They come and go in intervals. Meaning, we go months without one and then BAM! They’re on and take place for weeks. This one has been going on for about a week and a half. He usually always stirs about 3 hours after going to bed at night, but the night terrors are very different from that.

This particular interval seems to have coincided with him coming down with a cold. The cold wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, he was still able to go to school. I reckon that’s irrelevant but I did want to bring it up.

There have been a few personality changes over the last couple of months as well. Em is now very much into his “babies”. He has three small stuffed animals (a cardinal, a baby duck and a baby bear) that he refers to as his babies. They need to be with him at night at all times. Sometimes he wakes up screaming about them. He brings the bear to school with him for naps and if we forget the bear, we simply must go back. He’s very attached to his babies. He likes to carry them in his winter coat hood or up his shirt and scoot to school. He introduces them to people on the street, at stores. It’s cute.

I know what you’re thinking! Pending new arrival = stuffed animal/baby attachment. But I’m not so sure this wouldn’t have taken place had I gotten pregnant or not. People probably say this a lot, but Em is a very sensitive child. He loves animals. He pets them (usually dogs) even though we’ve told him repeatedly he should ask first. It’s like he can’t help himself. He needs to touch furry things. (Like mother, like son!) He loves babies, and has for a long while. You should see him with his best friend’s baby sister. It’s heartwarming to say the least. It could have to do with my being pregnant, but I’m thinking, given his personality, it would have happened this way no matter what.

Anyway, why? Why is this happening? Is it a crash? Is this related to sugar? He has very little of it, but I’m not ruling anything out. (For example, last night I gave him half a homemade cookie an hour or so before bed.) He doesn’t drink juice anymore at all. Is this related to growing? He’s in school 3 days a week and loves it, but maybe it’s due to school?

Do your children have night terrors? Do they wake up this way? Agitated and impossible to sooth? Do they eventually go away? When?

Any or all information welcome. We’re getting desperate as we approach the arrival of number two when every minute of sleep will become a commodity.

Help?

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He’s not ready to pay attention for that long. I was silly to think otherwise. Motherhood has been one learning experience after another. For example, I’ve learned that the more you spend on an activity, the less your kid’s gonna get out of it. And the more excited you are by said activity, the less excited they’re gonna be. So, should we ever have a second child, that kid’s gonna be ignored until age five or so, particularly where extracurricular activities are concerned. Sorry, kid. It’s nothing but flour and water for you. Maybe some paint. And we might take you to the playground.

(Wait, I’m a second child. This explains a lot.)

But all was not entirely lost. We had two great days. He followed instructions, had fun and we stayed the entire time. I won’t talk about the other three days; the days I had to take him home kicking, screaming and spitting. (Picture Linda Blair from “The Exorcist” only without the company of The Devil. Because, seriously, had The Devil been there I’d have asked him or her for help.)

I won’t mention those days. I won’t start talking about how age 3 is ten bloody times worse than age 2. If I start talking about all the timeouts we’ve had lately, or the fact that it took him 1 hour, 40 minutes to eat pancakes this morning all the while he sat screaming at the table, I’ll never stop talking. Plus, I’ll develop a stutter and start drinking. And I haven’t had a drink in a very long time.

I will say this: the closer we get to three, the rougher our days become. I’ll leave it at that for now. But soon I’m gonna need some companionship, a gentle shoulder to cry on. Because this has been hard, really hard. It’s kind of like breaking in a wild horse, not that I’ve ever done that. But if I ever apply for a job as cowboy, I’m putting this on my resume.

I’m convinced this is why siblings aren’t often 4 years apart. Who in their right mind looks at their husband after a day spent with a three-year-old and says, “Hi, honey! Let’s have unprotective sex so we can have ANOTHER ONE!”?

Anyway… SOCCER CAMP! The last class went off without a hitch. And I managed to get this short video of my boy following instructions, giving high fives and receiving his final award.

So, we won’t be back next week. But we will be back next year. Because the gentlemen from United Soccer Academy who were in charge of these 3-year-olds were amazing. I’ve never met two Brits more deserving of an award for patience. In fact, everyone pooled together a hefty tip at the end of the week to show how sorry we felt for them. A pity tip! A pitippy!

We’ll be back next year—you know, after three is over.

(Three does end, right?)

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So: that’s me in the background telling me how not to drop it and where to aim. We have about 27 versions similar to the shot above.

Why is Bert so antisocial? Even my almost 3-year-old has him figured out.

P.S. I missed Tuesdays With Murray yesterday. I will make it up to you Murray lovers. He’s a great cat. Keeping him all to myself is criminal. More to come. Promise.

