Ravin's Ramblings

On June 12, I received the most amazing news.  Enough time has passed with continued positive results that I want to share this with the world.

I am almost afraid to post this for fear of waking up from a dream. I can only describe this as answered prayers! 


Dad has been improving since he started this new medication, but I was afraid it was a superfluous improvement caused by masking the symptoms and making him feel better but not actually be better in any marked way. 


His oncologist, who six years ago told him to get his affairs in order, told him today that he has never seen this medication work so effectively and so fast, that less than 3% of the people treated with that medication experience noticeable results the first week. It is a new treatment, just approved in November of last year. The doctors exact words were "I have some bad news to deliver. Unfortunately you now have a greater chance of dying of something else because the cancer is no longer going to kill you. I've never seen anything work so well so fast." 


It hasn't sunk in yet. The last few months I thought for sure I knew what a terminal illness looked like. Between May and June he lost nearly 100 lbs.  His skin was nearly transparent..but I think now, instead of knowing what a terminal illness looks like, instead I know what a miracle looks like.  Thank you all for your prayers, and thank you God!

Dad gets to live - even the Dogs are smiling about it!

Reading BabyCenter.com's milestones for 3-year-olds makes me feel like an awesome mother. There is particular emphasis on being mindful of what your kids see or hear and to watch for signs of working out those things through play. My son pretends to talk to the Mayor on the phone, or practices being a pastor, he pretends to be an astronaut; he pretends to be a doctor. He practices having parties and plays at mowing the lawn.

Hurray, he's well adjusted! Even though this may seem like a no-brainer, there are certain times as a parent when you're just sure you're screwing it all up. When, for example, your child has gone through 5 pairs of glasses in 1 year you finally give in and tell him that if he doesn't wear his glasses he may have to have surgery on his eyes and that means the doctor is going to take a very sharp knife and cut into his eyeball and if he doesn't want that to happen he'd better start wearing his glasses instead of hiding them or breaking them. Or, just off the top of my head, you've had enough of his shenanigans and tell him that you're going to put him up for sale on BlackMarketBaby.com where some South American land owner will buy him and send him to be a slave in the gem mines of Brazil where he won’t be allowed to have a blankie and Santa can't visit because there's no snow in Brazil.

Trust me, when these threats were made, there was conviction behind them. These were no idle threats. These ultimatums were delivered with all the force and vehemence of a good old fashioned fire and brimstone sermon. There was red faced, fist pounding authority behind them. The kind that when you look back after your blood pressure has dropped to an acceptable level, you think...man...I wonder how many years in therapy that one is going to cost me...It’s nice to have the opposite feeling from time to time. To read a little parenting article and think to yourself, I'm doing alright.

Three. Amazing. When did we get here, kid? When did you go from being my sweet little baby to my sweet little boy? Part of me gasps with relief…The rest of me wants to hold on to you with everything in me and say “Stop! Slow down! Don’t grow up quite so fast!” But growing up you are. You went from knowing words to telling me stories and singing me songs. You amaze me every single day.

You are so funny! You had your father and I in stitches last weekend when you stomped down the stairs like a giant saying “Fe, fi, fo, fum, I smell a puppy’s bum!” You tell jokes now too. Sometimes they’re incredibly inappropriate, yet you still crack me up. We taught you anatomy this year because you were so completely curious about the differences between boys and girls. It was either that or let you continue to reason things out on your own and come to the wrong conclusions (like bras were special mommy pockets—your term-- for storing things like crayons, and a really great place to warm up hands that have come in from the cold).

The fact that boys and girls have different tid-bits and what-nots blew your mind. How could this be? And is it EVERY girl or just some of them? And not only that, but pets have boy parts and girl parts too! You had to tell everyone who came through the front door that puppy had nipples and a gina. And even though you knew that daddy has boy parts, not girl parts, when he tripped over the baby gate and hurt himself you made your first naughty joke, “You OK, Daddy? You hurt your gina?” and while Chris and I were still trying to figure out if you knew what you were saying, you slid off your rocking chair laughing so at your own joke.

Yes, boy parts and girl parts have had a big impact on you this year. In terms of drawing, you didn’t really progress beyond squiggles, wiggles, and French fries until you were almost three. Then one day, you came down from a nap, plunked yourself on the floor in the office, drew a picture and said “Look, Daddy, a monster with tall legs!” And amazingly enough, it was a monster, complete with circles for eyes and a straight line for a mouth, and long legs. Your dad and I were amazed since you’d never drawn anything like it before and asked you to draw another one. You politely refused and said “I’m going to draw this instead.”

