Cautionary Tales

Yesterday, Lu asked me what grade Trina taught, and I said, "Trina takes care of preschoolers and babies like Milo. What do you mean?" "Well, she works at a high school. Why are there babies at a high school?"

Why, indeed. As she asked this question, I was washing dishes and she was coloring, so I had some buffer time to formulate a response.

"Because sometimes the students have babies and they need someone to help take care of them while they're at school."

So. Many. Things. To. Say. About choices. About opportunity. About responsibility.  About promise. About maybe getting her on the Pill when she is six just to be safe.

But I got some great advice from my brilliant friend Steve, whose kids are now in/graduated from college and have not fathered any children that we know of: "Parenting is like being on the witness stand. Only answer the very question you are being asked. Kids are smart about asking for the information they need, when they need it."

My answer hung in the air for a few (dare I say it ) pregnant moments. Then she said, "Oh."

Every Which Way But Loose

Milo's communication skills are...limited, but improving. He's still below the composite verbal level of Clyde the Chimp, but does sweetly grunt about 20 word-like sounds. He's perfecting The Nod, approximately seven subtle variations of shaking his head, mostly in the yes direction, though he does have one very slow and hypnotic hybrid yes-no that I think he will be using to sell condos and woo ladies in the future. His default is a primate point-and-grunt/nod. He did this at dinner, gesturing desperately for more asparagus. Jason said, "He's like a foreigner."

Houston, We Have a Problem

Today on the way home from Girl Scouts, I was probing Lucy about what she wanted for Christmas (people have begun to ask). She said, "Well, I do have a Santa list, but the thing I really want is something only he can get me because they don't have it at the mall or it's probably too expensive for anyone to buy me." "What is it?"

"MOM, you KNOW, it's that flying machine I've been asking for. The space shuttle?!!"

"Oh."

Creative License

Today, as I put on my running shoes, I noticed that one of my socks had a face and some stripes drawn on it. In Sharpie. A reclaimed sock puppet, apparently. These moments are frequent. Lucy thinks everything in this house — be it a sock, a medical bill, my work notebook — is just material for her art. The other day she put together a car/"speeder bike" using a security dowel from one of our windows, an Ikea stool and many, many Band-aids. I cannot argue with her ingenuity. But after a cooking injury last week,  I did have to bandage myself with Scotch tape and some random gauze I found (given to us to treat Milo's circumcision scar?), because we had no Band-aids. Someone is going to suffer for her art.

Sometimes...

...after a happy morning, after you have dropped off your genius six-year-old at school filled with confidence about her upcoming spelling test, as you take the almost-not-a-baby out of his carseat at preschool and he smells like the apple cinnamon yogurt he ate for breakfast, like an apple dumpling you just want to eat up, you are struck by the perfection of your life. But it only happens sometimes.

Out of Warranty

You know how your car starts to spaz almost immediately after your warranty expires? And maybe a third of what's happening is just hypo-car-ndria: what is that noise? It's a belt. OMG, I CAN TELL BY ITS PITCH THAT IT'S A REALLY EXPENSIVE ONE. I think maybe that's what my body is doing now that we're on high-deductible individual health insurance.  I have been having neck pain, most likely related to an unfortunate desk set-up, bad posture, hauling Milo around, blogging from the couch, the usual spine-abusing activities. But over the course of last week, I started to be aware of numbness and tingling in my hands. Then more. Then my feet. Then some internet detective action. Friends, don't Google "hand numbness."

So, by the time I arrived in my doctor's office Friday, I was hysterical. They didn't help. They sent me for an MRI Saturday, which included "MS protocol" (comforting!) with contrast (why spare any expense?). While chatting up the tech during the scan, Maggie used her charms to ascertain that no, I don't have MS. Thanks: that will be $895 and one very frightening weekend.

Indeed, the MRI showed no MS, just some cervical disc protrusions, probably not causing my symptoms. The current plan is take Aleve for a couple of weeks and see if I can manage whatever inflammation is causing the numbness — a course of action I could have taken for less than the grand I've now spent finding out nothing.

Oh, and I have a toothache. And a nagging cough.

Milostones: Animal Sounds and Kisses

As this blog is the only form of baby book I am keeping, I need to record that as of Tuesday, Milo says the following animal sounds:

  • Cow (sometimes he just puckers his lips in a silent moo)
  • Sheep
  • Dog
  • Pig/Chicken (some kind of oink/bock hybrid)

He also gives kisses: if you request one, he will lean into you, then pull back with a dramatic "mwah!" Oh, and he definitely understands English. When you ask him to sit down and drink his water, he complies (somewhat), and he will toddle over and hug Ramona or Clifford when directed.

Did I mention he's the cutest baby ever? In case you don't believe me:

Oh, Hi. Yes, It's Me Under the Hat/Excessive Makeup.

I apologize in advance for my appearance. I am in this strange weather system of grooming, where I get caught in doldrums of solitude that don't require mascara...or bathing. Apparently, any sense of hygiene or dignity I possessed was dictated by social constructs that don't apply when you are alone at home with the words and the ideas and the dogs. I now know that dry shampoo really only cuts it for two days (and you can wear a hat for the third). I have explored the full definition of the term loungewear, and have an area in the drawer designated "sis, those are totally pajamas, mkay?" The people at the Starbuck's have seen worse. And I have accepted that I am gross now.

Except when I am CUTE. I use capital letters because they capture the desperation of my cuteness, a hurricane of effort to overcome the grooming deficit acquired over previous days. I put on perfume. And eyeliner. And too many bracelets. Because I am happy to see you!!!!!!!!!!!! (Punctuation, like makeup, fails when applied to excess.)

Don't get me wrong. This freelance life is so good. You will note a genuine, calm smile underneath the hat/dry shampoo or lipstick/foundation, depending on which day you see me. I just need to perfect the styling.