just put William to bed about 45 minutes earlier than usual because he was just impossible. Strangely, he seemed to understand what we were doing, and he didn't fight it. He didn't even object to the fact that we told him we weren't reading any bedtime stories tonight. He just calmly collected his babies, lay down and stuck his little padded bottom in the air, and waited patiently for his daddy to cover him up with the requisite three blankets.

Weird, huh? He's coming down with a bit of a cold, so he may just be a little more worn out than usual. Plus, it's Friday, and we've had a busy week. We've been out of the house every single day for a good part of the day. And today he had school.

I'm pretty tired myself. I actually managed to walk on our treadmill while William roamed around the upstairs before dinner. He played on the floor in front of me for awhile, then he wandered into my room where I had "Sesame Street" playing on the television, and he went back and forth. I even let him get up on the treadmill when I finished so he could "walk" on the treadmill, too. That's Big Fun, in case you didn't know. Maybe that was just enough exercise to wear him out, too.

Oh God. I hope this doesn't mean he'll be up at dawn tomorrow, though.

* * * * *

A random observation, apropos of nothing: Isn't it funny how the dressing room rules change so radically from lower-end stores to higher-end stores?

I mean, at Target (and I dearly love Target, so this is not a slam), they absolutely won't let me go back into a fitting room if I have more than the limit of six items. They make me leave them behind on a rack. I can't take anything else back there with me. And no one will guarantee that the left-behinds will be there when I get back. If there's an inexpensive clothing rapture while I'm in the narrow red closet, well, too bad for me.

And at the low-end teen store Charlotte Russe, where the clothes are practically disposable, the (bored teenaged) salesgirls have to come unlock the rickety little plastic cubicles where you try on clothes, and you have to proffer your clothes so they can rifle through them, count them and give you a number. Same thing at Express, although at least the clothes aren't as see-through. Sometimes the Gap counts your stuff, sometimes not. Their fitting rooms are nicer, though, and you usually get a bench to put all your stuff on.

On up the scale at Ann Taylor, no one cares if you take three items or 33 items back into their dressing rooms. Sometimes you even get a padded chair in your dressing room, which always has a nice large, sometimes triple-paneled, mirror. And then there's Harolds. The salespeople always offer me a cold drink--bottled water or mini cans of Diet Coke or Coke--and then hang the clothes on the sturdy pegs in the fitting rooms which are cordoned off with heavy velvet curtains. Again, no one cares what you have in your arms or if you're violating some number. The larger fitting room area has what's practically a small well-lit runway with a little box at the end in front of a large mirror, so you can see how terrific (or terrible) you look.

I just think it's interesting because I know the lower-end stores do a lot of what they do in an attempt to reduce shoplifting. But it's not like the higher-end stores don't have that problem, too. We had a couple of suspected shoplifters who frequented a Talbot's where I worked in college, and we always had to watch them like hawks. You'd think the higher-end stores would be more rigid, though, since their merchandise costs more--they have more to lose, I guess.

But you know what? Any dressing room works for me when I don't have William in a stroller with me! Ah, the bliss of not having to wedge myself and him into a three-foot-wide fitting room!

Trader Joe's comes to Nashville at long last!

We're getting a Trader Joe's!

Wooohoooo!

Bring on the dried Rainier cherries, the gourmet cheeses, the frozen lemon-pepper shrimp stirfry. Bring on the blueberry scones, the cinnamon swirl bread, the frozen ravioli. Bring on the Pilgrim Joe products at Thanksgiving, the Ming Joe Asian foods, the Trader Giotto Italian foods.

It's going to open this fall over in Green Hills. And it's not an April Fool.

I am so happy.

I realize that this doesn't have a lot to do with William, but who cares? Actually, it does have a lot to do with William. I'll be able to get a whole host of new healthy snack foods for him...cheaper than places like Whole Foods and Publix.

Can I get another wooohoooo?

The sock problem

We're still having the sock problem.

The sock problem, in case you're curious, is a strange phenomenon that started last week. It goes a little like this:

David puts William's pajamas on him.
David puts socks on William's feet.
David reads stories to William.
David puts William in his crib.
David and I kiss William good night, turn off the lights and shut the door.
Minutes pass.
William wails in abject agony.
I rush into his room, convinced that he has fallen out of his crib or gotten an arm or leg somehow stuck between the slats.
William stands up, sobbing and holding a sock.
He tells me, in rambling toddler language, mixed with tears, that he needs the sock back on or the world as he knows it will end.
I put the sock back on him.
He lies back down, ostensibly to go to sleep.
Minutes, perhaps hours pass.
It happens again.