When you were done drawing, you showed us your picture. “Is that a monster?” we asked, a little disappointed that it looked nothing like the first picture, but none the less ready to dole out the praise. “Nope, it’s a lil boy poopin…see his pink part?” And it was a remarkably accurate drawing of the male anatomy. I gave your father a pleading look not to laugh, and he managed to hold it together until after you left the room. He was very proud of you. Although I was also suitably impressed, I had visions of explaining to you that some things we should save to draw at home and not in church. Why would that be an issue? Well, some of the things I’ve had to say in church this year include “Yee-haw, honey (not Ji’had)” or “Ocean, Z, it’s Oh-SHIN.” And my favorite “Truck, honey…with a T. Ttttuuurrrrrrrrr-uck.”

Speaking of church…this whole religion thing has been kind of difficult for you to grasp. We go to church and we sing songs. That’s fun, right? Then this guy stands up there and talks, and that’s kind of boring, and also the best time to get mom’s attention since I’m not busy singing. But then Christmas rolls around…and there’s this magic guy who can apparently spy on you to know if you’ve been naughty or nice…kinda like Jesus… and well, we sing songs about him too…and you’ve seen him, a couple of times, actually, at the mall, at the grocery store, at the unit where Daddy drills. I mean, you can’t really miss him, he’s there in a big red suit…and then Christmas day rolls around and he left you these AWESOME gifts! Is it any wonder that when the sirens go off and you say “Say a prayer, mumma, say a prayer so that those little guys don’t gunna get hurt.” And I do, and I end it with “in Jesus name we pray.” Your reaction is an immediate and enthusiastic fit because I’m praying to the worng deity…again… “Nooo! Ask SANTA! Not Jesus, ask SAAAAAAANNNNNNNTTTAAAAAA!”

I think you’ve finally given up chiming in “And Santa” at the end of bedtime prayers. You also gave up your crib and most of your afternoon naps. This has made things difficult between us sometimes. You see, you still really need a nap, you just don’t want to take one. As a result, you will go from happy to apoplectic toddler sized tantrum-seizures in less than ten seconds. I’m still trying to figure out how to cope with those.

You used to crawl into bed with me every morning when you woke up. Now, you stop at my bedroom door long enough to close it (in a way that you think is quiet and sneaky because, honestly, I’m just pretending to be asleep because I love watching you try out your different stealth tactics). You trundle down the hall and spend a few moments unsupervised…a prospect that terrifies everyone who knows you.

Unsupervised is not a state you should be in right now. One memorable occasion when I thought you were playing quietly upstairs in your bedroom, you were actually dismantling the vacuum cleaner just to see how it worked. I have learned that it takes you less than 10 minutes to create an Alice in Wonderland pile of throw pillows, toys, and couch cushions to make your way over the baby gate to the kitchen where you can monkey climb up the pull out drawers to the counter and put DVDs in the toaster to watch them melt. Watching fire safety videos only seems to be effective for about a week.

You’ve “cooked” breakfast for the cats which included dish soap in their water dish and flour in their food bowl. You cannot pass a dishwasher without pushing the start button in much the same way you cannot be out in public without wanting to use every bathroom…several times…just to make sure it works the same as. “See, it has a drain, mumma. There’s a toilet and a sink, mumma. Will the roll-it paper (toilet paper) go down the drain? Will that toilet get broken?”

Ah, yes…the amount of things you have flushed down the toilet to see what will flush and what will not has kept me on my toes all year. Cardboard, toilet paper, bottle caps, and shampoo all flush. Shampoo is the most fun because it will suds up. Rubber duckies will not flush. But, while mom is in the shower, you can climb into the kitchen, steal the soup ladel, then make chicken soup in the toilet using rubber ducks and shampoo. You will line your rubber ducks up, tell them they are in time out for peeping in the bathtub (going potty), then ask them which one is going to make chicken soup. You play so well by yourself and with other children.

You have a surprising amount of friends for a child who doesn’t go to daycare. There were 11 children at your birthday party and we had three of your friends that weren’t even able to make it. The part that your father and I get a kick out of is that every single girl you spend time with is blonde! Even Grandpa has noticed that you gravitate toward the toe-heads.

Grandpa is still one of your best friends. And I am so thankful for the time you’ve been able to spend with him. A year ago at this time…well, things seemed far less certain. It’s been nothing short of a miracle that has kept him in our lives. You are so lucky to be able to go on tractor rides with Grandpa and help make cakes with Grandma. I will never forget that overwhelming joy and gratitude I felt watching you catch lightning bugs in jelly jars with Grandma and picking wild blackberries with Grandpa last summer. You and Grandpa walk all around the yard checking on the status of things. Wild mulberries and blackberries growing at the edge of the property line. Pumpkins growing in the garden. Flowers, tomatoes, squash, cucumbers, sweet corn, Grandpa and Grandma have shown you the miracle of how things grow from the soil and then feed our bodies so we can grow big and strong.

