Jacob has a point of view

Friday night, in the car on the way home

Dada: Okay guys, what movie do you want to watch?
Isaac: Jakey, I think we will watch The Incredibles.
Jacob: CARS!

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Friday night, at the dinner table. Isaac is reeling from waking up on the wrong side of his nap, screaming so much from a precarious corner of his chair that spit is running out the corner of his mouth. I put sliced-up bagel pizzas before both boys, which Jacob the Gourmand begins to shovel into his mouth with gusto. Isaac's shrieking is renewed at the thought of eating. This is a concept completely lost on Jacob, who stands up in his chair and points his pizza-loaded fork in Isaac's direction as a suggestion. Isaac sees this and increases his wailing in volume. Jacob just doesn't understand -- you can almost see the little mental wheels trying to churn on the idea that somebody might not want to eat pizza. "Maybe Big Brother just doesn't understand what he's supposed to do here?" thinks Jacob. So, to Isaac's renewed horror, Jacob starts jabbing his pizza fork in Isaac's direction, screaming, "Eat it! EAT IT!" loud enough to get his message across.

Already scheming to play him some hooky

The fussing at preschool drop-offs continues unabated. It doesn't get worse, but it doesn't get better. Outwardly, I try to be patient and sympathetic towards him, but in truth I find it very comical. Around me, he wants to talk endlessly, usually not about the preschool experience itself, but about our separation, repeating one of the following phrases:

"I don't want to go to preschool. I want to stay home with you."
"I don't want you to go away from preschool."
"I'm going to cry when you leave. Just a little bit."

He focuses all his attention on the car ride there on how very sad he is going to be and how much he wishes life were different for him in this regard. However, once he is there, his attention span is that of a flea. We came in today and he was really whining hard and feeling sorry for himself. That is, until I found in his cubby this awesome magnetic clothespin caterpillar he had made on Thursday as part of "C" week.



"What's this, buddy?" I asked.
Tears instantly evaporated and the words could not explode out of his mouth fast enough.
"THAT'S A CATERPILLAR! LOOK IT HAS FOUR HEADS!"
And he was totally cool until there was talk again of me moving towards the door. Cue the waterworks!

Yesterday night, when we started talking up preschool again in preparation for today, Dada asked him a bit about his classmates.
It appears he had an idea. In reply, he asked me, "Where was Ashley?"
Ashley, a cute little blonde girly-girl, was not there on Thursday.
"Maybe she was sick, buddy," I wondered.
"Sick?" he said.
"Maybe," said I. "If you're sick, you have to stay home from school so you can rest and get better, and so you don't get anybody else at school sick."
Isaac thought about this for maybe half a second before he suddenly evolved a persistent cough.

This morning as we were in the car on the way to preschool, Isaac was doing his best to work himself into a sadness over the horrors of playing for 2-1/2 hours with Miss Susie and Miss Barbara. Struck with another awesome idea, he let out a great dramatic yawn from the backseat.
"Mommy," he croaked, suddenly afflicted with unbelievable fatigue, "I just had a little yawn. I think we should go back home so I can take a nap."

Perhaps next year we should consider spending our preschool money on acting classes at Julliard instead.

Jacob at 19 months

I do have a younger son, though lately I have not blogged about him much. His name is Jacob, and he is also very cute and blonde.



Part of my lack of Jacob-blogging has been a need to escape from thoughts of his frequent screaming. The young one, he has had a hard month. At first, the reasons for this were obvious, as seen in these before-and-after shots of his right lower canine, his last of those. It took a really god-awful long time to erupt.

Before (August 22):


After (September 17):


This boy has a heck of a time with new teeth, much more so than Isaac ever did. We think it's because Jacob, unlike Isaac, inherited my gigantic horse teeth. Seriously. The boy's teeth are at least half-again as big as his older brother's. While I smiled once yesterday, Isaac asked me if I was a shark. I think this comparison is not lost in Jacob.

While not busy teething, Jacob's fussing continued due to the evolution of an alarming but minor medical issue. I must be intentionally vague due to the AHEM sensitive nature of the situation, pun intended; if you want more detail, the problem is specifically discussed in this link. We saw the pediatrician about it a month ago, where we were assured that he was fine, and that the situation would resolve itself. It did, yesterday, with an exceeding amount of discomfort and unwillingness to pee. We visited the doctor again today, and she told us that he'll heal up nicely in a day or two as he did before, and his problem is likely over, thank goodness.

Because our doctor is super-wonderful, she also took care of Jacob's 18-month visit while we were there today, since his appointment was scheduled for tomorrow morning. He is still a junior giant, which anyone could have predicted from watching him enjoy his food. He weighs 27 pounds now, which puts him in the 65th percentile. It also explains the continued hotness of my totally-cut arms as His Fatness now requests a ride in them, regularly demanding "Carry Me!" whenever he is upset.

Shaquille the Younger is 34-1/4 inches long (the 93rd percentile), likely because of these stilts:


Part of me wonders how much of the incessant fussing is growing pains. It has to hurt to grow legs that long in 19 months.

