The Treasure Box.

I'm not sure when it happened, but apparently the most challenging toddler year got bumped from two to three. Boy, would I have liked to have been on the circulation list for that newsletter. Here I am, thinking that we've successfully navigated the 'terrible twos' in roughly one piece. Our child is no worse for wear. I only look a decade or so older. I can live with this. And now I find out that the twos are no longer considered the year most jam packed with tantrums and trouble - instead I have recently been informed that the year in question is, in fact, three. Three. There isn't even a cute aliteration for that. Parent handbook fail.

As it would be, C has just turned three. I'm now somewhat regretful for having informed him of this because this graduation from toddler to pre-schooler has seemingly given carte blanche permission for all hell to break loose. In a fit of three-nage angst, yesterday my son renounced bedtime, declaring "it's noooooot faaaiiir!" and, as if pre-programmed, my mind began responding "sometimes life isn't faaaaaiiiiirrr!" Somewhere in the back of each parent's mind, there is stored a repository of answers that one's brain traverses in instances like this. This is the place that "Because I said so!" is kept.

The good news is that the more frequent and dramatic these episodes have become, the more I have forced myself to be patient. Patience, for me, is an unnatural response. It is a virtue I decidedly lack (which is probably why C's patience level, at thirty seven months, is about on par with that of our ravenous bulldog when he is waiting to attack dinner).

At pre-school they have introduced the 'treasure box' - a manners incentive program. If a child can earn nine "manners" stars by end of day, they get a trip to the treasure box to earn a small trinket or toy. I'm not quite sure that C appreciates the concept of "earn" just yet. The moment he walked into school this morning he made a point of immediately helping and sharing with another child. And then made a bee-line, hand out, for the treasure box. When I tried to explain to him that he needed to use his manners all day to earn the other seven stars necessary to visit the treasure box - well, I may as well have just sliced open his favorite stuffed animal and disemboweled his fuzzy insides. His face fell and he burst into tears - is there a more potent arsenic to parents than witnessing the utter devastation and disappointment of a three year old? He had used his manners - why couldn't he (snuffle) have (sniff-snuffle) the treasure....now!! I hugged him and tried to reiterate that he needed to be patient. I looked up at his pre-school teacher with sad parent eyes seeking words of wisdom from someone who had been there before, to which she replied: "In Kindergarden they have to wait a whole week" (cue claps of thunder and ominous sheets of lightening).

And just for a split moment I seriously considered leaping heroically onto the counter to retrieve the treasure box, throw open its lid and spill its toy-laden contents into the grabby-grabby hands of the other three and four years olds held at the mercy of its sweet, reward goodness. A Robin Hood to the toddling masses - taking from the rich and generously giving to the poor, depraved little boys and girls so that no one, ever again, had to wait until the end of the day to reap the benefits of their begrudingly submitted manners - no more please and thank you's, no sharing, no keeping hands to oneself, no raising hands, no waiting, no hand washing, no eating politely - just toys, oodles of plastic bobbles and bubble wands...and they would all look to me, their little eyes brimming with gratitude, and cheer...

Instead, I kissed C on the head and wiped his tears. I told him I loved him, that I believed in him, and that if he was just his very good little self, that it would all work out in the end. Today may or may not end in a trip to the treasure box - sometimes all of our efforts and patience add up, sometimes they don't quite make it. Sometimes life really isn't far. What matters is that we try - and try again - to just be the best we can be on any given day. And though he may not understand it now - what I want him to know is that no matter what we encounter, successes and failures alike (due to or inspite of our best efforts), just coming home to him is my trip to the treasure box.

A Return to No Road

It's time for a return to No Road to Normal after a very long hiatus.