This year, you have your own garden. It’s a little corner of Grandpa’s, but you’ve already planted radishes in it. You helped transplant the tomatoes into bigger pots, and the sunflowers too. You’re not the most delicate yet, but you are far less ham-fisted than you were last year. You have so much love for all things, plants, animals, music, books. You would still rather be read to than watch TV. I could go on for fifty more pages recounting all the amazing things you’ve done. Instead, I’ll end here with a list of your favorites.

Song: You call it the Big Bang song. The rest of us call it “In the Hall of the Mountain King” from Peer Gynt. You will listen to it as many times as I will play it for you and still cry when after 30 minutes I’ve had enough and play something else.

Book: Fox in Socks by Dr. Seuss. I’m glad you like it, but I hope you find a new book to like soon because both your father and I have a terrible time reading that book.

Game: You like to “cook” with your play kitchen. You like to play musical instruments. You have empty paper towel rolls and candle holders that you have made into your trumpets. You have a recorder that was possible the worst decision I could have made since it causes me no end of ear splitting headaches, but you call it your flute or your whistle and you love it. You have turned many pots and storage containers into drums and beat on them with wooden spoons, but Auntie Michelle finally bought you a real one (bless her) and you love it. And your klanger-banger that you’ve had since you were six months old (piano/xylophone).

Activity: You much prefer gymnastics over church and playground. I think specifically, the trampoline.

Food: Dora or Scooby snacks. You don’t really have a favorite meal. You’ve been known to ask for spinach salads and yogurt for dinner as well as hot dogs and macaroni. You try most foods and you like most foods unless they have a funny texture. You’re not a fan of shrimp and you’re not a fan of squash soup. So far, those are the only two foods you will not eat.

Movie: Toy Story 3. When you first got your glasses, that movie came out in 3D. I took you to the theater to show you that everybody wears glasses and it’s really cool. You went on to break 4 pairs of glasses, once completely beyond repair, and lost two pairs entirely. The number of money and time we’ve spent at the optometrist’s this year is probably enough to cover one semester of college. Remember that when you spend your tuition money on beer instead. Also Harry Potter. You love harry Potter almost as much as “Light Buzz Year” and Woody.

You’re really starting to get this human thing figured out. You’ve moved from not quite a baby, yet not quite a child, into a full blown little boy. You’re a real little person now. You express your emotions, your fears, your wishes. You show love and compassion along with mischief and curiosity. I can’t wait to see what Three will bring.

Abby pushed a stray lock of thick black hair behind her ear. The rest stayed securely in its pony tail. She looked out of almond shaped eyes from under a heavy fringe of bangs at the place she would call home for the next four weeks. The Zoeng Wing of Luna City had a pleasant mezzanine gallery from which to view two of the other six wings of the complex and the entire southern expanse of Maria Tranquillitas. Most important to Abby, as she made her way through the crowd of gawkers, workers, scientists, and tourists, to the front of the gallery, was that in exactly two minutes she would see her very first earthrise.

The view out the massive floor to ceiling transparent wall showed the Arthur Annex and the Kapur Wing extended at sixty degrees like giant white tubular arms ending in bubbled domes of reflected gold. Abby never let the significance of a moment pass and to her, the archaic and efficient architecture looked welcoming; outstretched as if to embrace the Earth, or the future, or progress, or maybe all three of these. Well, at least Zoeng Corporation’s version of them. Also viewable, though not as close was an entirely different looking building. One whose graceful spire and delicate seashell fractals made Luna City look clumsy and overbearing by comparison.

Independent of any corporate conglomerates or government pacts, the pristinely elegant spire of St. Ignas Monastic Retreat’s cathedral Prima de Luna, jutted out of the rock face a kilometer or so away from the complex. Abby could just make out the words Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam gleaming a bronze that would never tarnish in the sunlight and arched around what looked like a large stained glass window. It looked like a stained glass window if you only glanced at it, but upon closer inspection you could see the fluidity and organic motion of the solar winds ionizing on the surface of the entrance. Unlike Luna City’s brute force method of keeping its population safe behind layers of protective tiles and plates, Prima de Luna employed the more modern magnetic shields that were unavailable at the time of Lunar City’s construction. The result was stunning. Like God’s breath fogging up glass church doors, creating its own celestial aurora. Off over the horizon, a half sphere of marbled blue and white and brown was just resting over the tip of the cathedral.

Earthrise didn’t happen like a sunrise back home. The moon rotated at a much slower rate than the earth and therefore always kept one side facing home. A constant vigil, watching ice ages, the come and go of dinosaurs, the rise and fall of empires, and humanity spring forth on tiny flickering candles they called rockets. It cared not whether you were on time for work or who was elected to office. It was here, where it had always been in humanities memory, still relatively pristine even as the creeping fingers of progress clawed their way across the surface.