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How does one overcome this and keep blogging? This is something I ask myself a lot lately. This question is precisely why I so rarely update with regard to my son. The thing is, my son is my job now, so feeling unable to write about him means not having much to write about at all. This is why you read about lollipops or a feline who will never have to deal with the cruelness of middle school. This is why I post pictures of baby squirrels and snow days. This is why so many days I don’t update at all.

What’s safe?

There’s a story about poop and a Saturday morning that I would love to share with the Internet, a story that both Toby Joe and I find truly hilarious, a story you would find hilarious as well. But once it’s out there, in writing, online, it’s out there. There’s suddenly proof of it. Will future classmates one day come to tease Emory for a poop story that his mom wrote about? Will he care or will he be the class clown and laugh along with them. Not knowing the answer to this holds me back a great deal.

And I’m sorry about that. I’m sorry because I wanted to always share it all. That’s why I started this blog, that’s why I’ve kept it going for (OH MY GOD) 9 years. And I know what I’m writing today isn’t anything new, but I had to write something. Because I can’t tell you about the poop and last Saturday morning and the big laugh we had.

And so that’s been my big question lately: where do I go from here? What does it mean that I can no longer share my life with you because my life is no longer just my own?

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In other news, forgive me for not updating YET AGAIN I got bitten by the inspiration bee recently and have been busying myself to try and get this new adventure up and running. Rest assured, once it’s complete (any day now!) mihow.com will be the first to know. Yay, projects! Yay, inspiration! Boo, lack of updates. Boo, me. More soon! I promise!

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In the meantime, here are a few photos we’ve taken over the past couple of weeks.

Emory tried on some tiny skis and then refused to take them off. I can’t wait until next year whenever we can actually take him skiing, with snow. Also: I’m very happy he’s more interested in skiing than snowboarding since his mama does one and not the other.

We visited the playground at Union Square. This is what I twittered while we were there:

Seriously, y’all, this playground put the one near us to absolute shame. I couldn’t believe it. There wasn’t a Sharpie drawn penis in sight, nor were there any used condoms. I don’t get it.

We attended a party at our friend Keith and Melanie’s house for their 1-year-old. It was awesome.  And LOOK AT ALL OF THESE BALLOONS! It’s like kid heaven.

My son was completely floored. He even posed for a picture, something he never does.

That’s it for now. I promise I’ll update this puppy more often. It’s either that or sell it to the highest bidder.

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She’s from Mexico, which is awesome. I asked that she speak spanish to Emory a bunch because I wanted him to pick up some words in another language or at least begin to understand that there are other languages. The problem is she doesn’t speak much english at all. And when she does speak in english, it’s so damn difficult to understand her I spend most of the time asking that she repeat everything. My spanish is rusty at best, so that’s not an option either. The isn’t a problem for the owner of the building because she and her kids speak fluent spanish.

We’ve had some issues with miscommunication. There were two times she didn’t show up because she didn’t understand what I had said. Then there was the time she showed up when I had told her not to. There have also been some problems with what he eats while I’m out but that’s really nothing. Overall, all of these things could be overlooked because she seemed to be doing so well with Emory.

Recently, however, he’s begun to express dread the moment I tell him she’s coming to hang out with him for the day. He used to answer the door gleefully whenever the doorbell rang, now he starts to cry and runs away from her. And I know this is probably because he’s attached to me, but it’s heartbreaking.

It’s been getting progressively worse the last two weeks. Things were getting more and more difficult up until yesterday when he did something so heart-wrenching, it will probably haunt me until the next time he does something heart-wrenching. (So, what, tomorrow then?)

She showed up. He started to cry and asked that she leave. He said he wanted to come with me. He sobbed. Followed me around. Grabbed my legs and wouldn’t let go. Naturally, I couldn’t leave with him acting this way. I tried reasoning with him for a while, explaining to him that I would be back in a few hours, that I had to go do some work but I’d be right back. Nothing helped. After about 15 minutes of trying to reason with him, I took my coat off and decided I would try and work there for a while and see if he calmed down. I went and sat in our room, on the bed, with my computer. I told him, “I have to work. So you play and I’ll work.”

And this is where things took a turn for the ouch. He grabbed a hold of his Fisher Price drawing toy and climbed up onto the bed and said, “Mama, I will work too. I wanna work too. I work with you.”

(Reenactment. I didn’t pull the camera out during the whole ordeal.)

I said, “You should play, Emory. You should have fun and play.”