He is also doing everything. To post of his vocabulary would be dumb because he can say anything, one word at a time. Perhaps from memorizing all the Cars cars names, he enjoys learning people's names now, as I first noticed last Wednesday when he ran to "An-ty! Car-woes!" Physically? He can jump, and gives me heart attacks by trying to jump down steps. He can run, and is frustrated sometimes that he is not as fast as Isaac. He walks backwards and makes beeping noises, as though he is a dump truck. He loves to color, and showed me just how much this morning when he scribbled a beautiful red artwork with washable (yay!) marker on my kitchen wall.

He also has opinions about everything. He can do so much, but gets frustrated when he can't do things he wants to do, expressing his frustration by hitting, kicking, and throwing. He is excellent at sharing with brother, and also at chucking cars at brother's head. He understands the concept of time-outs, I think, and he gets them regularly now and they seem to work well for him. Afterward, he remembers to be good for about twenty minutes. He has awareness of when he has to poop but is afraid to sit on the potty, so we are not pushing it. Though he went through a spell two months ago where he slept through the night almost every night for two weeks, that heavenly angel has left the house and he now wakes up once a night.

In short, he is a total and complete handful. I love him for everything he does, but I am not going to be sad when one day, hopefully soon, the fussing leaves the house.

Superhero sightings

Our college town may be little, but it has all the trappings and excitement of a town quite a bit bigger to keep the university vibe alive and well. We even attract some famous people from time to time. For example, last year Dada saw Cal Ripken, Jr. dining at Iron Hill on Main Street. And this weekend, who should we see strutting about our fair streets but Dash "Incredible" Parr? Here he is at Starbucks on Friday night, enjoying a smoothie power-up.



As if that wasn't enough, we saw him again this morning, zipping through the aisles of Home Depot.


He may be fast, but he sure is short.


(I think we may have one Halloween costume picked out, don't you?)

Disney World, here we come

Some of Dada's fondest memories are of frequently (nearly every year, if I remember correctly) visiting Disney World with his folks when he was a kid. I myself have been there three times, once when I was 4 or 5, once in high school for show choir (oh yeah!), and once for New Year's Eve with Dada. We both love it, and more than anything we want our Disney-crazed babies to see it, with just us. Like now. But we also wanted to be practical about taking our first family vacation with two kids who are occasionally crazy and unpredictable because they are still so very young.

Last night, Dada and I stayed up and booked a trip for the four of us to go to Disney World in January, during one of their less busy weeks. It took much discussion over the past few months for us to finally eke out when we could do it (because of Dada's and Isaac's school calendars), how we wanted to do it, and what we wanted to get out of it. We also had to account for the fact that we'd be travelling with a going-on-4-year-old and an almost-2-year-old, and think most importantly about what they'd enjoy and how much they can tolerate.

In the end, we decided to fly in to Orlando. Captain Insano Dada actually put the option of driving there on the table. Since we'd be in Indianapolis after the holidays, we lucked out and booked round-trip tickets from there for $125 per person. Cheaper than gas, Dada!

We toyed with the idea of staying for four days, but we decided on three, as a water-tester for the Disney World experience with children in tow. We know we'll be back, and we figure it will be easier for everyone to enjoy a longer stay when the boys are a bit older.

In the beginning, we had ourselves convinced we needed to stay at the Contemporary because of its proximity to the Magic Kingdom and to get up-close and personal with the monorail. But after browsing around all the resorts, we really couldn't pass up the chance to stay at the El Cheapo All-Star Movies for one-third of the price. Because really? I think the highlight of the babies' visit will probably be that they stayed at the resort with the 20-foot-tall Woody and Buzz statues.

The nice part about getting by with all this a little cheaper than we thought we would is that now we can blow all kinds of money on fun things while we're there, like a character dinner or a new Mickey-adorned wardrobe. And now that we're going, it's time for me to start investigating what all kinds of things we need to do once we get there. If anybody has any web-resource-type suggestions, I'm all Mickey-ears.

Preschool art gallery

Meemaw has requested that I scan and post the copious, tree-killing amounts of artwork our new preschooler is bringing home. Seriously, there is at least one, and more often two or three new Isaac originals waiting for me in his cubby at pick-up time. Thus scanning, being slow and obnoxious, would be so time-consuming as to eat into my precious time to read People magazine online. That just will not do.

So I will be stealing a fantastic and much faster idea from the mother of some baby humans -- not to scan, but to shoot, preserving Isaac's art forever with my digital camera. Note to self: buy some DVDs and start backing your crap up.

From Isaac's first day of school (9/4). Their first unit was on summer and the beach, so naturally Isaac would tell you that this is not the sun, but "yellow paint."


From 9/6 comes Dada's favorite. Isaac refused to elaborate on this one, but we think the drawing speaks for itself. And it says, "I am not in the mood to color, fools."


From 9/11, an exuberant study in marker. "It's the sun, with yellow, green, red, blue, purple, orange, and brown."