The only thing that varies is the time at which the wailing commences. Sometimes it's around midnight. Sometimes it's 3:30 a.m. Sometimes it's both. And he almost always removes only one sock: the right sock. For months, months now! we have laughed at the way that William would often take off both socks and either lay them neatly next to him in the crib or drop them over the railing. But never has it seemed to bother him that the socks were no longer on his feet, not even on the chilliest nights. I mean, there were mornings when I would pick him up out of the crib and cringe when I felt the little blocks of ice that were formerly his feet. But somehow, now, a missing sock is a Big Problem.

Now. I know what you're going to say. You're going to say, "You fool. Why do you keep putting the socks on his feet to begin with?

And I will answer, "Because he looks at me with those big wide eyes and says, 'My feet cold. Need socks!' You try to resist that. You stand there and tell your poor little toddler with cold feet that you're not going to put nice warm socks on his little frozen tootsies. Go ahead. I'll stand over here and watch you do it. Go on."

The other obvious solution would be, "Put footy pajamas on the kid." Yes, that would be an easy solution IF we still had enough footy pajamas that fit him. His Christmas jammies strain at the neck, the light blue pair are dirty from two nights ago, and the remaining footy pairs either 1) don't fit anymore or 2) are heavy fleece for really cold winter nights. And it's not so easy to find nice soft footy pajamas in larger sizes. For some reason, the pajama makers assume that bigger kids shun any jammies with feet in them and, oh yes, that they love nice slick polyester, too.

I remember when we were "helping" William learn how to sleep through the night. Do you know how many experts and so-called experts have written books on how to get your baby to sleep at night? Do an Amazon search and let your eyes glaze over. I owned at least three myself, some more useful than others. But to my knowlege, no one has addressed the Toddler Middle-of-the-Night Sock Problem in print yet. Except, er, me now. And I don't even have much of a solution formulated yet, other than to buy new pajamas. I hate it when "throw money at the problem" is the best answer. But if it will buy me a full night's sleep again, well, then here's my checkbook.

Peanut, peanut butter. And jelly!

Yesterday I was talking to a woman at church who has a son William's age. She was trying to convince some of us to take home a batch of banana nut muffins because her son is allergic to peanuts. He had two episodes where he broke out into severe hives and got all swollen up when coming into accidental contact with nuts, and the resulting allergy tests confirmed it. She has to carry around an epi pen in case anything ever happens again.

Yikes. Thank God William doesn't have any food allergies. That we know of, anyway. Do you know how many things have nuts or "traces of nuts" in them? It's insane. We bought a big bag of dried blueberries at Costco, and written in menacing type on the bag of the back was "May contain nuts or nut products." Dried blueberries! It never even would have occurred to me that I'd need to keep a child away from dried blueberries for food-allergy reasons.

We have a no-nuts policy here at our house until William turns three. David says that the literature suggests a link between several autoimmune conditions--eczema and asthma and some food allergies--so it's better to just be proactive about it and limit his diet until then. And William has mild asthma and mild eczema, so the possibility of also having a food allergy is very real. But neither of us have any family history of food allergies, including tree nut allergies, and we've both speculated that William has come into contact with or accidentally eaten nuts in the past anyway. So at this point, it's mostly just a "better safe than sorry" policy. His school has a "no nuts" policy, too, so it's just as easy to keep all aspects of his life officially nut-free.

Still. I always ask about nuts when people offer him food. And I don't even bother to buy things or make things with nuts in them. It's just not worth the hassle of trying to keep them away from William. If he saw me eating, say, almonds or peanuts or banana nut muffins, he would want some too. That's how it always goes. But David realized about eight months ago that Chick-Fil-A fries its food in peanut oil, and well, we all know how I feel about Chick-Fil-A so it almost goes without saying that William has eaten there pretty regularly since we moved to Nashville. And he's eaten other foods that we only belatedly realized may have contained "traces of nuts or nut products."

So I can't wait for the day when William turns three and we can (hopefully) be a little less cautious. I cant' wait 'til I can finally start giving him peanut butter crackers. They're so easy to carry around. And honestly, I would be sad if my son missed out on peanut-butter sandwiches. I think that, done right, a PBJ or PBB (peanut butter with banana) is one of the great small joys in life. You know, really good whole-wheat bread lightly toasted, some thick blackberry jelly or preserves, a nice chunky layer of crunchy peanut butter. Mmmm. Strawberry preserves would be okay, too. And if I really had to, I'd settle for creamy peanut butter. Ah. Sometimes, that just hits the spot like almost nothing else.

In fact, I may have to go fix myself one now. William's napping. It's okay.