That’s when his lip began to quiver and he looked at me and said, “Mama doesn’t want to play with me. No playing with Emory. Mama wants to work.” And he began to cry, but these weren’t normal tears, these were tears fueled by sorrow, like I had just abandoned him, told him I didn’t love him anymore. I know! Sounds so over-the-top, but I’m not kidding. I’ve only ever seen tears like this one other time. (A story for another day.)

“You don’t want to play with me.” He finally said. And looked down at his toy, which collected tear drops.

How could I leave after that? I hugged him and said that I’d much rather play with him. And even though I did have actual work to do, I decided I would stay until he said I could leave, if he said I could leave.

An hour later, he was OK with my leaving. So I did. But not for long.

My brother suggested that this might be because the three of us never play together. That he might see her as NOT me since the moment she comes over, I leave. And that makes sense. Everyone else I leave him with (my mother, father, brother) he’s completely fine with—we’ve even gone away for a few overnights. So maybe it just takes some work. But there are other problems with this nanny and so I’m beginning to think it might be time to let her go.

And that’s why I’m writing today: I want advice from those who’ve been there before. Am I overreacting because he was so sad and, in turn, made me so sad? Or should it be easier than this? Should I wait to let her go for another week? How long is too long to try if your little people don’t like being with someone?

As much as I love the time I have to focus on work, I’m not sure putting him through so much sorrow and anxiety is worth it.

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He even pelted me with snowballs.

But then something happened with his hands. They started to hurt because ice cold stuff on bare hands hurts!

Naturally, he refused to wear his gloves, which were in my pocket the whole time. Why he refused? No clue. But in hopes of teaching him that wearing gloves is necessary whenever it’s cold outside and one intends to throw snowballs, I gave in to his stubbornness. However, this backfired, because instead of putting the gloves on, he threw a fit by throwing himself to the ground in protest. Which made him even colder.

Then the tears came. I did not take pictures of this part.

But, overall? Our walk was awesome. And he loved almost every minute of it.

The next time we venture out I’ll make sure to warm the snow up first.

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Emory is quite ill. The fevers are back.

Last year he suffered from fevers that brought with them Febrile seizures. That duo seems to be making an encore presentation this year. And I hate them. So, I’m trying to keep his temperature down as much as possible, switching between Motrin and Tylenol. It’s gonna be a long day and night. We’re a tired bunch.

Do you have any tricks for fevers and colds? I’m all ears and a little desperate. Or if you wanna come over and keep us company; there’s only so many times a family can watch Night At The Museum and we’ve cruised way past that allotment.

I have heard “Starve a fever. Feed a cold” which is a good thing since he won’t eat anything—not even cookies! Thus far, the only thing I’ve gotten him to eat has been watermelon, which is super since he doesn’t seem to want to drink fluids either.

My poor child.

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You see, Toby and I decided (out of nowhere) that we were going to take away the bappy. Y’all are like, What the hell is a “bappy?” That’s what my son calls his pacifier. He loves his bappy especially when it’s time for night-night or he needs to calm down.

Well, we decided it was time. Just like that. We figured we’d see how it goes for a day. And then when the world didn’t end, we kept going. This is day four and it’s been OK. I won’t try and make things sound too terrible. He has slept relatively well. Things are OK at night. We’ve gotten several desperate pleas for a pacifier, but we usually distract him until he forgets. And those pleas (not to jinx it) are becoming fewer and fewer in number.

But, what’s a nap?

There hasn’t been much napping and when he does nap, it’s a fall asleep where you’re sitting type of thing and it usually takes place the hours right before the bedtime safety zone. The other night he fell asleep eating at 5 PM. I knew that was going to mean later we’d face a great deal of trouble getting him to sleep, but at that point? I so needed a few minutes to myself that I just let him sleep for a while.

The part that’s been REALLY difficult are the tantrums. They don’t happen all the time—most of the time he’s wonderfully funny and sweet and I mean that. But when the tantrums do happen? There’s absolutely NO calming him down. I swear there are dozens of Brooklyn residents that think we beat our child. But that’s a story for another day. I’m not sure if it’s that we took the pacifier away, or if we’re just knee-deep in the terrible twos, but lately the tantrums have been brutal.

So, my days have been tiring and rough lately. And I need a break. I haven’t said that in a long time, but I do. I need a break. And now that winter is upon us and he isn’t in school at all (I will explain whole not moving situation soon) and we don’t have the ability to hit the playground, the days are killing us both. I need to get lost in a movie or something, with a pacifier.