Also from 9/11, the start of Safety Week, comes this hand-colored fireman's hat. Cat-brother wouldn't model it for me, but you've already seen it on Isaac.


Continuing their summer/beach theme, this one (from 9/13) has hand-glued sand and real seashells. Isaac was not interested in talking about anything but the glue.

In pursuit of keeping our family a foursome, for now

I went back on the pill after I stopped nursing Jacob. Over the three months I was on it (Yasmin, if it's important), I noticed that a violent dislike for my husband would grow for two weeks out of the month and then suddenly disappear with the arrival of a certain unwelcome Aunt. My unhappiness was great and pervasive, and very uncharacteristic for me. I've been off the pill for a month and a half now, and the difference in my attitude is completely obvious.

I remembered feeling similarly right before I quit the pill (Ortho Tri-Cyclen) to get pregnant with Isaac, and then feeling immediately more like myself once I'd stopped. My conclusion? Hormonal birth control is probably not for me.

I didn't think the options for someone who wants non-hormonal and non-permanent birth control were that great or that foolproof (condoms, diaphragms, spermicide, oh my!) until I happened to run across the Paragard IUD online. Unlike the Mirena, which my OB's office was pushing heavily, the Paragard is made of copper and has no hormones attached. To me, it's perhaps a little scary. When I hear "IUD" I think nasty uncomfortable and uterine-perforating side-effects. But in my reading online it seems that these things are really rare with the IUDs that are out there today.

So! Does anybody have an opinion or any personal experience with copper-based IUDs? I'd appreciate all the help I can get, if you feel comfortable sharing.

Our favorite not-so-little engine

Yesterday was our very first family foray into Amish country. We live less than an hour away, but somehow we have evolved this phobia of driving anywhere. Well, I suppose we have had an excuse up to this point, with the tiny baby and potty-training in our not-so-recent past. But now things are better, or at least these "things" in the backseat are getting used to being stuck in the car for a bit, and so the Pennsylvania countryside in all its agricultural beauty and cheese-makery is suddenly open to us.

After dodging about fifty bazillion buggies loaded with be-bonneted people on their way to church, we made it to Strasburg Railroad, our final destination chosen for one very specific, life-sized reason:



See that maroon passenger car behind this gigantic, unreal Thomas the Tank Engine? We rode in it.



Here we demonstrate the "Divide and Conquer" parenting approach to train rides:



Thomas pulled us out-and-back a strip of Amish farmland for a total of twenty minutes. This is what it looked like most of the time, giddy preschoolerness included:



While Isaac had the time of his life ("I love riding on trains!") Jacob was mostly unhappy to be confined to a seat. Here he is saying "NO!", the theme of his lately fussy, molar-teething life...



...although any mention of "Thomas" shut him up instantly. Here, I've just pointed out to him the black smoke hanging outside our car (you can see it in the upper left) is from Thomas himself. And lo! No fussing! For a second!



Thomas drove us next to a bunch of Amish barns. This one is curing tobacky, which is why the slats on the barn's sides are flared open. You can see bunches of tobacco hanging inside the big barn door if you click on the picture.



There were lots of other, smaller train operations to be enjoyed with our admission ticket. We rode in a small caboose together; Isaac and Dada rode in some open, wooden track cars together as Jacob melted down. Here, again, at the mention of "Thomas", Jacob resolidified and Dada took a picture of Jacob and me with Thomas coming back into the station:



We hit the toy store tent and spent an ungodly sum before heading home. On our way back to the car was a tent of Cranky Cars. Isaac wanted to have a go at them, so Dada took him. He was a TOTAL pro!



It was a hefty little morning for us, and the most perfect outing ever for little people such as my own who play with trains every single day. I'm sure Jacob would have enjoyed it immensely if he wasn't so busy cutting some horse teeth.

For the truly devoted, a complete slideshow of our Day Out with Thomas pictures can be found here.

More kitchen fun

I give you... homemade play-doh!

1 cup flour
1/4 cup salt
2 T cream of tartar
1 cup water
1 T oil
food coloring

Mix dry ingredients in a saucepan. Add water, oil, and food coloring and heat over medium heat for 3-5 minutes. When dough forms a ball in the pan, turn it out onto a lightly floured surface and knead until it's no longer sticky.

This was really a hit. The boys and I played with it for over an hour! It came out so warm and invitingly squooshy, we couldn't stop touching it. There is something really special, I think, about homemade playdoh -- it makes the commercial kind seem so stiff and unyielding. When we were done, we packed it away in tupperware, and this recipe filled a sandwich-sized container.

Amazing, though, how it always seems to come back to Cars with them...

Messy Friday

The babies are driving me more than a little crazy lately, mainly because, for the past three weeks, one or more of them gets up for good at 5:45 A.M. I try to get them to watch TV on my lap while I fall back asleep on the couch, but usually they are so wide awake that they insist on playing cars or trains or some other activity not suited to a pre-caffeinated state.

