the land of meltdowns

Last week, A. and I crossed into the land of meltdowns (said with a booming voice) where storms can unleash with little warning. Our little helper — who loves to sweep, rubs down the floor with tissues and toddles to the trash can to throw away litter — gave me his first forceful “NO!” when I tried to change his diaper. It was accompanied by a little kick and I raised my eyebrow, like, “Really? You’re going to go there?”

In general, this kid is awesome. He wakes up in his crib and reads to his llama and owl for an hour. The other day I heard him counting. He giggles like crazy and has a new way of saying, “Hi!” that brightens up a room. He sings to himself, and says things like, “Mama, hat, on” when he wants me to put on a hat and “Book, couch” when he wants to read with me. He says “mama, nine” (that’s wine) and “papa, beer.” (Hmmmm…) He always says please (“peas”) and he grabs my face to give me kisses.

And now there is this budding streak of independence and “no” is his new favorite word. Last week, he tried to shake off my hand and run into the street. I grabbed him, jerked him to safety and made him look me in the eye while I told him why that wasn’t OK. Major Meltdown. (A few drivers flashed me sympathetic smiles.) He has a new fascination with outlets and crouches down to see if he can look into the wall. Cool! Electricity! He drags us objects to plug in and we shake our heads, “No, buddy, how about we don’t plug in the curling iron where you can step on it?” Meltdown. He loves the food processor plunger, but we decided that hey, maybe that’s not a great toy so let’s lock that cabinet. Meltdown.

He’s only 16 1/2 months, but I’m seeing a rapid change. It’s natural development and A. and I agree that we’d worry if he didn’t go through this stage. And, really, he’s so much easier than when he was an infant and I had a trillion hormones coursing through me and his cries made me want to crawl into a corner, curl into a ball and rock. So much easier.

But I’m getting prepared for this new stage: I plan to put on a heavy raincoat and boots AND carry an umbrella as we enter the land of meltdowns.

the hunt for friends ends in tehachapi

A. and I have been in Ridgecrest for nearly three months — long enough to make a few friends and get invited to poker night, a Super Bowl party and regular park dates. But, of course, it’s nothing like D.C., where our friends — some of whom we’ve known for almost 20 years — are just like family.

Over the weekend, we drove four hours to Atascadero to celebrate my 38-year-old cousin’s gradation from nursing school (go Angie!). On the way home, we stopped in the small railroad town Tehachapi to let C. run around a courtyard and play with snowballs. (Tehachapi is at 4,000 feet elevation.)

And there — there is where we met people. A whole group of smiley, happy people only an hour away. I have a feeling we’ll go back for their next party.

the things he carries

One thing that consistently has me giggling these days is catching C. carrying objects through the house. He’ll show up in the kitchen, where I’m drinking my coffee and reading the news, with my electric toothbrush or the trash can full of lint from the laundry room. It’s even funnier when the objects are twice his size or three times as long as him. And he’s on a mission to take the (insert object here) into nearly every room, toddling on unsteady legs. I mean he really concentrates: He furrows his brow, breathes hard and focuses so he doesn’t tumble and take the object with him. Here are some of the more surprising ones as of late that had me cracking up.

A full carton of chicken broth, carried upside down, away from the kitchen. Far, far away.

A tub of toys, including Q-tips found in a drawer in the bathroom.

For a while he was managing the broom and the Swiffer. He abandoned the Swiffer in haste.

Here he’s treating the wall as if it’s a lion and he’s a lion tamer.

He didn’t make it far without tumbling. Why? Zero visibility.

my little jokester: i’m in trouble

My parents ventured from Michigan to the final frontier (my new name for the Mojave desert) last Saturday for the week.

It’s been wonderful having them — lots of laughter and chatting. I was also busy taking care of a house full of four adults and a toddler. I made pots of minestrone, potato and cabbage soups. I grocery shopped daily, did several loads of laundry and wiped down the kitchen floor at least twice a day. My dad said yesterday, as I slid a baking sheet of potatoes into the oven, “Boy, you’ve really turned into a domestic goddess.” (If you knew me, you’d probably burst out laughing at this.)

Throughout the week, I let my parents soak up time with C. I also slipped out when I could for a run and a pedicure (first one since October).

This morning, my parents left to drive to the West coast, so C. had me all to himself. After lunch, I told him to run around and let me know when he was ready for his nap.

I was in the kitchen when I heard a door click close and a muffled “mama!” “mama!” He shut himself in the guest room. “C.!” I called. “Where’s C.?” I opened the door, and he giggled. Then he pushed the door shut again and waited for me to say, “C.! Where’s C.?” It became a game: I’d turn the knob, he’d emerge in a fit of giggles and run into my arms, hug me, turn and toddle back into the room.

We laughed really hard for about 15 minutes before he finally collapsed in my arms and signed that he wanted to nap. I think my little guy was happy to have me focused entirely on him once again.