Quite frankly, I have no idea how the anti-TV parents do it. Because the only (and I mean ONLY) downtime I get is when he watches Sesame Street or Night At the Museum for the 100th time. (Incidentally, whomever gave that movie an abysmal 2.5 stars was not a child nor did they speak to children. Stupid, adult movie reviewers.)

Some of you are probably wondering how I’m writing this post—like, what’s he doing right now. He’s building a choo-choo track in his room and begging for me to join him. So, I gotta go lay down some railroad, my friends. But I’ll try my damnedest to have a halfway literate Murray post up later today.

Because this one? Not so much.

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Something had to be done. It’s downright impossible to live in New York City and not use the MTA. The subway is a must. My son was going to have overcome his fear. But how?

We’ve been working on him slowly over time. At first we just talked about it a lot. Toby would get home from work and talk about how great the choo-choo was. (Which is hilarious for reasons I’m sure you are all aware.) We’d discuss its tracks and where it would take us. We told him there was nothing to be afraid of. We compared them to Thomas and his brood. And then we started taking him on it again.

At first, he was guarded and pensive. But we talked him through it and once he was on, all was well. That took a couple of weekends of riding it together as a family.

On Saturday, we set out early to see the ice skaters and tree at Rockefeller Center. We rode the L train to 6th Avenue and then the F Train uptown. He loved it. He loved every minute of it. When we arrived at our destination, he didn’t care about the tree or the skaters; he wanted to continue riding the choo-choo.

My son’s fear has folded in on itself and has turned into a passion. Instead of throwing fits for suggesting he ride the subway, he’s throwing fits when we’re done for the day.

Now, Mama has to overcome her biggest fear: maneuvering toddler and stroller all by myself, up those stairs, and safely.

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I’m not sure if it was the race car they had him sit in, the new toys all around him, or the fact that a new and intriguing, heavily tattooed man was the one doing the cutting, but he was a perfect angel for the duration of the haircut.

It wasn’t until we were leaving and he realized he wasn’t going to be able to take the cool new stuff with him did he begin to put up a fight. This is what I get for scheduling his haircut at a local children’s toy store. And I realize that I probably rewarded bad behavior, but I had to get out of there with a little bit of dignity. That’s how Billy Bee came to live with us.

I personally think he looks a lot more like his father now.

He’s losing his blond hair, which I knew was going to happen, but it still makes me a little sad. It appears he’s going to end up with the nice White Trash brown his mother and father grew up with.

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Now, I’m going to try really hard to complete this post as unbiasedly as possible. I would hate for it to come off as my suggesting that my son is perfect (he’s not) and sweet and all the other kids are beating up on him. That’s not the case at all. I know firsthand that life throws at us strange relationships and confrontations; it’s natural for folks to not always get along. So I’m going to try and finish this post as neutral as a mother possibly can; I’ll present the facts and hope that someone out there has some answers.

Lately, Emory has been reacting to other more outgoing and vivacious kids’ by cowering. It happens while playing with kids he knows and doesn’t know. For example, he’ll be on top of the slide waiting to come down and another kid will come over and say MINE! (Perfectly normal, even Emory does it!) and instead of waiting or stepping aside, he’ll cower—sometimes he runs away. And more recently he’s begun to burst into tears. If he’s near me, he hides behind my legs. It’s really quite hard on my heart, but I want to teach him to face his fears and embrace confrontation in a healthy manner.

Lately, we’ve been telling him after the fact that when kids are mean to him it’s OK to say, “Please be nice to me.” He’s starting to understand more, so we want him to confront the situation instead of running to me or running away period. And bursting into tears solves nothing. Plus, it breaks my heart.

Just last night when Toby Joe asked him how his day went and he answered by telling him that a kid was mean to him.

A few weeks ago, all three of us were on the playground and one of his friends pushed him away and said, “Emory no! GO away!” And he ran away sobbing, like the kind where no sound comes out and no air gets in. As he walked toward Toby Joe and me he said, “I’m so sad, I’m crying.” It was heartbreaking. I wanted to scoop him up and protect him forever, but life doesn’t allow for that a great deal of the time, so we’re trying to introduce him to a happy medium. Does that make sense?

Naturally, I can’t help but blame myself for taking him out of school. But that can’t be it, can it? He sees and plays with other children, it’s just not always the same group of kids. Plus, he’s just two. I didn’t go to school until I was five. Certainly this can’t be that, right? It’s not like he’s not socialized.

I do hope that this phase goes away. My once joyful kid now reacts to others with wariness. And I don’t know how to help him without changing the world and I’m too busy to take that on. ;]

Has anyone else had a kid go through this? Thoughts? Suggestions?