I would get Dada to get up with them occasionally, but their sleeplessness has been coordinated neatly with perhaps the busiest time yet in Dada's professorial life. It's just evil, I think, to make him get up so early when his insano workload allowed him to go to bed only three hours before. It would not be exaggerating to say he's worked 80 hours this week. So I make some extra-strong coffee for both adults and drink lots of iced tea myself, toughing it out until their mutual naptime. Then we all crash hard.

With this fantastic new schedule, you can imagine there is a lot of time to fill in the morning. We met AnthonyCarlos at the farm yesterday at 11:30, leaving us nearly 6 hours beforehand with nothing else to do. At one point I was horrified at the thought of playing trains for another second (I know!), and so whipped out my very favorite baby book, which has "recipes" for things to do. Like make-your-own fingerpaints.

The recipe:
3 T sugar
1/2 c corn starch
2 c cold water
food coloring

Mix sugar and corn starch in a saucepan. Add cold water and stir over low heat till thoroughly mixed. Separate and add food coloring, with a drop of detergent to help cleanup.



They turned out pretty runny, more like colored water that left behind a soft and slippery cornstarch residue on the floor. If anybody has a better recipe for homemade finger paint, I would love to have it! But the boys could have cared less. When I suggested they dip the feet of their plastic animals in the paint and then march the animals across the paper, they decided it would be much more fun to bathe the animals in colors. And then to give themselves baths in the colors, splashing their hands and then feet in every color until everything, including the floor, was brown. Their skin looked like marbled Easter eggs.

Once all the "paint" was gone, we still had the cornstarch out and open, so we made Goopy-Goo in the empty paint bowls. Goopy-Goo is basically lots of cornstarch with just barely enough liquid to make it mobile. You can squish it between your fingers, and it runs out in wiggly ribbons. This was when Jacob's attention span had been maxxed out, but here you can see Isaac enjoying, and being coated by, his Goopy-Goo.



Cleaning up the floor was not so bad. The worst part was getting the dye off the boys' skin, for which they had the scrubbing of their lives in the bathtub. In the end, I let them go with green hands, figuring we would only be adding to the base-level of scum with our adventures at the farm.

Isaac's third day at preschool

*updated 9/13, now with pictures!*

No longer do I anticipate a tear-free goodbye by tomorrow. Yesterday there were more tears than day 2, though always less than day 1. I think it will be a give-and-take for awhile, but this was perhaps to be expected given his stupid, stupid mommy never leaving him in the care of other adults.

When we pulled into the parking lot yesterday his eyes started to get a little sunken, as they do just before he cries. "Are you going to stay with me?" he asked, with tremulous lip for effect. I reminded him that no, I would not, but that I would most certainly be back to get him at 11:30, and that in the meantime he would be so busy having a great time. As I got him out of his car seat and helped him with his backpack, I heard him whispering to himself, "Cry. Cry. Cry. Cry. Cry." over and over. I didn't quite know what to make of that. Part of me thought he was steeling himself against the overwhelming emotions he was feeling. The other part of me, intimately familiar with Mr. Future Drama Major, thought he was channeling his inner thespian, trying his hardest to conjure up some waterworks. He is a bit of a card like that.

And he did cry. He wouldn't give me a kiss or a hug because he was too involved in his tear production, so I said goodbye and left without one. I wondered later if that may have been too cold-hearted for him. Next time I will do better, but at that the time I didn't think -- no, couldn't think -- because it's hard enough for me to remember to 1) sign him in and wave to a teacher, then 2) put his backpack in his cubby, and finally 3) help him put his name tag in the job basket, all while manhandling a constantly fussing 3-year-old and an 18-month-old hip fixture who suddenly wants down to sprint away towards the nearest new toy.

Regardless of his insistence every time that he wants to go, it seems that it continually gets a little easier for him once I am gone, and that he has an awesome time while he's there. Miss Susie, who again restrained him for me as I ran out the door, told me this time was his shortest recovery period ever. And when I read the September newsletter they put in his cubby for me, I was not surprised. Here is a quick summary of the things they are doing this week, also known as Safety and Citizenship week:

*Learning how to dial 911; recognizing an appropriate time to do so
*Learning about fire safety
*Playing with toy emergency vehicles on a special table with a road map on it, set up specially for this week:


*Dressing up in fireman costumes
*Reading a different book every day
*Learning a new song
*Learning a different poem every day
*Tuesday Isaac drew a beautiful picture of the sun and some colors below it:


He also made a fireman's hat, artfully filling it in with red marker. To greet us parents, the kids emerged from their circle time at the end all wearing these. It was SO cute.


*Learning how to sit in a circle and raise a hand when one wishes to talk
*Learning how to pour one's own juice and to pass around snacks

Next week, for "C" week, among other things the kids will be shucking corn and using the corn kernels instead of sand at the sand table. His teachers, they are pros, are they not?

Pictures for Dada

Dada whined at me the other day that he had to read all this text on the blog, and who wants to do that? "Where are the pictures?" he fussed.

Here you go.* Quit yer bellyachin'.


