Soccer For Tots

Or, as it should be called, Soccer For Parents and (Sort Of) Their Tots.

Kiddle went to his first soccer session today with his buds LK and Jack. His class is all three-year-olds and, as I'm sure you can imagine, it was totally chaotic and adorable. Their "field" was an entangled mass of kids and parents: "Hey, let's go listen to Coach Matt." "No, no, stay in the grid, please." "You've already got a ball; you don't need Emmett's too." As expected, super natural athlete Jack rocked it and LK was one of the best at actually listening to Coach Matt and following directions. As for Kiddle ...

He hasn't quite figured out you DON'T use your hands:



Or that you DO use your feet:



But when you get to BUILD A ROCKET SHIP and kick the ball? Suddenly, he's focused and into it:

Blast Off!

Such a silly little thing to write about, but I want to make sure I remember it. And what's a blog for, if not to wax (un)poetically about any silly ol' thing you want, right?

Kiddle's imagination hasn't really kicked in too much yet. He'll play with his animals, but mostly in a putting-them-in-and-out-of-the-barn approach, or he might go as far as re-enacting a bit from the Backyardigans or Sesame Street. I see glimmers of true imagination now and then, but I was particularly struck by something he did tonight while we were getting him ready for bed.

He already had a sippy cup of water in hand, when he discovered a slinky on a bedside table in our room. He first tried to fit the cup through the slinky, telling me it was TOO BIG. But next he stuck the slinky on the bottom of the cup, while letting it dangle toward the ground, and told me it was a ROCK-ET SHIP.

Why, yes, little one, that absolutely looks like a rocket ship! Brilliant!

Well, maybe not brilliant, but I was sure impressed since that's not the sort of thing he usually does. He then spent a while counting down a blast off from the ground and flying his rocket ship around the room. That part was brilliant because he totally distracted me from the fact that he was supposed to be going to bed.

It's the little things.

A tiny bit of progress today in the language department for Kiddle today. The last couple of weeks I've been working with him on how he makes requests. As in, instead of just saying "cookie," say "can I have a cookie?" This is our usual conversation:

"Cookie?"
"How do you ask for things, Kiddle? Can I have ...?"
"Haf"
"Can I have ..."
"Haf"
"Can I have ..."
"Haf"
"Ok, let's try it this way ... can?"
"Can. I. Haf. De. Cookie?"
"Yes! Yes, you can. Very good, Kiddle."

Annoying, isn't it? So I was very pleased tonight when he came up to me and said, "More milk?" Of course I replied, "How do you ask for things?" And he said ... wait for it ... "Can. I. Haf. De. Milk?" WITHOUT ANY PROMPTING. Woo hoo!

***

I guess I'm finally realizing how completely unnatural language and speech progression is for him. Don't get me wrong, I'm well aware how far behind he is — more than a year. And he's simply not going to just catch on to this talking thing. He's definitely made progress, but it's been excruciatingly slow. His receptive language is fine. He might be a bit delayed there, but for the most part he seems to understand everything you say. It's just hard to tell the difference right now between not understanding and a toddler's penchant for ignoring you.

His expressive language, on the other hand, is a disaster. At first we thought it was mostly an articulation issue, but, six months into speech therapy, it's obvious that it goes beyond that. Although, in my mind, it's still a bit of a chicken-egg conundrum. Does he express himself with very simple word combos because that's all he can do or because that's the only way anyone understands him? Hmmm. Who knows?

He's definitely using more sentences and phrases, but this exercise of trying to get him to say "can I have ..." has been enlightening. He still can't say it as a smooth phrase; it's always chopped up into separate words. It's so hard to see him struggling with this, but also thrilling when he accomplishes something so tiny as using the phrase without a direct prompt. It's crazy that he's just turned three and has the language skills of a not-yet-two-year-old.

The day he says "can I have more milk" without any coaching? I'll fall off my chair, I swear.

Heartbroken

This morning I heard the devastating news that a friend's three-month-old baby boy died this weekend.

I guess it's not entirely accurate to say that Shana is a friend since we've never met. But after finding her blog in a roundabout way, I've followed along and feel oddly connected to her. You see, as we figured out through a string of emails, not only are we both from Oklahoma City and pregnant at the "advanced maternal age" of 39, we graduated from neighboring high schools the same year and both had a long-term boyfriend from the same group of guys (although at slightly different times so we're not sure if we ever actually crossed paths). The wild wide web is a small little world, isn't it?

Thalon was born at the end of December, destined to be the hapless younger brother of two wildly opinionated older sisters. I checked in on her site this morning and was shocked to see that Thalon was in the hospital and seemingly not expected to make it. I frantically scanned through all the comments of support and prayer, sobbing uncontrollably and trying to glean any info I could on his condition, when I realized he had died. I don't know the details of what happened, although I think I can guess. Whatever happened, it's every parent's worst nightmare. Three months old. Goddamn it.

This is the second friend of mine who's lost a new baby in the last year. The first had serious heart issues, so while the news was devastating, it wasn't totally unexpected. This one was totally out of the blue and, at eight months pregnant, has left me reeling. So many things can go wrong so quickly with these fragile little bodies and souls given to our care. I don't want to be that crazy parent hovering over my child 24 hours a day — and I still won't be, it's just not in my nature — yet that precious life can be snatched from you in a split second. It simply isn't fair.

I've been a basket case all day. And stressing out poor Kiddle as well. While he was eating lunch, I saw Shana's post confirming that Thalon had died and returned to the table with tears streaming down my face. He looked at me and said, "Mama crying? Whas de matter, Mommy?" I said, "Mommy's sad but I'm ok. Don't worry. I'm ok." He climbed up in my lap and stared at me with the saddest little frown on his face and touched my face. Then two fat tears rolled down his cheeks which, of course, made me cry even harder. What a sweet little soul.

As for me, I'd been feeling really odd all day. Just kind of off. My joints felt tight and I could feel my blood pounding in my ears and throughout my body. I couldn't separate what I was feeling physically from my anxiety and upset about Thalon, and since we're keeping an eye out for preeclampsia with this pregnancy, I was worried my blood pressure was spiking — and I knew I was probably making it worse by stressing out over it. I finally gave in and headed up to my doctor's office to get checked out (I know ... that's so unlike me). They were lovely and wonderful as always, and ended up doing the full exam that I was scheduled for on Thursday. It turns out my blood pressure was up a bit, but once I heard it wasn't terrible, I calmed down and it had dropped back down to normal before I left. I'm so glad I went against my basic I'm-sure-it's-fine nature though. I would have really worked myself up into a tizzy and not slept a wink tonight. Now I can worry about Shana, Kiddle and this kid-to-be with a little more peace of mind.

I'm off to make sure Kiddle is still breathing. Please keep Shana and her family in your thoughts.

Happy Easter!

Kiddle still has no concept of the Easter Bunny ... but he loves what the Easter Bunny brings him! We had an unfortunately-indoors-due-to-the-pouring-rain egg hunt for him and his two best buds yesterday. They were hysterical racing around to gather their eggs (so glad Kiddle and I practiced ahead of time!) and they loved opening each one to find a little treasure. He definitely gets the concept of "treats." For dinner last night, I finally put his blueberries in an egg, just so he'd stop asking for a treat. And, fortunately, it did the trick.

We spent the day today in Queens, having Easter dinner with Mr. P's family. And the birthday presents kept coming ... a new backpack, a new puzzle and some sticker books. More cake and — the best part — another round of "Happy Birthday" and candles.

At the arboretum

Last night was the start of Passover ... so no preschool today (and no preschool next week ... oy vey.) What does this synagogue think I am? Jewish?

To fill our morning, LK's mom and I took the kiddos to an absolutely gorgeous arboretum near our town. It was a glorious spring day — one of those days that gives you hope for the future. And the kids had a fantastic time. The grounds are those of an old, historic home and have been lovingly cultivated into formal gardens, open fields, a wildflower trail, a woodlands trail and an amazing field of daffodils. We'll definitely be heading back there soon.

And an extra bonus for the day ... he took an actual nap, in an actual bed, for TWO AND A HALF HOURS for the first time in weeks. Hooray!

The party continues ...

Today Kiddle celebrated his birthday at school. Figuring that the kiddos (and teachers) might be a bit cupcake'd out after LK's and Mabel and Liam's birthdays the last two weeks, I took tiny little ice cream cups. And the ice cream was a big hit, I think.

He's really into the singing of the birthday song now, and definitely knows it's for him. I love this clip because he had adamantly refused to put on his special birthday crown moments before — until the singing starts and he quickly changes his tune. "Oh, it's MY birthday? Quick! Where's my crown?"

Happy Birthday Kiddle!

Three years old today! It's hard to believe. (And, yes, I know I said that last year and will continue to say it every year of his life. As my mom still does about me!)

We had a birthday party for him at the house yesterday. I admit it was somewhat last minute, because eons ago I thought we might be moving before his birthday, so I had pretty much put party planning out of my head. I finally realized a few weeks before that it might be a good idea to do some celebrating, especially considering that the imminent arrival of a major life disruption is looming.

But, despite my procrastination, it all came together quite well. The theme was Old McDonald's Farm since he's still obsessed with animals. The kiddos wore cowboy hats, decorated farm-animal-shaped cookies (made from scratch by me, thankyouverymuch), sang a spirited version of "Old McDonald" complete with cow, horse, pig and duck visors, and, of course, had the staples of three-year-old birthday parties — pizza and cupcakes. I kept the guest list tiny — just LK, Jack, Mabel and Liam, plus Grandpa, Grandma and all the parents — mostly to keep the cookie decorating manageable. Kiddle had a fantastic time and really seems to be grasping the "birthday" concept.

Today has been pretty low-key. We spread out the gift opening by tying a helium balloon to a gift every couple of hours and sending him off to look for it. He got lots of puzzles, books, a giant John Deere tractor and wagon, a new backpack, a kid-size wheelbarrow and a BIKE. (Well, one of the pedal-less ones so he can learn to balance.)

So, it's been a pretty successful birthday weekend so far with still more to come: a celebration at preschool on Tuesday, then one last chance to blow out the candles with Mr. P's family at Easter dinner next weekend.

Happy birthday, my little one! I love you more than words can describe.

Three Years Ago Today: Kiddle's BIRTHday!

Wednesday. It's well after midnight and this kid is NOT coming out.

I'd been pushing since 9:00. He definitely had the cool 04/05/06 birthday at this point, but you know what would be even cooler? If he was born at 1:23 on 4/5/06. Something to aim for ... and miss, as we blew right past the time.

Finally, it was decision time. Keep going or c-section? We decided it was best just to get the kid out. He obviously wasn't going to cooperate, even after almost six hours of pushing. I was amazed at how quickly things moved once we made the decision. And at 3:24 am, Kiddle arrived into the world. All 8 1/2 pounds of him.

Happy birthday, little one!

Snow in April, just for your birthday.

And, finally, after 3 1/2 days of jaundice and low blood sugar for him, and hormonal crying jags and super swollen feet for me ... we were on our way home.

And those boxes of work stuff I shipped home to organize? They're still in my attic, untouched and, since no one came looking for the stuff, apparently unnecessary.

Three Years Ago Today: April 4th

Tuesday. The induction is underway.

We met Elizabeth at the hospital the night before. To keep the TMI level down, I'll just say the first step is a procedure to help get my pregnant parts ready to go. Fortunately it doesn't involve me doing anything; just hanging out and trying to get some sleep. Although I did start having some small contractions early in the morning, so after that, sleep was hard to come by.

I should take a moment here to say how wonderful it was working with my midwives — Barbara and Elizabeth. (An extra side note: Barbara is originally from OKC and attended Putnam City before West or North existed.) One of the main reasons I chose to go that route instead of an obstetrician was the personal care you receive throughout the labor process. And their relationship with the hospital staff came into play from the very beginning for me: I was not going to get along with my nurse. Mrs. Green.

Ah, Mrs. Green. If only I knew your first name. Old school, old school, old school. Our first clash was seconds after we walked into my room and she couldn't understand why I wanted to wear my own gown instead of a hospital gown. (Do you realize how long I could be here before I have this baby, Mrs. Green?) Then she whips out a needle to stick an IV in my arm and I had the NERVE to question her. (Barbara had specifically told me I didn't need an IV through this first stage. And once you have that IV your mobility is much more restricted.) Through gritted teeth, she agreed to hold off until Elizabeth arrived. And, of course, no IV was confirmed once she got there. Thankfully, Elizabeth was able to switch me to a different nurse. Thank you, sweet Elizabeth. I would have had a needle in my arm all night and my ass hanging out if I'd been with an OB instead of a midwife.

So other than some minor contractions, not much was happening. I was able to take a shower (no IV, thankyouverymuch) and have a bit of breakfast before the real induction started -- a pitocin drip around 10:00 that morning. But that pitocin is some powerful stuff. Over the course of the morning and early afternoon, my contractions were getting incredibly painful. I kept asking Elizabeth, "If I was laboring at home would you have sent me to the hospital yet?" And she kept answering, "No, not yet." Sweet Jesus!

My original plan had been to use the birthing center at the hospital — which means no epidural. Insanely, or perhaps ignorantly, enough I still wanted to see if I could make it through the birth drug-free. And I lasted a good long while. Even Elizabeth seemed impressed. But, I'll tell you, getting induced HURTS. Pitocin is some nasty stuff. And it got even worse after she manually broke my water. By 5:00 I couldn't take it anymore. We did one more check and found that I was still only dilated to 5cm. Bring on the drugs! NOW! And by 5:30 I was in heaven.

Epidurals are amazing. I still wish I could have avoided it, but I couldn't believe the difference. I went from incredible agony to bliss in moments. I even slept for a bit. And, around 9:00, Barbara had arrived to relieve Elizabeth, I was FINALLY dilated to 10cm, so we decided I could start pushing.

Mr. P and I had joked when we arrived at the hospital the night before that it was too bad I'd have the baby on April 4th, instead of April 5th ... it would be much cooler for his birthday to be 04-05-06.

Little did we know.

Three Years Ago Today: April 3rd

Monday. Felt much, much better after the stomach flu from hell over the weekend. And due back in the city once again for a non-stress test at the hospital.

When I got pregnant, I made the decision to work with my midwives and deliver in the city, even though I live in New Jersey. It made the most sense really, since I spent most of my time in town anyway and I was just as likely to go into labor at the office as at home. And if I was at home, without traffic we could easily make it to the hospital in half an hour. (Be sure to keep "without traffic" in mind as I continue.)

Potential preeclampsia was still a concern, but I'd held it together fairly well and there I was: two weeks to go. I left that morning for the hospital in plenty of time to account for the usual mid-morning traffic. Except it turned out to be an unusual day. TWO AND A HALF HOURS to get to the west side of Manhattan. TWO AND A HALF HOURS!! I was over an hour late to my appointment and so stressed out by the time I got there you could have popped me with a fork.

TRIP COUNT: 4

I finally get in for my ultrasound (looks good), my urine test (4+ ... that's really bad), but guess what? My blood pressure is up. IMAGINE THAT? I just spent two hours sitting in traffic on the West Side Highway. Then the doctor on call that day says to me, "Since your blood pressure is high, I think we'll just admit you now and induce you tonight."

Excuse me?

Can I go home first? Can I collect my husband first — who's in Connecticut for a meeting, by the way — so we don't end up with two cars in the city? Can I eat first? Can I pack a bag first? Can I take a shower first? AM I IN IMMINENT DANGER OF EXPLODING? If the answer is no, I'm NOT checking into the hospital at this exact moment.

I refused to do anything without talking to my midwife. And I should probably mention here that I'm sobbing hysterically and uncontrollably by this point. So I sob through a phone call to my midwives' office. And I sob through a phone call to Mr. P, scaring the bejeezus out of him. (Poor thing had literally just pulled into the parking lot for his meeting. Fortunately the guy he was meeting with happened to be a friend from college and was perfectly understanding when Mr. P said, "Hey. Just outside your door ... but I have to leave.")

As it turned out, one of my midwives was already at the hospital, so I stood outside the prenatal reception area waiting for her — still sobbing hysterically and uncontrollably. I can only imagine what all the other pregnant women were thinking. I tried to maintain my distance and cry as quietly as I could so I wouldn't scare anyone to death.

Elizabeth, the voice of reason, arrived and said, "Yes, let's go ahead and get that baby out. But of course you can go home, sweetie. Dr. Rosen has the bedside manner of a brick. Find your husband, eat, take a shower, get yourself together and come back tonight around 6:00." Thank you, sweet Elizabeth. And fuck you, Dr. Rosen.

By that point, I had calmed down enough to drive home. And so I went. I met up with Mr. P, ate a cheeseburger, took a shower, shaved my legs, packed a bag and headed back into the city.

To have a baby. Oh Lord!

TRIP COUNT: 5

Our "police escort" back into the city. Or so we said, anyway, as we fell in behind a long caravan of Homeland Security cars heading into the Lincoln Tunnel.

Three Years Ago Today: April 1st

Saturday. Just over two weeks until my due date.

I got up that morning feeling like a truck had run over me. I had a splitting headache. I was nauseous. And my entire abdomen was cramping in wave after excruciating wave. Surely this couldn't be labor, could it? It just didn't feel right. Then Mr. P, who had been out all night at a job site, came home. Feeling the exact same way.

Aha! Stomach flu.

I knew I should touch base with my midwife. She was at the hospital with another client and wanted me to come in just to get checked out, so we headed into Manhattan. Along the way we stopped for some orange juice, because I hadn't eaten that day and I'd heard horror stories about being urged into giving birth early because of blood counts that could have been fixed with a little food. I started drinking the juice just after we came out of the Lincoln Tunnel and by the time we pulled up to the hospital at 58th & 10th, I was barfing into a plastic bag.

Definitely the stomach flu.

TRIP COUNT: 3

Up in the maternity triage, the baby and all my vitals checked out fine, thank goodness. So they simply hooked me up to an IV for a couple of hours to make sure I didn't get dehydrated. Boy, IVs can do wonders! I felt significantly better by the time we left there. We stocked up on Gatorade and ginger ale and spent the rest of the weekend recovering.

But don't forget about poor Mr. P. He was suffering, too, and had been awake all night. But since he wasn't pregnant ... no IV for you, sir! He spent the two hours feeling like total hell and trying to sleep on the cold, hard floor next to my bed in the tiny, tiny triage bay. The next day I was all perky and raring to go, while he still wanted to curl into a ball and die.

Moral of the story? It's simple. Don't get the stomach flu two weeks before your due date. And don't get the stomach flu two weeks before your wife's due date. Neither of us recommend it.

The Story of Thomas's Birth, or How Many Prenatal Trips Can I Take into Manhattan in One Week?

In honor of Thomas's upcoming birthday, and since childbirth is on my mind and bladder, I thought I'd write down all the thrilling, and not so thrilling, details of his birth. Especially before I forget the details or start confusing them with this next kid. TMI alert! I'll apologize now for any overshare in the next few posts.

I'd had a pretty easy pregnancy. No major issues, no major cravings or aversions, not very hormonal and still moving around well. Until I had five weeks to go; then I started to fall apart. I hadn't gained a lot of weight so far, maybe 10 or 12 pounds. Then I showed up for my 35 week appointment and had gained four pounds in two weeks. Yikes. Retaining water much? From that point on, swelling definitely became more of an issue. I also started showing protein in my urine. Those are two of the indicators for preeclampsia (a serious blood pressure condition during pregnancy), but since my blood pressure was still ok, I wasn't labelled as such. Absolutely something to keep a close eye on, and the only way to solve it is to deliver the baby. Not the best option when you're still four or five weeks out from your due date.

Because of these concerns, I'd started working from home that week. But on Thursday, I had my 37 week appointment, so I also went to the office for a while — really just to pack up and ship out all the piles and piles of papers I had everywhere, so I could get organized while hanging out at home the next couple of weeks. (Or so I thought. The boxes were delivered to me on Monday just as I was leaving to go be induced.) At my appointment, my protein level was higher than it had been, so we scheduled a non-stress test at the hospital for Monday, just to make sure the baby was doing ok.

TRIP COUNT: 1

By this time, the baby appeared to be rather large. And since I had a major fear of having a 10 pound baby, preeclampsia was looming and I was into my 38th week (and past the point of having a preemie), we all agreed it was best if I could get this kid out sooner, rather than later. I had decided to try some acupuncture. Two of my good friends had been successful with acupuncture when overdue; both went into labor within 24 hours. I certainly wasn't expecting those kind of results. After all it was still two weeks before my due date, but was hopeful it could help get things moving. My first appointment was on Friday, so I headed back into the city once again.

TRIP COUNT: 2

The birthday party circuit.

Three parties, three weekends in a row. Although I know I shouldn't even slightly sound like I'm complaining, because I do know it will just get worse. After all, he only has nine kids in his preschool class (including two sets of twins) and one of those parties is his own.

Last weekend was LK's party at Kidz Village. This week we had Mabel and Liam's at MyGym. Kiddle had a great time at both, but it was a bit of an eye-opening experience for me in light of a recent conversation I had with his preschool teachers about his development. They're a little worried about him because he has a hard time focusing in a group setting, so it was interesting to see him in action during the structured vs. unstructured sections of the parties.

Unstructured ... he's fantastic. He has a blast running around, climbing and chasing his friends. Structured ... not so much. At Kelly's party, Mr. P and I had to sit by the door of the party room to keep him from heading back to the play area and he could not be bothered to join the dance party. At Mabel and Liam's party, again, he had no interest in going along with the group songs and activities. Except, of course, when they sang "Old McDonald." He was all over that, but the second the song ended? Outta there!

Water Play

Here's what you find when you leave your almost-three-year-old alone in the upstairs bathroom. He had insisted "NO DOWNSTAIR" because he had to give his animals a bath. But I had things to do downstairs, so rather than lug his kicking, screaming, writhing little body down with me, I decided to leave him there. I am terribly proud of him, though, that he kept most of the water in the sink. I was fully expecting a river to be trickling down the stairs upon my return. (And, no, that hair dryer is NOT plugged in, thankyouverymuch.)

Sleep, sweet sleep.

Here it is ... Kiddle's first nap in weeks. Of course it's only because he fell asleep in the car while we were taking his babysitter home. At 4:30. He woke up for a brief moment when I carried him inside, but passed out again immediately on the couch. Great, just great.

"Kiddle? Cottage cheese? Cookie? COOKIE!"

"Kiddle ... Daddy's home! Look, he's eating a cookie!

"Oh Kiddle ... want to watch Ranch Hands from Outer Space? TASHA! ORANGE HOUSE! HORSE ON MY HEAD! SPACE! SPACE!"

Nothing broke through the coma. He eventually woke up about 6:00. Refreshed and raring to go. Great, just great.

***

Dropping his nap has thrown me for a bit of a loop. I really hoped he'd keep it at least through the summer, as I adapt to a two-kid household. But he's only napped a handful of times since Christmas. Ugh. I still enforce "quiet time" but it's impossible to force a two-year-old to sit on his bed and read books quietly. So quiet time has evolved into "video time" where we both lay down on my bed and watch a video. Well, he watches, while I attempt to nap in between bouts of "Mama, Mama, wake up, wake up!" and "Kiddle, stop jumping on the bed RIGHT NOW or I'll turn off the TV."

Unfortunately just because he won't sleep, it doesn't mean he doesn't need to sleep. He's exhausted in the afternoon and it's extremely dangerous to put him in the car after 4:00. And we simply can't go out to dinner anymore because he just isn't in a state to handle it. Our ideal schedule right now is dinner at 5:30, upstairs for a bath at 6:00, in bed by 7:00. This summer will be especially rough, I suspect, because he'll have to go home while all his little friends are still outside playing. I'm still hoping he'll realize naps are ok and revert back to them, but that hope is very, very dim.

The plus side is that he's in bed by 7:30. And I have my evenings to myself. But, of course, my ideal is for him to take a two-hour nap and still be in bed by 7:00. Too much to ask, I suppose. But I'm really hoping this next kid is a sleeper. Is that too much to ask?

***

So here we are ... it's almost 9:30 and he's still awake. I've been up there, Mr. P's been up there, but he's still rustling around and fussing. He'll probably give it up soon, but it's going to be a long night and an early morning, I suspect.

Love those late afternoon snoozes. Grr.

No man's land.

It remains my futile goal to get Kiddle to bed by 7:00 (and that means by himself and asleep by 7:00). Last night wasn't too bad. Skipped his bath, as usual (man, he's one dirty kid by now), and had him down about 7:15. He, however, missed the memo that he needs to go to SLEEP at that time. He cried for a few minutes, but quickly gave up tears for rearranging the furniture. He spent a long time rocking in the big red chair in such a way that it was hitting both his closet door that doesn't latch closed AND the gate on the door, so it was like listening to a drum solo up there. BOOM-CLICK-RATTLE. BOOM-CLICK-RATTLE. But we continued to ignore him because usually he'll settle down and go to sleep soon enough.

The rocking eventually stopped and he moved on to counting with gusto and singing the ABCs, with a plainitive "MOM-MEEE" thrown in every now and then. Still, we ignored him.

Finally, at 8:15, he started getting upset, so I gave in and headed up to intervene ... and found him draped over the gate at the top of the stairs. He had used the rocking chair to bypass the gate on his door and was now trapped in the hall. And probably had been for a good half hour.

I thought his counting/singing seemed a little louder than ususal. Whoops.

School is cool.

If you've been following along for a while, you'll know that Kiddle has had some going-to-school issues. He's much, much, much improved but his common quip as we pull into the carpool line is "NO KOOL, NO KOOL," and sometimes there are still some tears as he walks away with his teacher.

Imagine my surprise today when when he was giggling to himself as we got in line, and when I trotted out my cheerleader-ish "Yay school!," he actually clapped and said, "YAY KOOL!!" as well. Shocker.

Think he'll have a meltdown next Tuesday?

Truck Timeout

Gorgeous day out today. It was so nice to spend the afternoon outdoors, playing in the backyard, racing around the park, and hanging out with our neighbors. Days like this renew my hope for spring.

One of Kiddle's favourite outdoor activities right now is racing his big dump truck up and down the front sidewalk. He's generally pretty good about listening to me when I tell him to stop and wait for me. But, as he's contractually obligated to as a toddler, sometimes he has to push the boundaries. Like today when he not only kept racing toward the busy-ish street at the end of our block, but went AROUND THE CORNER as I was yelling at him to stop. So I caught up with him, picked up the truck and marched him back to the house as he tried his damnedest to wrestle it away from me. MAH TRUH! MAH TRUH! MAH TRUH! Too bad, kiddo. Now it's Mommy's truck.

When we finally arrived at the backyard, I wedged the truck up in the dogwood tree for a timeout. You would have thought I cut off his right hand. The sobbing and dramatics went on for ages. All the way through lunch, in fact. TRUH IN TREE. TRUH IN TREE. HEP TRUH, MAMA. Yes, little one, the truck is in the tree because you didn't listen to Mommy.

But I have to say it was a remarkably effective weapon for the rest of the day. Anytime he was headed down the driveway and ignored me when I said to turn around, all I had to say was "Do you want me to put the truck back in the tree?" Immediate compliance!

Who's "Extra Little"?

I guess I should explain.

When Kiddle was an infant, I usually referred to him as Little Kid (much to Mr. P's annoyance because he thought it sounded like I didn't know Kiddle's name — until he started calling him Little Kid, too). Eventually Little Kid was shortened to just Little, which later evolved into Kiddle. We don't use those nicknames much anymore, but at one point we did become a bit concerned he might be Little for the rest of his life. I mean, who wants to be known as Little at 40?

Anyway, I've been struggling with what I should call this new kid in my musings here. And Extra Little seems fitting since he'll be my second, extra kiddo. So Extra Little it is ... at least until he shows up and something else seems to fit better.