Maybe he’s just going to be a more apprehensive kid. I’m ok with that. But I’m not ok with this manifesting itself in other ways and he thinking twice before doing something creative and carefree.

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He’s done this before, just not with dirt.

Thoughts on ways to let him know that eating dirt isn’t how you pick up girls?

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Nemo is one of Emory’s favorite make-believe creatures.

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But last night was really bad. We had just returned from Jersey, so perhaps he was confused. I don’t know. Whatever the reason may be, Em did not fall asleep until about 10 PM. And it was fitful. He woke up again at midnight and stayed up until almost three. Granted, he did doze off a few times, but only for 15 minutes here and there. And so I slept on the couch and tended to him whenever I could. Unfortunately we live in a New York City apartment (i.e. small), so even though I did the legwork last night, Toby Joe was unable to sleep through it.

All this to say, that the entire family is running on about four hours of sleep today. And it ain’t pretty, people. All the coffee in the world couldn’t bring a smile to my husband’s face as he left for work this morning. I’m barely moving, barely functioning and I’m slightly annoyed and partly jealous over the fact that somehow my two-year-old, the same two-year-old that kept us up all night, is running around with all sorts of energy today. Where does he get that from?

Oh, the humanity.

I’m also working right now. This morning I delivered a great deal of work to a client. The last couple of days have been very busy for me. Couple that with Emory’s inability to sleep through the night, and you’ve got yourself a big ol’ mess of a mom.

But I still kept up my end of the bargain and made our daily jaunt to the playground this morning.

Sometimes Emory poops while at the playground. I don’t know why this is. All I know is that an hour into our fun, he looked at me and said, “Mama. Poop.” like he was answering a question. He said it in such a way that made me feel silly for not knowing it.

“Mama. Poop.”

And then he pooped. And I was prepared for it. I changed him right there in the park.

We played for a bit longer. We did some swinging. We walked along the track and hit the wooded area he used to run around in when he was a wee baby. We stopped by the dog run. We walked through McCarren Park, and past the tree that looks just like a vagina. (Yes, I’ll get you pictures). We visited the grocery store, talked to a neighbor. We did it all. I did it all. I did it all looking like this:

It could have been worse I suppose. Instead of wearing the re-sealable sticker that comes with the baby wipes, I could have actually had shit on my shirt.

But, people? If you see someone walking around like this, don’t be afraid to tell them that they’re wearing trash.

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Anyway, here are a few pictures.

My kid loves puddles, the muddier, the better.

And here is a shot of Emory and Murray conspiring together.

I’ll be back soon. Murray keeps threatening to update for me and believe me, people, THAT WON’T BE PRETTY.

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The video below was taken yesterday while showing my mother a few dance numbers from Wednesday’s So You Think You Can Dance. One of the numbers was a hip hop routine and it turned Emory into a dancing machine. (His second favorite was the Bollywood routine.)

Unfortunately, I was too busy smiling from ear-to-ear, basking in the joy of my son’s return to dance to film his first attempt. But he wanted more! So I got it the second time around. He’s a little tired in this one, but it’s still awesome. And I am so happy my son is dancing again.

A few things to note: He’s watching this routine. And he was really trying to emulate their moves. For example, when he comes at me, he’s acting out what the dancers are doing. And whenever he grabs the sides of his head, the dancers are messing with headphones. For those of you who may have seen this, you’ll probably (albeit loosely) follow his smooth moves. :]

The baseball bat? Entirely his own addition.

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There have been a few times right before having a bath where he’ll sit down on it and pee. Which always results in cheers, songs, hugs and kisses. And I can only imagine what type of lasting neuroses we’re inflicting upon him.

Granted, I met one mother who used Jelly Beans as a reward. So, when her son as a grown man suddenly and inexplicably craves Jelly Belly’s every time he poops, we’ll all know why.

But I digress. For those of you without children, this may come as a surprise to you, but it’s true what they say about having kids and then never getting to use the bathroom alone. At first I brought him into the bathroom with me because I didn’t feel comfortable leaving him alone for 30 seconds. But now it’s become a ritual. He waddles in behind me and sits down on his potty while I use the big person potty. And then we have the following conversation:

“Mama goes potty?” (Pronounced “pah-ee?”)

“Yes, mama goes potty.”

“Dadda goes potty?”

“Yes, Dadda goes potty.”

“Emmy goes potty?”

“Yes, Emmy goes potty, too!”

“Murrrrl goes potty?”