I confess that I have not taken many pictures as of late. The most interesting ones from the last few weeks full of stomach flu would have been of naturally-made sculptures in the toilet. As we finally began to get well and visited the farm last week with Ella and her mommy, Isaac begged me to look at his poop, as is his wont to do, during a trip to the potty there. "Mommy, look at my poop!" he urged. "It looks like a rhinoceros! See its horn?"

Ella's mommy took some awesome ones, though. These were my favorite; the Three Amigos, posed on a picnic table. Note how the boy-cheese is separate from the girl-cheese.



This is the one picture I took during our family-wide bout with the trotskies. We decided only voodoo magic would cure Dada's intestinal distress, and so applied to him a poultice of whole babies.


Apparently those voodoo cookbooks know a thing or two, because he did get better, as did we all. Now if we can just stay that way through a new onslaught of preschool-manufactured germs, that would be swell.

*taken by Uncle Chrissy with his birthday camera during our July visit

Isaac's second day of preschool

Ever since Tuesday, Isaac has made it clear in his subtle way that he really did like preschool. Yesterday he asked if he was going to school again, and announced that next time "I will not cry and be sad!" I wasn't willing to bet on that one, but I was extremely pleased with his great attitude.

Today was his second day, and I resolved to make things much better (read: QUICKER) on my part. I signed him in, showed him to his cubby so he could put his backpack there, and helped him put his name in the job basket*. After less than 2 minutes inside, Jacob and I left. There was fussing, and he again had to be physically restrained by Miss Susie so I could exit the building, but the decibel level of the situation was much, much lower than Tuesday. When I picked him up, Miss Susie informed me that his recovery period today was significantly shorter. With such progress, I would be willing to bet that we experience fussless departures as early as next Thursday.

I'm sure it helps that Isaac liked school even more today, and was much more forthcoming with the details. It made my inner control freak -- who I didn't even know existed until Tuesday -- jump for joy.

"Did you read books?"
"Yes! We read another book about bears! And I jumped on the trampoline and painted and played on the playground and had juice and animal crackers!"

In his cubby today two art projects awaited me. This first was a big circle of paper lovingly slathered with sunny yellow finger paint from Tuesday. The second, Dada's favorite, was a sheet of paper that consists of Isaac's name and a single line of pink crayon, where he apparently got a little bored with the coloring table, but his darling teachers were certainly not going to deprive our fridge of any thing Isaac touched that could be sent home.

On Tuesday as we drove home, Isaac and I talked a lot about his feelings regarding the strangeness of my abandoning him.

"I didn't want you to go. I cried about you. Were you a little sad to leave me at preschool?"
"Well, yes, I was a little sad, but I was mostly proud of you for being such a big boy and going to school."

Today as we drove home, Isaac talked about preschool feelings in the most totally awesome and unexpected way.

"Mommy, do you think my teachers are sad?"
"Why would your teachers be sad, Isaac?"
"I think they are sad because I had to go."
"YES, absolutely. They will miss their Isaac."
"I will tell them to not be sad. I'll tell them that I'll see them again really soon."

-------------
*At his school, everyday about half the kids have "jobs", such as putting the day's date on the calendar, helping distribute the snack, cleaning up one of three tables, etc. The kids put their names -- on the colored shapes from a previous picture (Isaac's is a yellow triangle) -- in a basket and are chosen at random.

Isaac's first day of preschool

I knew Isaac would not take to preschool easily. Of course it's all our fault, because we've never left him with anyone but blood relatives. When I do have a babysitter over, I usually stay home to clean the house, and by the end of her stay he will refuse to do anything without attaching himself to one or more of my body parts. Obviously readers of this blog see a different story, because around Dada and I he is so open, talkative, imaginative, sweet, logical, and funny. But if you change things up on him or put him in an unusual situation, he gets pretty wary. Not necessarily freaked out, but certainly more cautious and guarded. I think lacking a primary caregiver for 2-1/2 hours qualifies as "unusual" to him. And though I am so, so happy with our new school, the time-frame with which we've had to latch onto it has made me feel rushed and hectic about it. I know he can sense that, and it was secretly turning his anxiety volume level up to 11.

I did my best to spend the morning (well, actually, most of last week) talking up how cool the preschool and giving him last-minute advice, like asking Miss Susie and Miss Barbara to help him should he need to use the potty. He asked me, over and over again, "Mommy, are you going to drop me off and never come back?" And over and over again I reassured him, and told him how I was so proud of him for going to school. We packed his backpack together, which he loved, though it was mostly just for show -- a change of clothes, just in case, a tuition check, and some forms we hadn't yet turned in. He wore his backpack out of the house and to the car, but he refused to sit on the porch and let me take his picture, retorting his new favorite cranky phrase "Meeeeehh!" when I asked. Translation: "I am becoming uncomfortable with what's going on, Evil Authority Figure, so I refuse to talk to you." That's my little articulate genius.