There was no magnificent fiery ball peeking up over the horizon slowly climbing higher in the sky. For all it appeared from Abby’s perspective, the moon stood still while the Earth spun like a gigantic slow top. Earthrise was the slow crawl of the terminator as the earth moved during it’s natural rotation…and this was the first time she would watch the sun’s light creep over her home from the other side.

Abby’s fingers curled around the guard rail as she tamped down a little crescendo of excitement. She was here, watching the earthrise. Watching earthrise! She made it. Incomprehensible that she should be here, yet here she definitely was, gazing at things she’d only seen in documentaries. For the first time in her life, she was off Terra Firma and staring back at it.

Had an amazing dream Friday afternoon after I got off the phone with Rick Amato. I dreamed that there were two women, an older one and a younger one, there was a mother/daughter type of relationship between them though I don’t know if they were really mother and daughter. They had been living with two bad men, trapped with them, unable to get them out of their lives. Finally the police arrested them and the women were overjoyed because they were free of the men at last. But the other people in the town we lived in (which happened to be Wyoming) ostracized them. They wouldn’t even talk to the women because the bad men’s reputation was a stigma to them.

I walked up to them and embraced them. At that moment, a swat team with faces fully covered in some sort of futuristic gas mask thing, started repelling down from the above along with long black garbage bags being dropped from helicopters. They grabbed us and at first I thought we were in some kind of trouble but they were escorting us off the property so the house could be sprayed for insects and decontaminated. It wasn't safe to be around that house anymore, though I got the distinct impression that it was meant to get the women away from their previous lives of being trapped with bad men.

I invited the two women back to my house. I was nervous about what the neighbors would say but they had no where to go. My house was also covered in this circus tent of black garbage bags. I was surprised because I didn’t think there was anything wrong with my house. When I moved the flap aside to get to my front door, I also invited my next door neighbors in, Peter, Meagan, and the two girls. They didn't mind at all that these two women were with me. The kids rushed into the house and I was nervous that all the fumes from the fumigation hadn’t cleared yet since there was still a big trash bag over my house…but when I looked in my home, it had been completely remodeled!

The floors were all tile in richly gradient squares of granite. I walked through the split-level entrance of house to this sort of court yard in the back yard. Everything about this house said comfort and maybe not luxury like the rich and famous, but luxury to me! There was an elaborately shaped pool with Jacuzzi and “waterfall”. There pool was partially shaded by a faux roof (like what a car port might look like, except this was done in wood and bamboo with palm leaves for the roof). There was a walking out area from the house where a stone half circle contained a grill and a bar. Thenthere were twosteps down that lead to the multi tiered pool.

The children were chasing each other around the pool. My husband and sister were there along with her husband and son. I couldn’t believe this was my house. My husband gave me a big hug and told me that it was really our house. I had this overwhelming feeling of joy and love and not exactly euphoria but definitely bliss.

I know I haven’t been easy to live with the last few weeks. It was so scary for you when I went to the hospital. It was so scary for you to see all those people around me and all those tubes and wires hooked up to me. I’m sorry you had to see me like that.

I know my mommy patience has been non-existent lately. And I know you don’t understand anything about hormone levels, or post-partum blues, or even really understand that there was a baby in my belly that was going to be your little brother and now there’s not. So I know it scares you a little when I get angry at you for just doing the normal stuff you do…or cry because you won’t let me put on your shoes. I know you have been very confused and frustrated because of all this and I’m so sorry.

I just want you to remember one thing when you’re older, and telling your therapist about this time in your life. While we were at the park on 4^th of July and I felt that initial explosion of pain…I suspected right away what had happened. Then, while we were in the car waiting for the rain to stop, I was pretty sure I knew what had happened. I knew I should have your daddy take me to the hospital right then and there. Instead, I made him take me to Grandma and Grandpas, and then promise that he would take you back to the park to watch the fireworks.

I especially didn’t want you to miss that experience. You have never missed a celebration from the time you were born, and now that you’re old enough to remember them, I did not want to take it away from you. I wanted you to see the sky bright with glowing sparkles. I wanted you to remember the smell of Legion popcorn and the sour sweet taste of 4-H lemonade.

Things are rough right now kiddo and I feel terrible about it. Two is hard enough without all this additional scary stuff…but hang in there. It’ll get better. I promise.