“Yup, Murray goes potty.”

You get it. He asks about every cat and then starts over again. This is a common discussion. He enjoys it. As do I. And having said discussion warms him up to the idea. He now knows that people use a toilet. He just hasn’t yet figured out how to plan for it. He’s not yet saying, “Mama, I have to go potty.”

There have been a few times where he’ll be trying to go poop and I’ll scoop him up and sit him on the potty. Usually Toby Joe or I will sit down with him and read a book to relax him. Unfortunately, this is usually when he’s really constipated and therefore experiencing some pain. So it’s not always a pleasurable experience. We read to him to try and relax him so he doesn’t hit an emotional roadblock when it comes to pooping on the potty.

All in all, he’s probably used the potty a dozen times. I call that progress!

This is still a learning experience for all of us. We’re taking it day-by-day. I haven’t yet read a thing about how to actually successfully potty train a toddler. I am not sure what we’re waiting for, really. A sign he’s really ready? Maybe we’re lazy? I don’t know. I can honestly say, however, I’m not even sure at what age you’re supposed to begin such a feat, that’s how little research I have done on the subject.

So, all that said, I’m not sure how much I have to offer a mother who emailed me over the weekend regarding potty training. Here is her email:

Hi I’ve been reading your blog for awhile and your son is a little older than mine.  So, I find your advice and information helpful as what you’ll are learning doing we aren’t too far behind.  My son is 17 months old.  Anyways, I’ve been trying to read up on potty training and thought I’d ask you if you have any insight into the subject.  I found a Peter Potty urinal online at walmart and thought it looked pretty cool for baby boy then I’ve read it can be confusing to try to learn to use two separate potties (one for #1 & another for #2) but I also read little boys sometimes much prefer this method and train easier (don’t you just love all the conflicting info out there).  Anyways, my question is have you started the process yet and if so have you learned any tips or tricks to make it easier?

Can you help her? Do you have pointers for this momma? And perhaps I can rubberneck and learn a thing or two as well? heh.

Thanks, friends!

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“I need you to tell me it’s going to be OK!” She cried into the phone. “I need to know that dropping them off gets easier!” 

She had just dropped her 2-year-old daughter off at her first day of daycare. 

I knew precisely what she was going through. In January, Emory started going to school for a few hours three days a week. It wasn’t a full time thing, it wasn’t ever meant to be, but I felt it was just enough time for everyone involved.

But it wasn’t easy. I thought about how I felt when Em first started school and how many of you made me feel better. It was time to pay it forward.

I began by letting her know what I have come to realize over the past five months: sending Em to school was one of the more rewarding decisions we’ve made. Emory has thrived because of it. (His mama has as well!) I told my friend that I cried too and I know exactly how difficult it is but that one day in the very immediate future she’s going realize she made a good decision, if not a great one. 

Naturally, I assured her that it gets much, much easier. And then I joked that I’ve been crying all over again—not because he’s going school, but because we only have three weeks left!

By the end of the conversation we were both laughing.

It’s true. Em is finished with school in three weeks. The truth of the matter is, Emory has absolutely flourished at school. He has come such a long way in the time he’s been there. I know this is normal; kids are supposed to learn a great deal as they near age two, but this seems different to me. Emory regularly comes home and does something weird yet adorable and Toby Joe and I look at each other suggesting that the other must be responsible only to realize he learned it at school.

Take Laurie Berkner’s “We are the Dinosaurs” song. (See it on YouTube here.) Without school, my family never would have marched together like dinosaurs, a pastime we’ve come to revere as a family, like sitting down to dinner together or sharing an ice cream cone. 

And I have school to thank for “The Goodbye Song” which we sing at least a dozen times each day. No joke.

(This next part is falls into that “MY KID IS SO SMART!” territory and I promised myself I would not become that parent, but if this were a court case, it would be admitted as evidence in defense of preschool.)

Emory knows the entire alphabet and has for months. Yes, we take a little credit for that, both Toby and I have been going over the alphabet with him since he was 6 months old. We also count with him a great deal, which is why he counts everything from fingers and toes, to the number of blueberries on his plate. (Numbers are his thing, which means he’s definitely his father’s son.) School had a great deal to do with his education as well.

Probably the most important aspect to his development is the social one. Emory is a little on the self-conscious side and can come off a little shy. I’ve written about this before. But school has allowed him to really shine. It helps he’s with the same eight kids every day (same three teachers, too). He has come to know them and love them. There have been several times we’re on the playground and one of his classmates shows up and they go completely crazy the moment they see one another.

