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I was putting Patrick to bed tonight and told him I loved him, and he said, "I love you, Mommy." It was the cutest thing EVER.
Sarah asked me to make a birth announcement for her sister. I like making birth announcements, and I have wanted one of the big frame-able ones from this shop for Patrick since I saw a picture of one in someone else's nursery. Totally cute. Anyway I was messing around with the one for Sarah's sister and I decided to do one for Patrick. Imitation is the highest form of flattery ... right? Plus, if I do get one, I'll probably order from the store since her giraffe is cuter. :)
I have a picture of my Grandpa Jack reading me a story when I'm probably younger than Patrick is now. I'm wearing a clown costume, so I'm guessing it's October of 1981 when I was 18 months old. It's in a little frame and it sits on my nightstand. Patrick likes to go through the little drawer (which has necessitated moving certain items to other locations), and the other night he brought me the picture. "Poppy," he said. We have never called anybody Poppy. I guess he could've heard it at daycare but it makes you wonder.
Of course, then I told him it was Mommy and her grandpa, and then he pointed at baby me and said, "Haircut!" He was right; I could've used a haircut. Coincidentally, Patrick needs a haircut. :)
The next day, we were watching "Dinosaur Train." I have been trying to make this Patrick's favorite PBS show, because it's MY favorite PBS show, if by "favorite" you read "least offensive" (no actually I kind of like the show, I admit). Patrick's hanging on to "Curious George" but he's realized that I let him watch TV longer if he watches the choo choo trains so he's adapted. Anyway, the show we were watching was focusing on the t-rex. So there was a giant t-rex on the screen. Patrick grinned and pointed. "Easter Bunny!"
I know a lot of people who are pregnant right now. I'm okay with that. I mean, certainly I wish I were (still) pregnant too but whatever. I've been miserable in the heat without gestating a human so there's that. I know some of the preggos conceived with no trouble at all, in fact they weren't even trying and thought they were in the clear. I know some of them had issues. I suspect more of them had issues that I don't know about. So it's all good. I'm a little sad but I wish them well and hope for the best and I know that sounds stupid but I really mean it.
HOWEVER. I cannot handle Tori Spelling being pregnant. It eats away at me. Why is SHE pregnant and I'm not? This is totally irrational. For all I know, she's been having issues herself and I should be over the moon for her. Although I doubt she had issues because do you know how many reality shows that woman has? It would have to have come out somewhere.
I know that Tori has (and has had) a lot of reality shows because I have watched them. They were must see TV in our house for a while. You can ask James. Inn Love was the best, but we continued to watch Home Sweet Hollywood. (I haven't watched her new offering, Storibook Weddings? or whatever. I have SOME limits.) And on Inn Love she was pregnant and she was freaking out over little things and I was like, "Oh! She is like me! I heart Tori!" even though we'd never have anything in common in real life.
So, the fact that Tori Spelling is pregnant and I'm not is REALLY AGGRAVATING ME. That's my confession of the day.
This entry will exist solely for the purpose of embarrassing Patrick later on in life.
Last night, he was sitting on the couch, pantsless. As he often is. (He is doing well with the potty training, in general. Doing really well considering I'm not pushing it, ha.) I glanced down and noticed that he ... seemed to be excited about something.
"Patrick, you have a baby boner," I said.
He looked down, tweaked it -- TWEAKED IT, said, "Big one!" and grinned.
I DIDN'T KNOW THEY STARTED THAT BEHAVIOR SO YOUNG.
***
This morning, the cat wanted to go out. The cat is supposed to be an indoor cat, but she's not. She got a taste of freedom and now she is unwilling to give it up. Seeing as how she's sneaky and Patrick can unlock and open doors, there's no point in even trying to keep her in, really. I told Patrick we had to let the kitty out so that she could go poop. A few minutes later, Patrick -- who was naked; he'd slept naked -- informed me that needed to go outside to poop. I said we were doing pretty well with potty training earlier, but I meant #1. So I didn't think he really was going to do anything. But he did. Heh.
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Incidentally, Patrick is a master manipulator. "Thank you" was one of the first things he said when he started talking, because we always would tell him thank you when he would give us something. But we've only recently started making him say please. He'd say it when prompted but not on his own. Last night, in an effort to stay up later, he broke out the "please" umprompted for the first time. He was asking for milk, and he'd already had water so I said no, it was too late for milk. And he said, "Please, mommy?" Of course he says it like "peeeeas?" and it makes me melt. He got his milk and his extra five minutes of being awake. Ha. Score one for Patrick.
