A Day in the Life of Us. . .

The television is on right now.  Again.  Still.  In fact, the television is on way more than I'd like to admit lately.  I am tired - beyond tired.  I am exhausted, mentally, physically, emotionally.  If I can manage to drag my butt out of bed in the morning, I call it a success.  If I can manage to get the kid breakfast and juice, woo-hoo!  And if I can manage to choke down some cereal to prevent the Return of the Nausea, it's time to party.  And by party, I mean sleep.  But, since I have a three-year-old tornado-boy, I can't sleep.  So, I turn on the television and vegetate in the chair, trying to figure out things like "Is Sir Toppam Hat's first name Toppam?  If so, why does one of the characters call him Bertram from time to time?  And either way, who the hell named their kid Toppam?  Or Bertram?  And why doesn't Lady Hat have a first name?  The dude gets two first names, but his wife doesn't even warrant one?"  And so on.  Because I have seen entirely too much Thomas the Tank Engine recently.

At some point, I have to pause in my pondering of children's tv shows because Miles craps his pants, and I have to clean him up, and clean out his underwear, and reassure him that I don't hate him.  The kid has this complex that if I tell him 'poop goes in the toilet', he hears, "You pooped your pants, so I will never love you again."  So, I gag as I clean up poop, and then I cuddle a sobbing toddler for half an hour until he figures out we're okay.

Eventually, he decides he's bored of sad, and pushes himself out of my lap - using every elbow, knee, and other pointy bit he has.  As a side note?  This kid seems to have twice as many angles as other kids.  And they always end up in my gut.  Repeatedly.  Sigh.

Lunchtime always comes, somehow, and I fight the battle of "What will you eat today?"  The conversation goes something like this:

Me: Do you want soup?
Miles: No.  No soup.
Me: Rice?
Miles: No rice.
Me: Chicken nuggets?
Miles: No chicken chunks. [He insists on calling them chicken chunks, which makes me think of puke, every time.  Gross.]
Me: Pancakes?
Miles: No.
[Repeat, ad nauseum]
Me: What do you want to eat?
Miles: Ummmm. . .  SOUP!

So, I make him soup, and he eats two bites and declares it 'Yucky' and decides he wants fruit snacks for lunch.  Cue tantrums, as I try to convince him to eat the soup first.  Repeat.  Meanwhile, I'm looking for toothpicks to prop my eyes open. . .

Then, comes my favorite time of day: Naptime.  Through LOOOOOOONG months of arguing, fussing, yelling, sobbing, fighting, screaming, and general horribleness, Miles now lays down quietly, asks for a song (or more often "No sing, Mommy.  No sing."), and I tuck him in and go to bed myself.  The only complaint I have is that naptime is never long enough.  As soon as I shut my eyes, Miles is bouncing on the bed, full of energy to start again.

I drag myself out of bed again, and we go straight to the television again, so I can continue pondering the intricacies of the Island of Sodor, and try to wake my brain enough to function.

All I can say is: Thank God for Netflix.  Sigh.

Dear Miles,

Today, you officially turned three years old.  You haven't been my baby for awhile yet, but now, even toddlerhood is becoming a memory.  Today, you officially enter the 'preschooler' age range.  As of today, I can no longer deny that you are growing up far more quickly than I ever could have imagined.  You are a full-fledged kid, where once you were a cuddly, squishy baby.

You have come so far already, and I am proud of what you are becoming.  You are fascinated by your world, and especially the letters, numbers, words, and stories that make it up.  You have known your letters for ages, but now, you know their signs, their sounds, and you are beginning to understand that letters become words.  You randomly spout things like, "S-T-O-P, Stop!" and "T-O-Y, Toy!"  You count to ten constantly, but you can count as high as fifteen without help, and easily to thirty with a minimal amount of prompting.  You count down from ten to one, before your rocket ships "Blast off!"  You're trying to figure out writing, but it eludes you, as it takes a patience and quiet that you have not yet learned.  I try to encourage you in all of this, all while thinking, Please, my baby, don't grow up too fast.

Life with you is like running a marathon - there are days that I can hardly keep up, and I'm fighting just to keep going, but when the day is done, I'm proud of how far we've come together.  You are so active, so physical in every way, and this poor non-athletic, nerdy mama of yours just doesn't know how to challenge you.  You run faster than most kids twice your age.  You can throw and catch a tennis ball without much effort.  You climb everything (but then, you've been doing that for ages).  You jump.  You roll.  You taught yourself to somersault.  You wrestle with your stuffed toys, and with your daddy, and you don't understand why mommy can't wrestle, too.

Someday, you will understand that I have to protect your little brother or sister, but for now, you are blissfully unaware of how much your life is about to change.  All you know is that Mommy is so tired, and kinda grumpy.  Being the sensitive child you are, you understand, in your way, and ask for cuddles and books and quiet things on my worst days.  And in this, I have found a side of you I never knew.  I never knew you could be the nurturer that you are.  When you ask, "Mommy, you okay?" or cuddle in just to say, "I love you," my heart swells to bursting with the pride and love for all that you are.

