Ladies' Man

Yesterday I watched Alex make a new friend. The little girl next door had been watching him surreptitiously from her own yard for a good half an hour when I pointed out to my oblivious boy that it looked like she wanted to say hi. So he went out onto our front patio, waved at her, and immediately turned away to see to the very pressing task of picking up gumballs and sticks and throwing them into the front yard.

And so it went—the little girl swinging her pink vinyl purse and watching Alex do his unique brand of gardening, me wondering if I should help somehow or just let them do their kid thing—until the child’s mother walked over. We chatted our way through a decidedly different social dance than our little people were doing, and Alex and the little girl, whose name is either Olivia or Lydia, with the corresponding nickname of either Livvy or Liddy (in some incarnation) eventually drifted over to her yard to play. “Play,” from my vantage point (which was peering through the open door and spying like a freak to make sure he wasn’t bothering the nice people) seemed to consist of a silent hunt for four-leaf clovers in the weeds with an occasional burst of hysterical (and seemingly random) laughter.

It was, I say without a trace of sarcasm, fascinating.

When I finally called Alex back inside for dinner and exchanged the “Let’s get them together” conversational wrap-up with Livvy/Liddy’s mother, she made my day by telling me that he was the sweetest and most polite little boy she’s ever met. (She glossed over a story about a former neighbor child who liked to throw rocks at Livvy/Liddy, so I’m not entirely sure what kind of measuring stick she was using. Still! Proud mama here.)

Alex was thrilled with himself. He did not, however, catch her name, so she shall remain “That Girl” until and if he remembers to ask her. He wants to put a note in her mailbox today, and I’m trying to figure out how to urge him in a different direction, because he dictated his note to me:

I had fun playing with you today. Next time I see you, come to my house and we can have a sleepover.

And so he grows. 

Party of One

It's 2:43 a.m. Do you know where your preggo is? Well this one is sitting on her couch, wearing lopsided glasses, nursing a mild headache and a mild craving for something that she can't pinpoint, and writing to tell you about it. Oh, also, there seems to be a rave going on in my uterus, thumping baseline and strobe lights and all. Can one sing a fetus to sleep? Should I go collapse in the glider and rock myself? Allow me to whine: Insomnia suuuuuuuuucks!

Jack seemed to take it as a personal affront when I came out of the bedroom and flopped down next to what has become his sleeping chair. He raised his big dopey head, gave me a withering look, and heaved a big sigh before hopping down and sauntering off to points unknown. Well he's in for a treat when baby comes and makes this a nightly, and much louder, event! Unsympathetic beast.

OK, as spelling is proving much harder than it ought to be for a professional speller, and I've finally figured out what that mild craving is (chocolate milk), I'll be on my way. If I go to sleep in the next five minutes I'll have two good hours before it's time to get up. Whee!

P.S. Look at my pregnancy ticker. Baby moved up a square! She's now in that creepy bent-up position I've been waiting for. Two more squares till go time.

Pulling the plug.

I have to confess: Somehow TV and computer have taken over our household. It was fine when Alex was playing the occasional Playhouse Disney game online; they’re educational, I rationalized, and they keep him occupied for extended periods while I cook or clean or catch up with my backlogged DVR. And when he discovered SpongeBob I was just glad that we were moving out of the realm of The Wonder Pets and branching off from superheroes, whose prolific appeal, frankly, baffles me. But now technological entertainment is king. Last night he requested a rain check on playing Chutes and Ladders with his oh-so-fun mommy in favor of trying to beat the “hammer brothers” on one of the countless old-school Nintendo games Steven has downloaded to our desktop (thank God for the laptop). In the mornings I’m lucky if he tears his eyes away from Bob’s adventures in Bikini Bottom long enough to make eye contact when he mumbles a perfunctory goodbye. (I used to get a big hug and a kiss to keep in my heart so that I would have it all day long in case I missed him. By used to, I mean a couple of weeks ago, before SpongeBob in conjunction with Mario and Megaman stole my baby.)

This morning I got tired of reminding him to eat his breakfast as he sat with his tray in front of him, staring slack-jawed at the TV. Five or six times I told him. “Eat, Alex. Don’t just watch.” He would pick up the spoon, put it in the bowl, scoop up some cereal, and freeze there like he’d forgotten how to complete the maneuver. Now, I’m proof positive that it doesn’t take a whole lot of effort to shovel food into one’s mouth while watching TV. Unless you happen to be watching Lost, which requires every single functioning brain cell you’ve got, plus a few borrowed ones from your viewing partner.

So, this morning, I threw down the breakfast-time gauntlet. I turned off the television. I know! It resulted in a display of horror and disbelief that in turn resulted in an overturned juice box and the need for a change of pants. But he finished his breakfast at the table, which is probably where I went wrong in the first place, letting the occasional meal drift away from there for the sake of convenience and/or bouts of lazy parenting. But we had an actual conversation—him between bites of Cheerios—about our plans for the day. And when I left he gave me one of those keepsake kisses.

When we get home today I plan to thwart the relentless pull of Road Rash and Donkey Kong (yes, Steven’s all about the classics) by whisking Alex off to the library. There’s a Franklin book about the dangers of playing too many computer games that is calling our name.

A dream is a dream...

Things move faster after the 20-week mark. Here I am at 24, the long-awaited glucose test in the offing at my next regular appointment and six whole weeks since we found out we’re growing us a she-baby. Re: that glucose test ... I’ve been told there are now flavor options. I’m going to choose based on which one might be the least offensive on its way back up. Lemon-lime, I’m told. And, by a nurse with wide-eyed earnestness: Stay away from the cola-flavored one. You don’t have to tell me twice.

The weird pregnancy dreams have hit hard lately. I was waiting—I remembered them, vivid and startling and technicolored, from my first pregnancy and have actually been looking forward to the nightly entertainment. (Broken only by the bladder-determined intermissions; there are now always at least three trips to the bathroom between 10 p.m. and 5 a.m.) Last night I dreamed that we lost the chainsaw we’d planned on using for our home Cesarean section. We were really very upset by the missing chainsaw/surgical implement. And so we ended up at the hospital against our collective will, and suddenly I was stuck in an elevator with a former boss of mine and SHE was going to deliver the baby. I kicked her in the nose. On purpose. And God help me, it felt good. (If you’re reading this and are a former boss of mine, it’s not you, I almost promise.)

I’ve also had several dreams in which I am wandering half-clothed or inappropriately so (i.e. wearing the threadbare, too-short, polka-dotted nightshirt Steven "lovingly" refers to as my hospital gown) in public places: my old office building, a ritzy hotel, some sort of museum. I’m lost, more often than not, or at least confused about why I’m heading wherever I’m heading. Sometimes there is a baby to find. Once, I acknowledged to a passerby who asked the whereabouts of my baby that she was at home being looked after by her 5-year-old brother. Yikes!

Steven and I did once leave Alex in the car, but only for a few steps before we caught ourselves, mind you, and he was such a new development—surely other people occasionally forget they suddenly have babies. I don’t worry about that so much, this time. And whether or not the dreams mean anything, they are fun. I’m a fan of a good nightmare. I blame early exposure (and instant attachment) to Stephen King. So I’ll enjoy them, until and if I have that one where my teeth fall out of my mouth. That one creeps me out but good.