Lately, life has taken on the form of a very steep staircase - shaped by quick ascents and relieving little plateaus. Given that I'm no master of either stairs or life, I look so forward to these calmer moments amidst the frenzied (read: parental) happenings of our days. As it happens, I'm taking respite in one of those very moments right now (though, I have to say, sometimes those little pauses are mom-made - a veritable necessity before the next sprint to scrub, firefight or scotch tape some near disaster back to normalcy). In the last several years I've come to not only accept but appreciate the wildness of our lives - I lounge in it. I channel surf whilst resting my feet on it. Because I would go crazy otherwise - and, hey, free footrest.

So, regarding those mom-made pauses, in the last four or so months I've become fairly adept at them. Not so much for me (pffftt..ok, as much for me - but no more), but out of necessity for a much more important cause. You see, our little family is happily expanding (along with my belly - which is equally expanding). It's a beautiful thing - for all of the obvious reasons - and because we are knowingly now trotting down the path to Frenzingham, a couple of train stops over from Hecticshire (where we currently reside).

Life will upheave, sleep will evaporate, toys, dishes, bibs and bottles will overrun the house in a bevy of unordered babyness - and it will be wonderful. And in exchange for the promise of chubby cheeks for kissing, a little voice for squealing and two big eyes for looking in wonderment I am working to provide this little one with quiet inside that is not hampered by bundles of stress. I am giving this child the Walden's Pond of uteruses.

I suspect that baby C's uterine living sounded more like my room junior year of college. New York City. One block from a fire station. Two blocks from a hospital. On fraternity row. On garbage collection day. During a street festival. And in return baby C delivered six months of endless screaming that sounded like all of those things. Amplified. I'd like to give myself a pass by saying that it was my first pregnancy and I was faced with a host of ridiculous and poorly timed traumas that reaked havoc on our finances, family and my collective psyche. While that may be true - it doesn't make any of how I handled it right.

And right on schedule those little stressors - those lovely little financial, familial traumas have reared their ugly heads again. And the inconvenient little bastards that they are - these pressures are ganging together to make kindling to my anxiety and re-create the same fire of worry, doubt and disquiet that they succeeded in doing three years ago. There are many things that I'd like to say to these stressors (and, frankly, to their underlying causes), none of which are child appropriate (buggering fuck-weasles comes to mind). Though I don't know that tapping into any of that anger is particularly useful either. Instead, I choose this baby. Taking the high road for this little one isn't a hard decision - but learning how to do it is somewhat akin to learning to walk for me. At the moment, I believe that I'm successfully cruising with stress - straining along its walls, table sides and chair tops until I'm striding across the room with confidence. It's a terrifying and endlessly frustrating journey full of pitfalls and rug burns. But it's progress.

I don't know what the next sixth months will bring with it - and, in the grander scheme, I suppose it doesn't matter provided that it ends with this baby. I'm stealing this sentiment from a friend - but it's so appropriate that it merits repetition - our first child made us parents, our second child made us a family. New little one - we've heard your heart beat, we've seen you wave, we've watched you grow from love and hope into what you are now (4 1/2 inches of sweet avocado sized joy). You have a Daddy who already adores you, a three year old who is bursting with excitement at the idea of being a big brother (we will encourage him to continue to build your sticks and moss castle in the backyard but will try to break it to him that you may prefer to live indoors) and as for a Mommy? You have a Mommy who loves you wholly, whose heart would beat 147 beats a minute just to keep time with yours and who simply cannot wait to wrap you in loving arms. Cozy up, little one, Mommy is fixing to create a quiet, happy home for you until its time for you to join us. Once you do - I can promise you a happy home full of love. Quiet...is another story altogether.

From Apples to Zebras: A Toddler's Wexicon.

A commemorative list of my favorite things that are in my son's lexicon:

THE WORLD ACCORDING TO C

Where w's routinely replace l's, t's routinely replace s's and names are replaced by sounds - he's just too darned cute for words.