All is quiet in the house. The neighborhood is sound asleep. I stand on my front steps, holding the door open and looking at masterpieces. Mandalas in their own right, crafted by ten tiny hands in a tiny team effort. Flowers and frogs, and fish, and waves, and lightning, and barns, and clouds, and long red planets, and stars, and french fries all wrap me in color. The cat pads across the yard, through the flower garden, up the steps, and tramples over the drawings leaving little colored tracks on the untouched portions. I look again and think the only thing missing is an arm draped over my shoulder and a chest to lean against. With an intense feeling of connectedness, of tiny little love tendrils ensconcing me, and knowing completely that all is right and well in my small corner of the world, I close and lock the door, flip the yard light, and follow the meows to the kitchen.

It’s been a hell of a week. It started out with torrential down pours spoiling my yard work plans, then getting puked on by my two-year-old, followed by several days of cleaning up what said two-year-old has named “sphincter soup”. The cats are on a litter box protest because through a completely random incident involving Red Box and a movie I STILL haven’t returned, my husband went to VA for the week with my ATM card. I’ve been feeding them dog food for the last two days and they’ve been showing their appreciation for being rescued from the animal shelter and quite possible euthanization by leaving big steaming piles IN FRONT of their litter box. I suppose I could just suck it up and write a check…but wait…the ENTIRE box of checks has gone missing (last seen in the hands of Mr. Sphincter Soup).

Yesterday was sunny and beautiful and gorgeous. And I spent all afternoon with my son outside. We played hop-scotch and we watered the cedar bushes, and we picked beautiful flowers (See a boo-foh fower, mumma? See a fower?), and we drew pictures with sidewalk chalk. And then the landscapers showed up at my neighbor’s house and took out their cedar bushes. Huh, seems like an awful lot of trouble to go through landscapers to pull up a few bushes. And I looked at my cedar “shrubs” (which after two years of neglect are each roughly the size of a minivan) and I remembered all the nice little packages I have from Henry Fields just waiting to be planted in the ground. I bet I could pull those out. How hard could it be?

So, I pulled out the electric hedge trimmers and went to town. Let me just say that although electric hedge trimmers look like a little chain saw…it is not, in fact, a chain saw. And in round 1 of Melissa vs. the cedar shrubs, the shrubs won. Now, the front lawn is covered in tree shrapnel, I’m sweaty and gross, and the shrubs are not really looking any worse for wear. Time to regroup. I needed a saw.

I needed a saw but what I had was a multi-tool. Maybe if I went one branch at a time…it would still take me until Christmas to cut the darn things out and I’d still have the root problem to contend with. Round two of Melissa vs. the cedar shrubs goes to the shrubs.

What would I do if I were still living in the country? Well, for starters, any rural Iowan worth their salt would have a chainsaw. Since I am no longer a rural Iowan, and my hedge trimmers could never be mistaken for a chainsaw, I decided to hook a chain around the shrub and pull it out with my car. I’ve seen tree stumps pulled out of ground by tractors before. Surely a few overgrown cedar shrubs would pose no problem.

By the time I’d backed my car up on to the front lawn and hooked the neon orange ratchet straps around the base of the shrub (did I mention no chain either) and secured the other end to the frame of my car I’d gathered an audience. Great. Half my neighbors were on their front lawns gawking at the crazy lady in her husband’s tennis and welder’s gloves. Not wanting to look like a bigger ass than I already did, I go into the house to get a second opinion.

“Is Dad there?” I ask my mom.

“Nope,” she tells me in her Yooper accent, “He’s gone mushrooming with Jerry Andresen.”

“Damn.”

“What’s a matter?” and when I tell her the story, she says “Gees oh Pete, why don’t you just dig it out?” Dig it out? Right. Had she not seen these shrubs??? I have to be able to get to it first and right now the blood dripping down my arm and spiders in my hair is enough not to make me want to go anywhere near it with a shovel.

“Do you think the car thing will work?” I ask her.

“Worth a try.” She tells me, “But why don’t you wait until your husband is home, this is sort of a man’s job anyway.” Because I’m an independent woman who can handle things on her own and I am not going to admit defeat to a cedar shrub, that’s why! I thank her for her words of encouragement, go out and start up the car.

See, there’s a problem with that. The 1.8L of my adorable little girly Nissan Cube doesn’t quite have the same power of a ‘65 Farmall. It started to work. The shrub was coming up slowly but surely, teasing me, getting my hopes up. And then the wheels on my car began to spin. And no matter what angel I tried it from, the damn shrubs refused to be uprooted. The crowd of onlookers had grown since my conversation with my mother. None of them were offering a chain saw…or a ’65 farmall.

I turned off the engine, went out, inspected the damage. Roughly ¼ of the shrub had been pulled out of the ground, the rest held firm. With a sigh, I unhooked the ratchet strap. With what little dignity I had left, I gathered up the welding gloves, slipped my bare feet back into my husband’s size 12’s, put the car back into the drive and inspected the shallow ruts I’d left on my front lawn. Disappointed that the show was over, the neighbors went back to their yard work and lawn mowing and I thought about how embarrassing this was and that really, what good is having a husband if he can’t even pull out a few cedar shrubs for me. I decided to call my mom back.