In the car he actually got pretty pumped about going to school, especially when we pulled in the parking lot. "That's my school!" he shouted. We went inside, with the plan (reiterated to him in the car) that Jakey and I would stick around for a few minutes, help him don a nametag, and then scoot. As I tried repeatedly to get him to wear his nametag, he repeatedly, and with increasing volume, refused. After a few minutes of helping him play on their one-person trampoline, with him becoming increasingly and uncharacteristically unwilling to take turns with the other kids, I realized things were only getting worse and that I should just jet while I could.

I told him it was time for me to go. He broke down in quite possibly the most nightmarish fashion possible, in ways I have never seen of him. He was literally screaming, nonstop, through tears, "I WANT TO GO GO GO!!!" I couldn't try to move away from him because he clung to my arm with every last molecule of his fingernails, in a way the occasional movie depicts an escaping torture victim. I tried to point out the other little dude sitting on Miss Barbara's lap, also crying for his mommy, but in a polite way, like, look, this teacher can help you, and look, this little dude is sad, maybe you can help him? But no. I took him to the bathroom, screaming screaming screaming, and tried to get him to calm down, repeating that my leaving was no big deal, that he would have fun, that I would be back. But no.

We came out of the bathroom and Isaac dashed for the door, desperate to push it open and run to the safety of George the Green Car. I got Miss Susie to literally physically restrain him as I wiggled past him out door, trying to be cheerful in my goodbye. I could hear him all the way to the car, his voice audible even through the door, "I WANT TO GET OUT! LET ME OUT! I WANT TO GET OUT!" I sobbed like a mental patient as I strapped Jacob -- who could have been at Disneyland for all he apparently cared -- into his car seat. I needed a minute to collect myself before I could start the car and drive away.

I wish such a thing on no person, ever.

The Jake and I tried to go about our business as best we could. We got gas and dropped off a check. We went home and stared at each other awhile, had a snack, and I was struck the whole time at the high-quality level of Jacob entertainment that was missing without Isaac in the house. Bored and fidgety, I suggested we head out to the toy store on Main Street. Jacob fell asleep in the car on the way there, so I made my way slowly back to Isaac's preschool and became one of those moms, sitting in the parking lot for a full 30 minutes before preschool ended.

When I did see other moms and dads entering the sacred preschool hall, I didn't want to wait. But those teachers were smart; they closed off their classroom area, where the kids were, but opened up the nearby play area, where we were to wait. When they had finished with their goodbye song, the teachers opened the classroom curtain slightly and sat flanking the opening, calling one kid at a time to meet his or her parents. Bless them, bless their precious teacher hearts -- they called Isaac first.

He came at me and looked a little like a fresh-faced Marine after his first day of boot camp. He had this glazed look about him, as somebody who's been kept so busy that he hasn't really had time to think.

"Hi buddy! Did you have fun at preschool?"
"Yeah!"
"That's great! What did you do?"
"I painted with paints! And I played at the park [on their playground]. And I cried about you. I didn't want you to go."

Upon further questioning, we've eeked out that what he painted was an elephant and that he also jumped on the trampoline, read stories, sang songs, and had a snack of juice and goldfish. And that's all he'll tell us. I had no idea how difficult it would be for me, not necessarily to hand over my kid to relative strangers, but to not be in control of what he was doing at every second of that time. I mean, sure, there are many things I could find out by asking his teachers on Thursday, and sure, they have a set schedule that they follow, which is published in the newsletter we parents received this very morning. But Isaac himself? He is providing a frustratingly inadequate level of details. He either can't or won't tell me what book he read, what songs he sang, whether he built a block tower or cooked himself a lunch in the toy kitchen. I didn't notice until much later that he had skinned his knees; any story he gives of their origins segways into his favorite story of how Big Jacob (not ours) pushed him down at playgroup months ago.

It will be nice, I think, when preschool becomes less of a big deal. I think perhaps even talking about after awhile became bad news to him, Mr. Shell-Shocked. Yes, Baby, Mommy left. But she also came back.

Preschool drama for the Mama

After being home for a week, last Monday I broke down and decided to check my voice mail when we had some down time after lunch. We rarely use our home phone, so 99% of our voice mail comes from the Jeep dealer "reminding" me that it's time for George the Green Car to have this or that botox-ed. Sure enough, the first of my three new messages was not for me, but George. However, the third message was one that would completely change the course of the week.

It was from Isaac's preschool, lovingly chosen by us in February. "I have some sad news," said a strange lady from the affiliated church, "the school's head teacher unexpectedly resigned yesterday. We can't possibly find a suitable replacement in time, so we've decided to close the school for the year."

I allowed myself a moment of bittersweet reminiscence, remembering when the boys and I had toured the school in January. The head teacher was the only of the school's two teachers that I had talked to, and she had lent me her ear for a full half-hour while her charges free-played all around us. At the time, she couldn't possibly have had quitting on her mind, because she had looked me in the eye and painted me a picture of what life would be like for my son in her classroom in the fall. I don't pretend to know her situation, but she obviously left my family and thirty-some others in a serious predicament less than a month from school's start.