Mo-gain - a combination of MORE and AGAIN
Tee-Bee - TV (as in "no pants tee-bee time")
Thaibot the Pirate - Pronounced TIE-BOT da PIE-ROT. Favorite pirate du jour complete with patch, hook and best friend
Pweep - Please. Generally conveyed with either a) annoyance (to get something he wants) or b) syrupy sweetness (to get something he wants).
Mootans - Mittens
Tink Book - More commonly known as the "I Stink" book. A bedtime fave. We would also accept Bee Book (for Richard Scarry's "Cars and Trucks and Things that Go" book - the most memorable item in which being Mr. Goldbug - and his incessant need to hide in obscure places on each page. This is not a bedtime book. Repeat. Not a bedtime book - unless you want "bedtime" to last in excess of eight hours. I'm looking at you G.).
Bee - all bugs. Bees included.
Chee - Macaroni and Cheese (as in Question: "What do you want for dinner/breakfast/snack/for the rest of your life?" Answer: "CHEE!!!")
Dip-dip - As in dip. Both the noun and verb. (to 'dip-dip' ones chicken nuggets into ketchup). We would also accept "deet-deet-deet" - a more aggressive form of the word which is generally reserved for Ranch dressing.
Coo-Op - Cool Off. (as in - sticking ones mac 'n cheese in the freezer to avoid tongue burning followed directly by toddler tongue lashing).
Dock-Dock - Helicopters (sometimes also refers to airplanes).
Brokey-bum - Injury incurred when child or toy fall dramatically to the ground. To brokey one's bum. Sometimes also used as "brokey-head".
HIM - Designation of person alternating between Gru (from Despicable Me) and Sully (from Monster's Inc.). In a sentence: "Me watch HIM. Me watch him on tee-bee."
Tuper-Why - Super Why. As in favorite book lovin' super hero.
Wee-Yoo - Firetruck. (as in the sound made by a firetruck/ambulance/police car/snow plow/anything with flashing lights)
Hewwo - as in "Hello". As in telephone. In a sentence: "No, dats my guy wif da hewwo" (referring to construction worker figurine with telephone clutched in his kung-fu grip - in case of bulldozing emergencies)
Moot/Cue Me - MOVE/EXCUSE ME! The former generally followed by the latter (once a correction of "Is that a nice way of asking?" a perturbed "Cue me" follows)
Big One!/Wittle More... - Kisses. A good bye and bed time mainstay (hurray!). First asking for a "Big One!" followed by a "Wittle more..." (for a second kiss to draw out said good bye or bed time).
Canno - Candle. More specifically, flameless candle used during recent multiple power outages. Now awesome toy.
Putah - Computer. (as in a) "me watch puppy doggies on Mummy's puter" or b) "Mummy - now work puter. Come play me!" [there is no answer to option B except "Yes" - then pick up nearest playschool action figure and get to work building those mega blocks!]
Wipey, Baby Nunny, Blue nunny, other Blue Nunny, Raccoon, Duck, Cookie, Bop, Kitty/Rain (*name varies depending on the day/season/direction of the sun), Eee-Eee, and Hoo-Hoo - aresenal of stuffed friends.
Additional "cute" self-explanatories to throw in for good measure: Tubby, Jammies, Wawa, Bwankie, Sowwy, Mummy, Daddy and...of course...I wuv you ;)


Oh my little chatter box...I wuv you too.

Wuv.

It's funny - as person I've come to develop expectations of how certain things will go in my life. I think that's fairly normal. You  have a routine. You have past experiences to base your feelings on - and, for the most part, you don't really expect to have those feelings completely turned on their head. Maybe that's called being glib. Or jaded. Or cynical. But I had nearly thirty years of past precedent in my wake when I became a parent. That's like reciting the alphabet every day of your life - until your child comes along and replaces a good portion of those letters with stuffed animals and sneakers. There's no point even trying to understand it - it's such a vast departure from the routine that you can't even attempt to comprehend it. It's not even a language. That's parenthood. Everything I thought I'd feel was different. What I thought I'd be like. What I thought my days would look like. Sure, there's some overarching routine practices - breakfast, lunch dinner...dinner, tubby time, storytime, rock-time, bedtime. But those little details - how could I have anticipated the details?