“Epic fail.” I told her and hung up.

UPDATE: After a Redbull and a shower, I decided to try a different strategy using the ratchet straps and the car. Instead of taking the entire thing out at once, I decided to do it in pieces. You'll be thrilled to know, it worked like a charm. That baby popped out like grease from a skillet. First one of you smart alecks to tell me how I should have done it gets an uprooted cedar shrub and tire marks on your front lawn.

Getting from one to two was hard work. There was this whole business of learning how things work. Learning that feet can get you places and things have names. Learning that some things make you happy and some things make you sad. Learning that you have walking feet and running feet. You have an inside voice and an outside voice. There are so many amazing things you can do!

You know a lot more than five words now. You know too many words for me to count. And you know some words that amaze me! Like the word “terrorist”, when you pointed to the helicopter flying overhead. I don’t know where you learned that word and how you made the association with a helicopter, but it broke my heart. Then there are the funny words you know, that you use to name things. My favorite is still “breakfast flower and toes” for your first fried egg with toast.

Then there was the time we were looking at that beautiful and priceless temple rubbing from Angkor Watt that hangs above the dining room table. I remember thinking that when I was your age, I thought it was a picture from Disney’s “The Jungle Book”. And I would listen to the story on the record player and fall asleep and the picture would come to life. But you look at that picture and you see the elephants (“elepheee!”) and you see the wheels (“circle!”)…and then you look at the two women squatting down drinking from water skins in the middle of the picture and say “Pooping!!! Pooping!!!” and I can’t help but laugh.

I love that now you know who Santa is. I remember that while we were at the grocery store, you were throwing a tantrum and I told you to be good because I thought I saw Santa. Then, while we were in line, a bearded man wearing a red coat stood behind us and you breathed in amazement “Santa!” and were completely awestruck, even though you didn’t learn until a few days later why Santa was so special.

I love that the first thing that you colored that was a real thing with a name was with yellow chalk on our front steps and you told me that it was “French fries”. I love that you can draw squiggles and wiggles and French fries. I love that for a while there, all lights were “moon” and that even though it’s scientifically accurate, you still call the sun “day star” instead of sun. I love that white is “star” and red is “fire hot” and blue is “water” and yellow is “French fry” and brown is “poop”. What is a little more embarrassing is when we go to the grocery and you say “Mumma! Mr. Poop! Mr. Poop!” because you have noticed for the very first time that people can come in different colors.

I love that you want to know what everything is. I love that you even have a sense of humor about it. You asked a few months ago “Ussat? Ussat?” while pointing to a jungle book. “Hippopotamus.” I told you, and you looked at me in all your wisdom and skepticism and said, “Silly Mom! Ussat?” “It’s called a hippopotamus.” I told you again. You laughed, like it was the funniest joke you’d ever heard. “Silly Mom! Silly pot-um-puss!”

You love to read. You are perfectly content to nap with Teddy and Pizza (another teddy bear) and read them your books. You have had two favorite toys this year too. While Teddy has been a constant companion of yours since you were almost 6 months old, and Pizza more recent, I’m sorry to embarrass you by saying this…but you still love your purse. You love to put things in it and take them back out. You love to put mommy’s makeup brushes in the purse and a comb and for a little while you had 4 Q-tips. Now we’ve progressed to adding crayons. You didn’t even want to go out to dinner without your purse and you insisted on carrying it in looped over your elbow.

Also, you love to dance. You spent hours asking for “Eeeecey!” Beyonce’s “All the Single Ladies” is your favorite song. You can’t help but dance. You even practiced her moves, kicking your legs when she does, squatting down to the floor when she does…but for the most part, you just march around in circles.

On car rides, you sing. You sing these A-tonal songs with words you have made up that sound almost like real words. You love to sing. My favorite part of the car ride is if I sing a song and you join in with you own sweet little toddler tune.

Your best friend is still Grandpa. You sometimes wake up from a nap and ask to see Grandpa. You talk about him and talk to him. You share your treasures with him and snuggle with him a nd ride on the tractor with him. You like Grandma too. You like to show me pictures of people you know and name them. “Gumpa! Gumma! Logi! Chelle! Alec! Willy! Daddy!!!”

And you miss your daddy so much when he has to go away for work. But we’re very lucky. Some little boys have fathers that drive truck, or work on ships, or are doctors or in the military other professions that take them away from their families for very long periods of time. They get to see their daddy or mommy even less. But this is just the way it is right now, and although we all wish we could spend more time together, the time we do have is golden and priceless.