I swear to you, I haven’t ever been so heart-warmed in all of my life. 

And I’ve changed too! I met one of my closest friends because of Emory’s school. As a matter of fact, my life is going quite well right now. I have found a wonderful group of friends whom I absolutely adore, one of which I hang out almost every day and our kids play awesome together. 

My life is going really, really well and because of that, I think Em is happier too.

So, yes, I have been crying just a little bit because we will have to say goodbye to a really great experience. He’ll no longer play with the same kids every week. He now runs to his teachers every morning and we’ll be saying goodbye to them as well. And all those strange things he does at home where we’re asking one another, “Where did he pick that up!?” won’t happen as much. At least not for a while.

While on the phone with my friend reassuring her that everything was going to be better than OK, I realized something about my situation: I think that the last day of school is going to be equally as emotional for me as the day I dropped him off.

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Every time Emory sees a soccer match on TV he yells, “OCCAH! OCCAH!!!” And I beam with delight.

I was so excited about this I signed him for a toddler soccer league this summer. How that’s going to be possible—like, how these people plan on getting a bunch of 2-year-olds to play something remotely resembling soccer—that’s not for me to figure out. Thankfully, that’s not my job. Laughing about it? Definitely my job. Organizing it? Not so much.

Toby Joe and I also watch a lot of college football. Pretty much every Saturday in fall we’ll have a football game on the TV. We really look forward to Penn State.

But, I still wouldn’t call us as a very “sporty family”. We don’t watch basketball, hockey makes me nervous, and baseball tends to bore us both. Don’t get me wrong, I love attending live baseball games—partly because I love overpriced, domestic beer—but I don’t particularly enjoy watching it on TV.

But this weekend a Mets game made its way onto our TV somehow. They were playing Boston. So we left it on, because while baseball isn’t particularly entertaining for us, Boston fans usually are.

Naturally, because we wanted Emory to love soccer, he became obsessed with baseball. Just like that. He’s so into it, I had to warn his teachers just this morning about his desire to swing everything in sight. I told them that it’s in their best interest they keep all long, hard objects out of his reach. For long, hard objects are no longer just broomsticks, lint-rollers or hairbrushes; they’re baseball bats. And baseball bats are meant to be swung! And swinging hurts people. Believe me.

“Why baseball?” I have scoffed “Where did I go wrong?” I have cried. “Is this because I pushed too hard for soccer? Why, Emory? Why?” I have begged. To no avail.

“BEEBALL MAMA! BEEBALL!!”

I’m coming to terms with his desire for baseball over soccer. I suppose I can deal with baseball. And I’ll put him on a t-ball team the moment he’s old enough. I want my kid to do whatever it is he pleases. If baseball becomes his passion, I will give him my blessing.

But if he becomes a Red Sox fan, we’re putting him up for adoption.

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They nodded in agreement but then one of them politely said, “Well, I think we’re going to try and keep him all day today if that’s OK. It’s been weeks since he’s been in school for an entire day and he’s missed so many as well! We miss him.”

It’s true. My kid has been in and out of school for almost two months. (Money well spent!) If I do send him to school, I usually get a phone call (or I call) letting me know he’s not feeling well and that it might be wise to come get him. I don’t even question it. I’m there in a heartbeat. But I’m left wondering: what do parents with full time jobs do in this situation? Does their employer get annoyed with them for having to leave to tend to their sick kids? Do they hire on-call nannies for this very reason? Seriously, what happens? Because all toddlers get sick and most schools won’t allow them to stay if they have a fever above 100 and that’s pretty damn common! (Perhaps a topic for another day.)

Anyway, something occurred to me yesterday, clearly so: I’m the mother of The Sick Kid. My son just can’t shake the congestion or cold. His colds move up into his ear canals and Toby and I spend nights on end listening to him scream. We spend days switching between doses of Motrin and Tylenol. We have gone through two rounds of antibiotics which work but then a week after he’s finished, BAM! the mucous builds up and the screams begin. 

I don’t want to drone on and on about my ear problems. (If you’re curious, read this post.) But I will say that the moment he was born I began asking doctors, nurses (and whomever would listen to me) to have a closer look at his ears. They all reassured me that ear problems aren’t genetic. But I wondered, How about head shape? How about the size of the ear canal? How about a series of tubes? Could these things be genetic? He did, after all, inherit my eyes, my curly hair and his father’s everything else. But ears are somehow one of a kind? Like fingerprints?