Yesterday I read a blog post a friend had written - complete with a picture of a mother next to her pre-tween son with the caption "You may have outgrown my lap, but you'll never outgrow my heart." And I held it together - until I recounted it to my husband later that evening. Buckets 'o tears.

Because my two year old little boy is most wonderful, talented, funny, active, supercalifragilisticexpealidociously special little boy in the world. And boy does he have an opinion. He'll say things like "Me watch tv with no pants today, Mummy." And I'll watch, bemused, as he strips his pants off, proudly climbs on the couch to watch Super Why or Bob the Builder and sigh and say "No pants tv time." (the undertone being BEST.DAY.EVER.)

Yes, my little man, you have quite the sense of humor.

Everything is a struggle. You don't want to take a bath. Then we can't get you out. You don't want to put on your pajamas. Then we can't get you out of them. And sleep is for wussies. You could go forever on no sleep as long as you had books, your favorite stuffed dog "Wipey", and space to run. But you don't run alone. We are coaxed into running with you - up and down the hall - as super hereos with arms outstretched. Or spinning like helicopters. Or dancing or skipping or jumping or leaping. And the drama - the endless drama. You must already be practicing your Oscars acceptance speech because you ham it up like nobody else. You have a tremendous slow demise you re-enact over and over again. Spinning and wailing until you collapse on the floor and emerge with a clever smile..."Oh...me broke me bum!"

You have a newly developed pout - which sneakily appears whenever you can't get your way. A pushed out bottom lip of despair - your blue eyes get big and glassy, you hang your head and make sure we've watched the pout form long enough before you crash to the floor - hands over eyes - in a manner that can only be described is "Goodbye cruel world!!!" or "OOohhhh the humanity!"

You spend a lot of time telling us about everything. You have your own little dialogue that is endlessly entertaining. "What's dat sound? Oh, the garbage truck. He come here." "Where lights go? Oh, it dark. Lights go off." Better yet are the conversations your toys have with each other. Firetrucks with mail trucks. Elmo with Rock Raccoon. Your Dad and I will often listen to your monitor long after we've put you down for bedtime and listen as you sing and play and create an entire world amongst your stuffed amigos. You may not want to hear this - but that's something you get courtesy of your Mum. I was the queen of imaginary worlds. I guess that makes you the prince.

And after your long, dramatic, action packed, superhero day comes to a close - you and I read a book (or four) and I turn off the light. As of late, you've gotten into the habit of "rock-time". At first I was fairly certain that this was just an effort to push off sleeping just a little while longer. I've let those misgivings fall away. At rock-time, I take you in my arms and we sit your rocking chair - just like when you were only a few months old. We sing songs. You sing to me. I sing to you. The current favorite is 5 Little Monkeys Jumping on the Bed. Your interpretation of that includes a sing song rendition of "Monkey - Jump - Bed - OUCH MY HEAD!" Funny though, the other day you asked for a lullaby. You nuzzled your head against my neck and said "Turtle-loo-loo song, Mummy." I had no idea what this was until I ran down my laundry list of old songs and realized you were asking for "Too-Ra-Loo-Ra." A song I sang to you endlessly as a little baby - because that's what my parents always sang to me. "Turtle-loo-loo." And almost every night now you and I sing that song until you concede that it's bedtime and I lay you down.

Not long ago I lay you in your bed, gave you Wipey the dog and kissed you softly on the head. I whispered "Good-night" and turned for the door. Then you softly asked, "Mummy?" I turned around and through the dark I saw you smile - "Mummy...I wuv you."

That's it. That's the moment where all the routines come flying apart - the alphabet you've always known crumbles into nonsense and the world turns upside down. My son told me he loved me - seemingly such a small, silly moment - but it takes up so very much space in my heart. You said it for no reason at all. And now you say it all the time. And every single time my heart wells up to the rafters.

There may be a time that you're too big to rest on my lap for rock-time. But you will never - ever - be too big for my heart.