So, after flashing a firm double-bird out my window in the school's general direction, I sat the babies down for a Mickey Mouse Clubhouse marathon and looked up all the similar preschools in our area, retracing the same steps I had taken all last fall as I strategically plotted Isaac's future. Of course, now it was far too late. As I called around, I learned that the ill-fated message was left on August 17th; in getting the message 10 days later I had was at a serious disadvantage against his schoolmates' parents, now my competitors. Even worse, his school was slated to start on September 11th, while many preschools in town start September 4th. Everybody's favorite preschool on Main Street, my second choice, told me Isaac would be 8th on their waiting list for the 3-year-old classroom. The sweet director there gave me more names to call, including the preschool at our sometimes-church. The director there still hasn't called me back.

After doing the rounds with all the schools we were actively considering in the fall and coming up empty-handed, for some reason my mind drifted to one that I hadn't really investigated much, even though I had some acquaintances in a rather well-to-do neighborhood who had sent their kids there and loved it. Surely, I thought, it would suck, for it was also significantly cheaper than all the ones on our short list. But I was slightly desperate. I called the director, and sure enough, they had seven spots available in Isaac's class this year, largely due to a few kids dropping out due to the ill-health of family members. Turns out the reason it's so cheap? ("REASONABLE," said the director) They get a small budget from the city, and they're a non-profit. Even the church preschools in town are for-profit.

We went for a visit, and almost to a tee, this preschool was identical to the one that had closed on us, except that it had one more room full of big toys, including a one-person trampoline and an mini indoor jungle gym for rainy days. After talking extensively with the director, we showed up the next day for a "meet and greet" with Isaac's class, an unofficial time for the kiddos to play with the security-blanket of parent nearby, before they get thrown them together, parentless and cold turkey, on Tuesday.

It was awesome. Isaac occasionally played with some kids, and the teachers took special time to sit with Isaac individually and interact with him. Dude also whipped out his $5 word in front of the director, informing me that "those cabinets are multicolored!" So perfect. And speaking of multicolored, before we were there for 20 minutes, one of the teachers had already added a certain special blond man to the roster (which is minus a few classmates who felt a special pull for their nametag):



So, after all that crap, we have a great new preschool to call home. Isaac's first day is tomorrow. Wish him luck.

A second child's smooth moves

I carry Jacob a lot, so much so that he has in the past week taught himself to say "Carry Me!" in the most unmistakeable way. He is totally spoiled and very heavy, and I keep thinking I should quit indulging him so much, except that he is very, very cute and squishy. And, have you seen my arms? They are seriously ripped. I thank him for that.

You can imagine that most of my conversations with Jacob take place with his voice about 4 inches away from my ear, which is not a bad thing. He's not overly loud or obnoxious. But having him on my hip, and not in front of me, tends to make him lose in the constant conversational battle between him, Isaac, and Dada, who occasionally all have something to say to me at the same time. But The Jake, he has ways of controlling the situation.

Take, for example, today as we were exiting IKEA, well past our lunch time. A nice healthy snacking lunch of fruit, string cheese, and pretzels awaits them in the car, but the boys have seen the giant-sized posters of hot dogs touted at the cafe as we stand in line to pay for our new trappings, and they won't be denied. "Daddy, we want hot dogs for lunch," suggests Isaac, and his hip-attached, parroting brother chimes along in my ear, "Hot dog. Hot dog." Dada takes both of them towards the cafe to take care of business, leaving me behind to perform my duties as family debit-card wielder.

Everything bought, I look around for the fellas. No O'Neal boys at the cafe, or at the dining area. Where could they be? Ah, there they are, at the exit. But what's this? "Where are the hot dogs?" I say to Dada, which you can imagine was precisely the wrong thing to say. Apparently Dada was trying to entertain them at an IKEA little-person activity center to get their minds off the hot dogs, and my mention of it reminds them. They all start talking. Dada is telling me why they have no hot dogs. Isaac is telling me why he needs a hot dog. Somewhere around my right ear there is a faint mumbling, which I don't recognize as Jacob until he does his new signature move, one which could only be choreographed by a second child.

Perched firmly on my hip, he tightens his left arm around my right and swings the top half of his body toward my chest, so that he is, literally, in my face; I can't possibly carry on a conversation with anyone else, let alone walk. He cocks his head and opens his eyes wide, as if talking very patiently to someone whom he knows from experience is very hard of hearing. He looks me straight in the eyes and says slowly, "Hot. Dog."

Happy Birthday, Periwinkle Ryan!

Our dear blogfriend, Mrs. Periwinkle, emailed me a month ago to ask if we O'Neals would like to come to Ryan's 4th birthday party. She said her Ryan asked for my Isaac by name, even though it had been nearly a year (how is that possible?) since we'd last seen them in person. That Ryan, he is something special.

So come we did, out of the house, all four O'Neals together, for our first outing since the Great Stomach Flu of Oh-Seven hit our house a week and a half ago. We traveled down the I-95 corridor in no traffic at all, chasing big trucks at Isaac's command, and in a blink we were at a door bedecked with Curious George.