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In unrelated news, project "be skinny or pregnant by Sarah's wedding in July" is not going well. BUT THERE'S STILL TIME!
I'm posting another incomplete entry. Once it's banished to draft status I apparently lose all bloggy motivation. Enjoy!
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Yesterday, Patrick turned 28 months old. I have never been good with the months vs. years things when it comes to baby/toddler ages. When people ask me how old he is, I usually say, "He turned 2 in December." (Before that, it was "He'll be 2 in December," etc.) It's just that I know the other mothers are judging. He's bigger than my child. He's smaller than my child. He says more than my child. My child is cuter, thank goodness. (Yes, we all think that.) So I want him to get credit where it's due. If he's 2 + 1 month, that's a lot younger than 2 + 11 months. Obviously I overanalyze positively everything. Anyway, he's 2 but I already did a "Two" update so ... twenty eight months.
Patrick talks a lot. Mostly, I can understand him. Often, other people can understand him. Sometimes you still need context. One of my favorite things that he says is 'pacuter' for computer. He has his little toy one, James has the iPad, and I usually have my laptop on the couch. He will point to each one. "My pacuter. Mommy pacuter. Daddy pacuter." It's cute. He really likes his squirt bottle, which we got him to keep him from playing with the Windex. James told him it was chemicals and he wasn't allowed to play with it (they're in the cabinet above the stove, so he can't reach), so now he stands there pointing upwards and asking for 'chem-kalls.' He is somewhat placated by his very own squirt bottle filled with water but he knows it's a poor substitute and sometimes he makes his feelings on this subject quite clear. The vacuum cleaner is still a source of fascination. He's moved up to the early preschool class at daycare, and that door is across the hall from the employee/storage room. One day this week, when I went to pick him up, he pointed at the door and said, "Get vacuum cleaner. Key up there." (The key is on a hook by the door.) The teacher said, "He is just so smart. He's too smart for his own good." I'm inclined to agree, but I wonder if she says that to all the moms?
Since it's spring, we're outside all the time. Patrick loves getting dirty and loathes coming inside. Tantrums. He adores lawn mowers. He has a push mower but would like a riding mower. We watched a guy down the street mow his lawn with a push mower a few weeks back. Patrick was fascinated with the procedure to start it. He now starts things up randomly by pulling the (nonexistent) starter cord. I am supremely amused by this. The kid across the street brought out a mini John Deere last night, and Patrick was in heaven, despite the fact that the thing was missing one of its front wheels. Patrick has seen this very tractor at Wal-Mart and requests it every time we go (which is not that often, the kid has too good of a memory). James is probably going to cave in and buy it for him but I'm trying to remain strong because he has SO MANY THINGS THAT GO.
The little boy next door, who's 4, wants Patrick to sleep over, but his mom said Patrick has to be potty trained first, so every day, he asks, "Did you train him yet?" Alas, we have not. Patrick knows what to do, however. He pees standing up, like big boys do. He pees in the shower (learned THAT trick from his father) and pees into his garbage truck and his front loader. I have to give him credit but at the same time, clearly he gets it and he's toying with me. He only rarely will actually go on the potty. I'm not ready to push it yet. I imagine at some point they'll push it more at daycare and he has to be trained before he moves up, but that's almost a year away.
This was totally going to be a great blog entry. But then I ran out of time and if I don't post it now, I'll never post anything, and at least this way it qualifies as blodding more. Ha. If only exercising more were that easy. I picked up my bridesmaid dress for Sarah's wedding. It's two sizes bigger than it should be (although she did mention that it was measuring small for everyone). It fits about the same as when I tried it on. I was hoping it would be loose(r). Oh well. I do still have three months. Although then I would have to pay for alterations. Uh, anyway. Here's the start of the blog entry.