We visited the pediatrician on Monday for the third time in just over a month. And she finally listened to me regarding my ear history. I told her that my hearing has been destroyed due to chronic ear infections. I told her my eustachian tubes never quite did their job properly. I told her I had tubes twice. I told her that the holes never healed. (To this day, I haven’t ever been swimming without earplugs.) I told her my pillows were often stained from ear fluid. I told her about my nephew (who has similar problems). 

She listened and stopped suggesting that genetics are an innocent bystander. And I’m breathing a little easier now because that means we’ll get to see an ENT sooner rather than later. It also means that someone finally believes me. And I do hope that this means we can finally put an end to his pain.

I don’t want to be the mother of The Sick Kid. Besides, he’s far too cute to keep inside all the time.

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Babies are weird.

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“FOWAH! FOWAH! FOWAH! ”

On Tuesday, we took a trip to the overpriced grocery store that just opened around the corner from us. I have no idea how these guys are going to stay in business, their prices are astronomically high. But I am constantly amazed at what people are willing to pay here in Williamsburg (ourselves included). I think this is the only neighborhood in New York where rents haven’t yet dropped. We’re immune to lowering rents. 

So perhaps this overpriced grocery store will stay in business. 

All that said, we only ever go there if it’s really gross out or it’s not wise for Em to be outside for too long. And since Em has been sick this week with yet another wicked ear infection, I took him to the overpriced grocery store.

We weren’t two feet through the doors when I saw his eyes light up. 

“FOWAH FOWAH FOWAH! MAMA! FOWAH!”

The flowers were wilted and each one cost me almost as much as a gallon of milk at that grocery store, but I simply had to buy  this kid a couple of flowers. 

Emory gets excited about chocolate (which is known as “treat” at our house and is pronounced “teat” which makes me giggle), and he gets excited when he sees me walk into the room after a day spent at school, but I haven’t ever seen him this excited. He carried them around like they were treasures, new relationships, tokens of love.

Granted, all three flowers were destroyed by nightfall. They didn’t stand a chance against The Destroyer. He picked one apart petal by petal and I wondered who he might be thinking about. The other two were used to slap things, including Murray who mistook it for PLAYTIME!

Like I said, the flowers didn’t stand a chance. 

But it was kind of worth it.

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Let me make it up to you with this:

He’s awesome. Have I said as much lately? He’s just awesome. This age is just awesome. (Except for when he wakes up at 4 AM or screaming on the top of his lungs for reasons we aren’t sure of. Poor baby. Also, we’re trying out goats milk right now in hopes of getting to the bottom of his bottom.)

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For a while now, he’s faced a great deal of frustration trying to poop. It can literally take him all day sometimes to get anything out and that’s after a great deal of straining and pain. And when it finally does come out, it’s rather hard. We called the doctor who told us to feed him lots of fruits and vegetables, which is just absurd because that’s all he really eats. (Unfortunately, this was left on a message as she was busy and I haven’t called back yet so I couldn’t then tell her no, that’s not the problem.)

A few nights ago, we woke up to hear Emory SCREAMING from his bedroom. He was making horrible sounds, like a woman in labor. He was trying to poop. He tried so hard, he threw up and it came out of his nose as well. (I am crying as I write this because he’s in school and I want so badly to hug him right now.)

Anyway, I decided that enough was enough, I did some online research. Several people suggested that babies who go through this type of situation often have milk allergies (which they eventually outgrow) and that it’s not often talked about by doctors. So, we decided to give him some soy milk instead of milk milk and see how that goes. We also added flax as well as prune juice into the mix. Things got better. They weren’t perfect, but they were better.

But then last night happened. I stupidly (I think it was the culprit?) gave him a homemade bread and cream cheese sandwich with chopped up dates. He ate it up fast—loved it. He drank some water and then some soy milk and went off to bed.

We woke up at 11 listening to him scream. He continued to go into contractions every 10 minutes until 4 AM or later. It was heartbreaking and there was nothing I could do for him.

I am not sure what’s going on with Emory. I need to fix it. I feel so badly for him. I am tired. I am making mistakes, fighting with my husband, flicking off construction workers, fighting with our passive aggressive previous landlord, discussing things with other mothers—mere strangers to me at his daycare—that I should never discuss. I feel as though I am bordering on that insane, hysterical mother—the one everyone whispers about when she leaves the room.

I have no idea how to control this, how to fix it, how to make him better, us better, me better.

I can’t help me. But maybe someone else can.

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That’s the dish we use to feed our cats. Apparently someone decided that Glow Worm was hungry for some canned cat food. All I know is it wasn’t me and Toby was at work at the time.

Glow Worm had a bath right after his meal.

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