There are so many many things I would like to tell you! You are just like your mom and dad in so many respects. You are stubborn and creative and logical. You have endless curiosity! You love your kitties and your puppies even though, for the most part they are terrified of you (except Ernie who will tolerate you for about 30 seconds before he puts his paw on your face and warns you to back away or the claws will come out).

I have worries, like every mother, that there are some things I could be doing better. I want only the best things for you, and believe it or not, sometimes I’m not very good at being a mommy. I feel so bad if I have yelled at you when I could have simply redirected your activities. I feel terrible when we have our battles of will; when time-out is no longer about whatever infraction caused it in the first place, but your refusal to say you are sorry. It makes me sad for you when I have a migraine and Daddy is on the road so you spend half the day playing in your crib and the other half with a mommy who just wishes you could play quietly and not get into trouble.

I may not be the perfect mom, but I’m a good mom…And even though I don’t have infinite amounts of mommy patience, I do have infinite amounts of love for you. Your daddy and I both do. So happy birthday, my son, and good luck. I hear getting from two to three is even harder…but don’t worry, you don’t have to do it on your own. I’ll be here to help you and so will Daddy.

I am alone again in my dark room. It is not really a room, but seems more like the set of a stage with no ceiling just open air up to a multitude of stars. The room itself is industrial, cold and all the shades of brown and gray and black. There is a mechanical spider clicking away in the corner. Sometimes the spider sits in my head, casting black scribbles of web, trying to trap me, trying to ensnare me. Making my thoughts get stuck and turning them black and squiggly. But this time the spider is just clicking in the corner, banging up against the wall like a children’s wind up toy. Up above there are still the silent watchers, the raven winged angels. They watch me, they wait. They offer no comfort or solace. They circle above quietly waiting for something. I love them and hate them at the same time. There is a phone here. It’s one of the old fashioned wooden phones, one of the first. It doesn’t ring, but I pick it up anyway. There is nothing but static on the line.

After being scared out of my ever loving mind watching Pontypool (a movie that took a page from the book Snow Crash where the zombie virus is spread by words), I sought the comfort of a nice, safe, good old fashioned, non-infections, no zombies here chat with my dear husband.

I'm on day 2 of crazy dreams! I'm not sure why I've been having all these super psycho dreams lately, except that perhaps it's because my son has been sleeping extra longer than usual so I've actually been getting a full nights rest for the first time since he was born! Well, here's last nights:

Today's crazy dream: I was wearing a multicolored pea coat (cirque de Collin Baker) and on a school bus in Thailand with Mom, sis, and my entire graduating HS class. We were allowed to stop and go our own way for several hours. Mom and Michelle came with me to play tourist. I didn’t speak Thai but apparently I spoke enough Japanese to get around.

Michelle started arguing with me telling me that I couldn’t speak Japanese and to stop pretending. No matter what proof she was presented with, she still wouldn’t believe me and continued to yell. Even as we entered a beautiful Buddhist temple (whose fountain of water flowing down steps with lilies and orchids floating on top still stick in my mind as being one of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever “seen”) where people were meditating and I begged her to be quiet, she refused. People got upset with us and disgusted with our appalling behavior and I was embarrassed. Mom and Michelle told me I was being ridiculous for being embarrassed and then Mom yelled at me for arguing with my sister and causing a scene. Finally, it was time and we got back on the bus.

We got stuck in a traffic jam and everyone rushed to the windows to see what was causing such an uproar. The entire planet was under attack by giant vampire bats and everyone in Thailand was fleeing the city (which apparently bordered San Francisco and Galveston Texas). Huge bat people tried to peal off the top of the bus to "get us". While I was filming the bat attack, a smaller bat got in the bus and flew up my sleeve. After a heart pounding struggle, we managed to take the coat off and kill the chompy batty thing before it gnawed my arm to pieces.

There was a big argument on the bus over how to properly dispose of the batty body. Some insisted that this interstellar event was all just a big misunderstanding and we needed to dispose of the body with all the dignity and respect it deserved. That argument seemed to win, so we set about with an arts and crafts project of making crosses and epitaphs. Mine read “Dear bat, if you hadn’t tried to kill me, I wouldn’t have killed you. Hope you’re happy. The end.” It was toted as being inappropriate and disrespectful by my classmates. I gave them the finger and used it anyway.

I went to dispose of the bat’s body and was attacked by a pack of dogs. Luckily my classmates came to my rescue which actually kind of surprised me since the Giant bats were still trying to rip the top of the bus off like a sardine can and the smaller bats were swarming everywhere like a fleet of carriers during a Protos invasion (video game reference to my non-gamer friends). I distinctly remember thinking that if I were in their position, I would just leave my sorry ass and they were really dumb for risking everyone to help me. Yet I was relieved (if not grateful) that they came back to rescue me (after all, if they hadn’t insisted on the damn proper burial, I would never have been in that situation). They were actually debating going back to finish the disposal of the bat that I had killed when I was finally able to reason with them “F the dead bat! It was a stupid idea anyway! Get back on the Fing buss and let’s the the F out of Dodge!!!” (hrm…apparently post apocalyptic dreams make me use bad language).