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It is interesting what people say when they’re afflicted with verbal diarrhea. (I include myself in that. Sometimes I find myself shaking my head walking away from a conversation. WHY did I just say that?) This morning at the gas station, there was a woman filling up in front of me who had a Toyota SUV. She came back to ask me if I liked my Jeep. It turns out she’s getting divorced and she still has the same car – a ’96 – that she had before she was married, and her husband kept getting all these trucks. He was a redneck, and he drove a Ford F250. She would like to treat herself to something SHE wants, given the divorce. She used to live at the beach and she always wanted a Jeep, and she’s been talking to people who drive cars she likes. She always wanted a four-door Jeep Wrangler. She needs to haul things, like heavy bales of hay. She has an alpaca. She has an eight-year-old adopted son who’s autistic. He still rides in his car seat. She used to be a paramedic. She thinks mini cars are deathtraps, especially with all the rednecks who live up by us. All that in the five minutes (and it was probably less than that) that it took to fill up my gas tank.
This woman seemed perfectly nice. I didn’t mind talking to her at all. But that’s A LOT of information to tell a random stranger. I tend to acquire verbal diarrhea when talking to acquaintances. It’s like something takes hold of me and I have to fill the silence somehow. For instance, I told virtually no one that I was pregnant last year. People close to me knew, and some folks in Ireland who wanted to know why I wasn’t drinking, and that guy at the Total Wine store who wanted to know why on earth I was buying alcohol free wine. Actually, maybe more people knew than I thought. Anyway, I digress. I didn’t really want to tell anyone I was pregnant, in case something happened. But then, something happened and now I just tell people (who really don’t need to know) that I had a miscarriage.
For the first two years of Patrick's life, I thought I would take him to Disney World at some vague point in the future, like when I had gotten over my inherent cheapness (which will be never) or when he would actually remember it. I thought this age might be 5. I wondered, idly, what we would do if we had another child, because that child would not yet be 5. Then I started thinking about it, and I don't really remember much from when I was 5. In fact, I went to Disney World when I was 5, and 8, and then maybe 12 and then again a couple years after that, I think, and I worked there when I was 20. I don't remember much of it until I was 20. So THEN I thought, what the hell, we should take Patrick now; he would have fun in that moment and I would have fun with him.
My mom said, "Of COURSE, it's not about him, it's about you. It's about you enjoying him enjoying it." This seems like a no-brainer but it was a revelation to me.
The Disney thing is off for now because my inherent cheapness is shining through and holy shit but that place is expensive.
This comes up in the aforementioned putting Patrick to bed phase. He asks me to sleep upstairs in his bed. I do it until he falls asleep. He won't remember, and if he does, he'll block it out because it will embarrass him until he's much older and has kids of his own. Sure, I do it for him, in the sense that he's quieter and calmer and will go to sleep quicker (also a bonus for me) but really I do it for me. Because he's still little and soft and cuddly and usually he smells good. And it's just NEAT to watch him sleep all curled up with the blankets kicked off.
When I was younger, say 8 or 9, my brother (six years younger, so 2 or 3) refused to go to sleep at night unless my mom would "sleep" in there with him. Once he was asleep, she would creep out. I used to roll my eyes (I was even better at that then than I am now) and feel superior. I could go to sleep on my own. What a baby Kevin was. Haha. As I was shifting uncomfortably in Patrick's bed with him wiggling beside me for the 12th night in a row (or thereabouts) the other night, I started thinking about this. I have no idea if my mom did this for me. I know she would have, I just don't know if I required it. Hopefully Patrick is at least easier to potty train than Kevin. Yikes. We all have scars from that.
***
My mom has a picture in my baby book. It's the day I came home from the hospital (I think) and I was about a month old. I weighed about 5 pounds. My grandma is holding me in her arms and looking down at me and smiling. That's how I picture my grandma now. Her and my grandpa and the baby who wasn't. Of course they have to leave the baby with a babysitter at night when they go out drinking and bowling, but whatever.
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In my mind, the baby who wasn't is Ella Rose. I am convinced it was a girl. (I know sometimes they can tell from a D&C. There was something sent to pathology -- I saw it on my lengthy hospital bill -- but nobody told me what they looked for or what they found. I'm still mad about my follow-up visit, but that's a story for another time. I've requested a copy of my medical records but so far haven't heard anything.) If she had been born, her name wouldn't have been Ella; James didn't like it. But I liked it, and I thought it sounded nice with Patrick, and, like Patrick, it's not uncommon but not super popular. One day as I was driving to work, I was thinking about middle names and I thought about Rose, and I got chills. And so that's who she was in my head, named for her great-Grandma Rose who would never get to meet her. Except now she did. :)
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I gave up coffee for Lent. (Again.) It's driving me nuts. (Again.)
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I really hate Dook. Just thought I'd throw that in here.
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I really like this picture.