You, my child, are a walking (running) contradiction, at times.  Wild, yet gentle.  Demanding, yet generous.  My tornado, and my still water.  You are, in no uncertain terms, independent, yet you adore the company and interaction of others.  You are never timid, rarely reserved, and yet, you speak so little, except to us lucky few.

Part of that, however, is your speech, which has worried us a bit for a couple of months.  We worked on making you 'use your words' and slow down, thinking perhaps, that was all you needed.  As your third birthday approached, however, it became increasingly clear that you needed more than that.  Soon, now, you will have a speech screening and begin speech therapy classes.  We hope that, given a little help, you will be the chatterbox we can see you want to be.

My dear, loving, rambunctious boy, I love you with all of my heart.  I look forward to all of our adventures to come, and I am so thankful for each adventure we've faced so far.  You are a shining light to all who know you, and I am lucky and blessed to call you mine, at least for a little while longer.

Ever your champion, and your biggest fan,
Mommy

I'm Alive

ish.

Baby is fine.  Miles is. . .Miles, with all that implies.  Patrick is good, and possibly a saint for everything he does so I can be a laze-about groaning about my tummy.  The cat is highly amusing, in that she simultaneously adores Miles and is terrified by him.  Stacey is, I think, doing well.  I see her on occasion, so I'm sure she's at least still alive. Faire is exhausting.  Frankenstein (the Halloween show I agreed to assistant direct before I knew about this whole pregnancy thing) is exhausting.  Miles is exhausting.  Typing is exhausting.  I completely lost it and cried to Maestro yesterday about how exhausted I am (not really his fault, poor guy).  I'm that sort of exhausted where no amount of sleep helps.  It's just never enough.

And this week, I'm dealing with the emotional roller-coaster of realizing that my son, my wonderful, amazing baby boy, is no longer a baby.  Hell, he's not even a toddler anymore.  He is officially in the 'preschooler' age range, which we all know is a hop, skip, and a jump from graduating high school and moving out and getting married.  And pregnancy hormones mean I'm vacillating between sobbing madly at the thought that he's all grown up already, and sobbing, wondering when will he stop crapping his pants?!?  In any case, there's a lot of sobbing.

As if that weren't enough, an ultrasound last week made this pregnancy seem really real for the first time.  I'm going to be holding a little bundle of blankets and cuteness in a few months, which makes me all moony and wistful and excited.  And then it hits me that the bundle will also contain poop, and spit-up, and screaming sleeplessness, and I want to go hide in a corner and sob some more.

Pregnancy really does kinda suck.

Festival

It has started, and so, my 'social life' and 'free time' have all but evaporated.  I thought when we put Miles in school two days a week that it would help me get stuff done - like blogging on occasion, or I don't know, cleaning my house or something.

Um, not so much.

Because about the time Festival started, First Trimester also hit, in all of it's nauseous, exhaustion-inducing glory.  I nap.  And eat toast and other bland things.  And try not feel like I'm dying.

So if I don't post often - or at all - for the next few weeks, just know that I'm probably snoring instead. :)

The Trap of Mother's Day Out

Miles attends a Mother's Day Out program two days a week.  In theory, this gives me time to do all of the things that are difficult to do with a rowdy toddler in tow.  Usually, my to-do list looks something like this:

• Pick up a couple of items from the store
• Stop at the post office
• Make sweet tea, lemonade, etc for the week
• Bake cookies or other yummies
• Finish a dozen or so craft projects
• Clean the kitchen
• Vacuum the whole house
• Clean out Miles' room, and thin out his toy hoard
• Clean out the garage/basement
• Drop off items to be donated at Goodwill
• Do all of the laundry in the whole house
• Write blog posts
• Shower in peace
• Brush the cat
• Do some gardening
• Take a nice, long nap

Etc, etc, etc.  Often, my list goes on for pages beyond anything I could conceivably accomplish in a mere five hours.  And, in looking at the daunting to-dos, I get overwhelmed and my brain fries, and I lose all sense of what to do first.  So, instead, my 'Things Accomplished' list looks more like this:

• Go to store, pick up a dozen things we don't need and forget the one thing we do
• Drive past the post office with the intention to stop in later
• Make myself a quick lunch
• Sit in front of the television while I eat, and then get stuck there for the rest of the day.
• Try to do a load of laundry, a load of dishes, and vacuum the living room in the last half hour before I have to pick up Miles.

Sigh.  Apparently, I cannot be trusted to accomplish anything when left to my own devices. . . 

I'm just going to leave this here. . .

Friday Photos!

First Day of School - Wednesday

"I aim to misbehave" (ala Firefly)

Sir Miles Toppam Hat and Bear

Could he get any cuter? Oh, my.

Snuggles with Grandpa Troy

Chillin' with Great Grandpa