So, we get back on the bus and make our way out of Thailand and into Texas. We’re marginally safer now. We discover that being bitten by one of the big vampire bat things turns you into a sort of Zombie slave that shares a collective conscious, so it’s really important not to be seen by any of the bats or bitten people. In other words, you mess with one bean, you get the whole burrito. We pick up a native American father and son. I was vastly disappointed when the father, who I suspected was supposed to fulfill the role of spiritual guide on our journey died at the first gas station we stopped at to refuel (incidentally, the gas station was run by the bridge troll for the Golden Gate bridge—doesn’t every bridge have a troll?). We knew we just needed to make it across the Golden Gate Bridge and we’d be fine. We were going to make a madcap run for it, and that’s about the time I woke up from the dulcet tones of my son screaming that he was “All done! All done! ALL DONE!!!!!” with bedtime.

There is a spider that lives inside my head. He’s a mechanical thing of shiny surgical instruments and dull gray gunmetal. Each of his eight needle sharp legs is barbed with razor thorns instead of the fuzz of steel wool. He casts a black web where he treds across my brain, dredging up dark dreams and distorted visions. Each tiny little pinprick of its pointy little leg sinks into my frontal lobe and causes an explosion of pain while white and black flecks dance across eyes. He steps on this neuron then that and tricks my nostrils into thinking they’re filled with the odor of rotten oranges or feral cats. It can take days to snap free from his black web, the mechanical machination is elusive. There is a spider that lives inside my head. His name is Migraine.

Oh the drama of being almost two! The constant frustration and disappointment! My son has pretty much been screaming and crying since Sunday. Mostly, he’s frustrated because he can’t do what he wants to do. His motor skills need of fine tuning and he has suicidal toddler tendencies (like cat walking on the window ledge while I’m trying to shovel the drive) that send Mommy’s heart into palpitations while visions of the ER dance through her head. It’s been frustrating for all parties concerned.

As the week progressed, I went from being good mommy to a taxed mommy to a Dear God give me the patience to endure and keep my son alive and also a nice strong margarita mommy. It hasn’t helped that my son has been exposed to some new emotions this week that he’s previously been unable to express. Fear. I inadvertently scared the crap out of him when I took the car through the automated wash. He covered his eyes and made worried moaning noises the entire time making the 5 minute car wash seem like 5 hours.

Also, humiliation. It was not my intent. My intent was a simple time out for emptying his bath water one cup at a time onto the bathroom floor. I didn’t think it could possibly matter to him that he happened to be naked since that seems to be his preferred state these days. So he went in the time out chair completely in the buff. For two minutes (the duration of a time out) he screamed “Diaper! Diaper!” and covered his bottom with his hands. Now, in my defense, it would have taken two minutes to put a diaper on him and I was busy cleaning the water up off the floor, so I didn’t realize he was feeling embarrassed and vulnerable until the timer went off and I came to get him out of time out.

Now there have also been two nights in a row where he’s been up every hour with bad dreams, a tummy ache, a dirty diaper, a kitty hair on his finger, a little toe uncovered, his head too close to the top or bottom of the crib, wants a drink of water, wants a song, wants a story, his 5^th chakra out of alignment, and his lay lines running parallel to his tantrum blocker. Yes, this is one frazzled mommy and one cranky little boy. One very cranky little boy who tries so hard to be good but temptation is just too much.

This morning, as he was practicing his high wire walk on the arm of a wing-back, I hollered at him to get down. Out of frustration he grabbed a glass, which is only accessable if he stands on the arm of the wing back and probably explains what he was doing there in the first place, and threw it to the ground. Of course it shattered into a million pieces and as my son scrambled to get down and make a run for it (from the loud noise as much as the trouble he was about to be in), I completely lost my temper. I yelled at him for putting himself in a dangerous situation, for the possibility that he could have fallen and broken a bone, I yelled at him for getting into things he wasn’t supposed to, I yelled at him for throwing things, I yelled at him for the glass breaking.

I must have been so scary with my pointy finger and my voice louder than I’d ever heard it. My poor son covered his eyes in fear and I realized that he was scared of me. It was a horrible feeling. He’s so tiny and little and vulnerable and he’s supposed to never ever be afraid of Mommy! Afraid of getting in trouble, yes, afraid of Mommy, absolutely not! I picked him up and hugged him and tried to make amends but the whole time I just kept thinking…do over…there should be a do over.