I tell you, that Mrs. Periwinkle has a serious future in party-planning, if she should choose to accept it. Everything was George-themed, from the pin-the-whipped-cream-on-George's-sundae to the napkins and plates, but my favorite party things were ones Mrs. P had planned out according to situations in Curious George books.

*From one George book (where he gets a job?) about a painting adventure, there were cupcakes "splattered" with red, yellow, and blue icing, and then atop one cupcake, a George stood, also splattered with colored icing. To continue the painting theme, the walls in their brand-new, unpainted addition were covered with art paper. My babies greatly enjoyed covering the "walls" with paint until they discovered they could paint the paper-covered floor with their feet. How George-like of them.

*From "Curious George and the Ice Cream Shop", Mrs. Periwinkle assembled us for a build-your-own sundae bar. Isaac topped his favorite, chocolate, with gummy bears, dinosaur sprinkles, dot sprinkles, and M&Ms before giving up and eating only M&Ms. It was up to his mom to make sure that sundae didn't go to waste.

The coolest part of any party, though, is always the people. The birthday monkey, Ryan really did remember Isaac, and Isaac took a quick and natural shine to him. He talked about Ryan all the way home. They both seem to be of the same relative temperament, both sweet, gentle, casual guys. We got to meet Ryan's dad and also his grandma, Joan S., a frequent commenter on the Periwinkle site. And naturally the Baby Human family was there, for whom we are total junkies. We got to meet the Babiest Human and the Daddy Human for the first time, a total treat. The Daddies, all three of them, even engaged in man-talk together.

As a parting gift, both boys got a grab-bag full of George- themed goodies, and Isaac got a new George book. The Baby Human family had to jet before we could say goodbye (Goodbye!) due to an impending preschooler explosion, and apparently we left none too soon to avoid that on our accounts, too, as both babies were passed out in their car seats less than 10 minutes down the road.

Thanks for showing us such a good time, Periwinkles! I hope we can get together again before another year runs away from us!

(and naturally, your breaking news source, Tale of a Baby Human, has another account here)

Curious George's pipe-smoking adventures

Ryan's Curious George-themed party made me remember how I've beeen wanting to write a bit about our own adventures in the sometimes off-color world of Curious George.

Isaac went through about 6 months where he was psycho for Curious George books, and he still likes them very much, though now his rabid book love has been transferred to Mike Mulligan. I was happy to indulge his George phase because those books were so easy to find at the library -- the librarian even stacks them on a special shelf at knee-level so little fans can pick through them themselves -- and because what few books we can't get at the library only cost $4 pop.

I think Isaac enjoys the obvious insanity of George doing all kinds of things Isaac (and George) knows George shouldn't ... although a few of the things George shouldn't do, he REALLY shouldn't do, if you get my drift. Now, there are, like, literally 50 George books, and almost all of them are really great fun and funny. The Captain Insano situations are almost entirely sequestered to the original handful of books written by H.A. Rey and his wife, Margret, in the 50s and 60s, and are written with that era's audience in mind.

One example -- in the very first book, the Man in the Yellow Hat blatantly kidnaps George from the jungle, for the apparent purpose of taking him to a zoo back in the states. While at the Man's house, George smokes a pipe as part of his bedtime routine.

Another example, in "Curious George Gets a Medal", George accidentally demolishes an exhibit of dinosaurs at the science museum. The museum director tells his seeming-henchmen to take George "back to the zoo", that is, until the director learns that this troublemaker is the one and only George. Then he asks George to go on a mission to space on an untested teeny rocket built by the museum scientists. If George would agree, you know, to risk his life, then "all would be forgiven".

A crime-free-'50s George moment can be found in "Curious George Rides a Bike". George rides his bike into a rock and wrecks the front wheel, forcing him to pop a permanent wheelie. Two dudes in a truck in crazy green suits see him, stop him, and lure him into their truck with promises that his bike-riding trick will be the highlight of their animal show. Look, here's a green cap just for you! they say. This potential monkey-napping scene is offset, however, by the coolness of the illustrated, step-by-step instructions on how to make your own boat (that floats!) out of newspaper.

Perhaps my favorite super-naughty George moment is in "Curious George Goes to the Hospital", which is quite possibly the most perfect cautionary tale ever. George thinks a puzzle piece is candy and swallows it, making him sick enough to necessitate a hospital visit. While at the hospital, he sees a big, strange blue bottle full of some mysterious liquid and goes over to take a big whiff. Poor George, it's ether (ETHER!), and he PASSES OUT and has to be awakened by a cold shower. Note to Curious Preschooler: Don't put strange things in your mouth. Also, huffing is bad.

Again, I don't really mean to pick on George -- I just think it's a funny how certain topics that you would never find in picture books today (huffing ether!) find a permanent place on Isaac's bookshelf because it's that crazy George, getting into Greatest-Generation-style trouble, UH-gain. Sigh. If only my greatest worry was my kids' friendly bedtime smoke...