Also, he’s such a jokester (check out some of these expressions), I can’t help but wonder when he’s going to start playing practical jokes on me. I think I’m in trouble. Deep, deep trouble.

nightly bath: a time to discover

A. usually gives C. his nightly bath. He fills the tub with warm water and bubbles and coaxes C. in by talking excitedly about his new boat. I love hearing A.’s quiet voice as he washes C., hunched over the tub even though his back hurts him. A. dutifully wipes down C.’s teeth and gums, even though C. sometimes resists. One time, A. got into the water with C. to mix it up.

A. was out of town this week, so I handled the baths. And C. was grabbing at himself. He pulled on his pecker and looked up at me so I would tell him what it’s called. “Penis,” I said, without even a hint of laughter (go me!) A. and I joke that we should teach C. the word “johnson.” But we can’t even say it without laughing. Oh, my sweet, sweet innocent boy. We have so much to teach you.

(Also, check out those boobs and fat folds: They should win an award.)

our little rebel

C. decided to take us out today in the Mazda to the Trona Pinnacles, a remote area east of Ridgecrest. While munching on orange slices, he said, “Mom, I’ve got it under control,” and then fluffed his curls. I thought, “Hey, it’s the desert. Anything goes.” I’m just glad he didn’t pop a tire and that he agreed to play our music.

i amuse myself

A.’s friend A. invited me to her baby shower. Her husband P., who was in A.’s PhD program, has family in the D.C. area so they’re having the soiree here mid-March. I can’t go — I’ll be on a plane back from my trip while her friends will watch her open bottles and blankets and onesies.

So today, I sent A. and P. baby presents off of their registry. This is sooo dumb – I mean really, really dumb — but I bought, among other things, the Vicks baby rectal thermometer. It seemed to be the oddest of the choices (but no doubt important). So I wrote a note with it: “This one is from A.” And then I got an adorable blanket with an elephant on it and wrote another note: “This one — super super cute? It’s from me.”

And then I laughed. Yes, I am 5 years old.

a ground-breaking (fruit) discovery

Several years ago, I was dating a guy who visited my Chicago apartment. We were hanging out in the kitchen and he opened the freezer and jumped back: “What is that?” he said. The man was 6’5” — and seemed scared. It was a pile of brown, frozen bananas. A whole slew of them. He was visibly repulsed. Shortly thereafter, we decided to end our short-lived romance.

See, I save bananas when I don’t eat them. If you put them in the freezer, you can eventually make banana bread or frozen fruit drinks out of them. And it feels so wasteful to buy bananas and then throw them out. I feel downright guilty about it.

But as anyone who knows me knows — and A. learned this on our third date — I am very picky about my bananas. They have about a two-day window where I can eat them. Brown spots make me gag.

So what happens, then, is that the entire freezer fills up with bananas. We’re talking two to three years worth of bananas. Cause I don’t even really love banana bread. My roommate, who is very flexible, was embarrassed when, at a party she hosted, a few of her friends were scrounging for alcohol late night — and they noticed the 50 or so bananas. They teased her incessantly. Also, her brother and sister-in-law saw them and said: “It’s more socially acceptable to have a severed head in the freezer.”

So before we had another party, N. practically begged me to throw them out. And I did — I filled up a garbage bag full of hard, brown, frozen bananas and hauled it out to the trash can. And I didn’t even feel bad about it.

But since then, a banana or two (or four) has creeped into that freezer. I’m ready to claim innocence if accused: “How did those get in there?”

Then, last week, I made an important discovery. A ground-breaking discovery. I discovered that if I trick myself — like a mom tricks a child — by mixing the fruit into other concoctions I eat regularly, I will eat it. Every day for the last week, I’ve had muesli with my Wallaby organic vanilla yogurt (I’m picky about that, too) and a sliced-up banana and some blueberries for good measure.

I gotta say, I’m really proud of myself. I’m trying — really trying — to eat better (just like the USDA recommends in its new nutrition guidelines) and am thinking about everything I put in my body. My next goal is to cut down on my sugar.

Now, who wants some banana bread?

damn you autocorrect

This morning, I sent A. a quick note on my iPhone. It was supposed to say: “Good morning!” Instead, autocorrect changed it to: “Good meningitis!”

I left it and wrote: “That was supposed to say morning, but that’s what autocorrect did for me. Thanks autocorrect!”

The blip reminded me of the field day I had on the site Damn You Autocorrect several weeks ago.

*Warning, the site can be crude — and I have no idea if any of it is true. But it is hilarious. Or, at least it was the day I discovered it. I’ll admit, some days I think everything is hilarious.

jokester

Yesterday, a bright yellow card with a green smiling frog that said “Happy Retirement?!” arrived in the mail. In his beautiful handwriting (see sample below), A. wrote that there were “slim pickings” on the base. Slim pickings, but there’s a retirement card? That’s funny to me because I have never sent one retirement card. Ever. It made me giggle.

Inside, A. enclosed this postcard: