Bits and bytes.

Kiddle: "Mommy, get off my computer!"
Me: "Excuse me? It's MY computer. I just let you use it."
Kiddle: "NO, Mommy. That's MY computer. YOU. GET. OUT. OF. THERE."

Wow. Needless to say, I did not get out of there.

***

We're not going to make it to Oklahoma for Christmas this year, so my mom ordered some gifts for the boys. You know, ON THE COMPUTER. She managed to get Kiddle's Imaginext Gorilla Mountain ordered from Walmart with only one phone call to me. Pretty good so far. But then she emailed me that when she ordered a puzzle from Amazon for Kiddle, she accidentally ordered TWO. Seriously. How does one do that? I can see missing the "2" in the quantity box, but it seems like the total cost should have tipped her off. God bless her.

It does make me wonder what technology will be in place in 20-30 years that stumps me to the point of driving Kiddle and Bigga crazy. I just try to keep that in mind whenever my mom is gearing up to place some orders. Patience ... patience.

***

Several years ago — you know, when I had a real job and was paid to be on the computer excessively — my right wrist was bothering me to the point that I had to switch my mouse over to the left side. And LIKED it. I could still write with my right hand and manipulate a document with the left, or, even more importantly, eat my lunch and surf around online. That practice was carried over to home and continues to this day, much to the annoyance of Mr. P anytime he tries to hop on my computer for a quick look at something.

But I decided to sacrifice my convenience for the kiddo. You see, he's got GREAT gross motor skills and pretty good fine motor skills. Or so I thought. Apparently school doesn't think so, simply because he can't draw a circle or use scissors very well. But he doesn't like to do those things so I hadn't pushed him too hard in the artsy-craftsy fields. What he does like to do is while away his time on the computer, which certainly requires a bit of fine motor coordination. He gets lots of practice — with his LEFT hand. And he's a righty. Whoops.

So I've officially switched back to a right-handed mouse. I know, I know, what a wonderful mom I am, giving up my ability to eat a sandwich while keeping myself updated on my Facebook friends' minutiae and all. And hopefully I'll find the sacrifice was worth it when Kiddle's school notebook is full of perfect circles, expertly cut out snowflakes, and in-the-lines colouring.

Kiddle-isms

Kiddle's speech has improved dramatically in the last month or so. He's probably still a bit hard to understand if you don't know him, and there are certainly times WE don't know what he's saying either. But lately I've been so impressed with his clarity, his increased flexibility in using language and that he's adding words or phrases or concepts that he's picked up at school and — this is the important part — I CAN UNDERSTAND HIM. Before, if I didn't know exactly what he was saying, or couldn't put it in context, it was all gobbledy-gook.

So I'm retiring the title of Mush Mouth. Going forward, his always interesting, and often funny, approach to language will be known as "kiddle-isms."

***

It's always amused me to hear my words come back to me out of the mouth of a three year old, and now I have the added enjoyment of hearing his teacher and classmates, too. Lately he's started saying "unh-uh" (as in, "Do you want peanut butter for dinner?" "Unh-uh!") and I can just picture Ms Tara's face everytime he pops out an, "Oh my gosh!"

***

Two of his favourite animals in the jungle? A pink-a-mingo and a croc-a-idle. Too cute!

That is not a handle!

I'm so tired of Bigga using my ponytail as a handle and all the pulling and grabbing of my hair in general. I mean I'm REALLY tired of it. To the point that I don't like to pick him up right now and I have to carry him facing away from me. I swear his first words will be, "Let go. Let GO! LET GO!!!"

I told Mr. P that one of these days I'm going to chuck him across the room in frustration ... but unfortunately he'll be attached to my head, so that won't work. I'd just end up tossing myself with him.

At least he hasn't discovered my earrings ... so far. But I'm sure that the day he realizes they're there will be the day I lose an ear.

Freddy Finklestein.

Kiddle recently realized that his fingers get all wrinkly when he's been in the bath a long time ... or sucking on his fingers while on the computer.

"Look, Mommy," he said one day with concern. "Look at my fingers."
"It's ok, sweetie. They're just wrinkled because you had them in your mouth. They'll be ok again after they dry out."

He tried rubbing them on his pants a bit, but eventually gave up and moved on. Until the next afternoon when, once again, he had taken over my computer. A while later he dashed into the living room to find me:

"Mommy, Mommy! Look! I have FINKLES!"

Don't push ...

I'm a woman on the edge.

We'd been talking about Mr. P going to Dallas with some buddies in December. Kind of a belated birthday celebration, I suppose. And I truly want to him to go and have fun. After all, it's not his fault I'm tethered to a nursing baby ... but I also resent the hell out of him for it. Especially when I found out he'd booked the trip — and it's Friday to MONDAY. I said, "Great, but you owe me big time for this." And he, Mr. Funny, said, "Huh-uh. You had your trip booked and didn't go. You missed your chance."

Oh, you mean the to-DC-and-back-in-one-day trip I had planned — TAKING BIGGA BIT WITH ME — that I had to cancel because Bigga cracked his skull and couldn't fly? Because I was worried I didn't have enough milk pumped and didn't want to strand you with a screaming, hungry baby? AND because I was sick? THAT trip?!

His attempt at levity was met with a silence so cold I'm surprised he didn't shiver. That's right. I'm so close to losing it, my sense of humor already packed its bags and left. Well, I guess he finally realized just how fragile my remaining sanity is, because he leapt into action and planned an afternoon of pampering at a spa in the city with my dear friend. A head-to-toe package with a massage, facial, manicure and pedicure. AND dinner. AND I'm spending the night at her place.

He even got me a sweet card, created a little certificate explaining the plan and slipped the card in with the mail. But naturally I just grabbed the usual pile of catalogs and junk out of the mailbox and chucked it all on the entryway table. "Anything good in the mail?" he said. "Oh, I don't know," I replied, dashing his hopes of an extra bit of surprise. "I didn't look through it."

Other than running errands on Fridays when I have a babysitter, I can literally count the hours — if it even adds up to hours — I've had to myself in the last six months. So I'm really looking forward to a bit of me-time. In all honesty, it won't fix what ails me. I'm so tired and disorganized and uninspired, and I know that in the end it's really up to me to get myself out of this funk. But a day at the spa ain't a bad way to start.

Tubful of monkeys

Bigga's first bath in the "big boy" tub. Kiddle has been vehemently against sharing his tub with Bigga, but tonight he finally relented. And loved it.

Mommy the Sailor

Well, it's official. I have to start watching my mouth around Kiddle.

I know that I've been saying that for a while. And I've eliminated (ok, maybe just cut back) on the really offensive bad words around Kiddle. But I'm not that careful about things like "damn," "crap" and a well-timed "JEEES-US CHRIST!" But no more, no more. I really have to stop.

We went to Queens today for Thanksgiving dinner with Mr. P's family. (Now THAT is a place to learn some colourful language!) Nothing interesting to report — except that on the way there, we passed a minor car accident. A Mercedes had rear-ended a BMW and the two drivers were standing in front of the cars, assessing the damage. I let out a little laugh as I drove past and said, "A BMW and a Mercedes? I guess those guys will have to dick it out." And what do I immediately hear from the back seat? A sweet little echo saying, "Dick it out!"

Whoops! Yep, it's official.

I thought I felt a breeze ...

Today I have my pajama bottoms on backwards. Not on purpose, you know (although I'm sure Kiddle would find that hysterically funny). I just happened to put them on that way last night and was too lazy to turn them around. And as I sat here this morning, working on the computer, I looked down and saw:

And thought, "Wow. I guess it's time for some new pants, huh?" Mr. P never mentioned I have at least six holes on my butt. Should I be grateful that he obviously doesn't look at my ass that closely? Or annoyed?

And then I thought, "I've had these pajama bottoms for over seven years." Really. I got them — with a cute coordinating tank top, of course — for my fateful trip to Cali to visit Mr. P oh so long ago. (On a side note, don't you just love the super sexy approach to lingerie for my first weekend with my then-future husband? Cotton PJs with a shelf bra? HOT!) Let's just hope their current shape isn't a reflection on the current condition of our relationship.

Six Month Checkup, Part I

Bigga's six-month checkup was today ... but nothing to report. Just as we got started, the office received a call that the gas station next to the building was on fire and we had to evacuate. So I grabbed all our stuff, hoisted my half-naked baby under my arm and dashed out the back door. And this is what we found:

Damn! They weren't kidding. I'll admit it was hard to make my nosy self actually leave the scene, but I figured my super-cautious pediatrician wouldn't approve of me standing around with a baby next to a gas station fire, especially with all the mini-explosions we could hear. And even I knew it wouldn't be a good scene if the pumps and tanks went up too, so I snapped a quick pic and got us out of there lickety-split.

The crazy thing is that I was planning to go to that station next to get my leaky tire fixed. And, as Mr. P pointed out, thank goodness I didn't leave my car there and just walk over to the appointment. I would definitely be sans car. Disorganization wins out in this case because I thought Bigga's appointment was at 10:30, but it was actually at 10:00 so I didn't have time to get there early.

And maybe it was a good thing after all that the doctor didn't get a good look at my kid today. First of all, he was DIRTY. I won't actually admit to how long it's been since he's had a bath. And, unbeknownst to me, he must have pooped just after he woke up this morning. I didn't realize it until I got Kiddle out the door to school, so by the time I changed him, his butt was looking a bit red and ugly. Plus, his ears needed to be q-tipped desperately. Fortunately for him, he doesn't seem to have inherited Mr. P's nasty ear wax (like Kiddle did), but his ears were looking pretty gross. And, to top it all off, I trimmed his nails the other day and obviously shaped one of his big toenails into a tiny little dagger. He has long red scratches all over the back of one leg. So he wasn't exactly the best example of maternal care today. Sorry Bigga Bit!

Half of that's been remedied (bath, ear cleaning). Still need to fix his toe, but at least he's clean. I'm starting to think he won't be as blond as Kiddle, but it was hard to tell with all that oil and grime. But even post-bath, I still think that. Only time will tell.

Six Months Old Today!

I can't believe it's already been six months. What a joy this baby is. Still very much like Kiddle at this age: really good natured, LOVES people, cheerful and happy. Biggest difference is that this one SLEEPS. It's true that he's driving me a bit batty right now with his multi-night wakings (more on that another day), but he's so damn easy to put to bed.

Developmentally he's right on schedule: he can roll over both ways, creep around a bit commando-style, lift up his whole body off the ground and even push up onto his knees. He's working on sitting up by himself, but of course I'm horribly nervous about him hitting his head so I haven't practiced this with him as much as I should. I've offered him some cereal and mashed bananas, but he really isn't getting the concept of swallowing yet. We just keep inserting the same bite, over and over and over again.

My one, tiny concern is that he isn't truly babbling. Very vocal and expressive, but not really experimenting with sound yet. Of course, I'm super sensitive to this area this time around. And I really can't remember if Kiddle had a "goo" or "dah" at this exact moment. But, my pediatrician assures me, his skills can change very quickly, so no worries yet.

I'll just be over here, holding my breath, waiting for that first "GAH!"

A night out? No!

I don't get out much anymore.

Boy, that's an understatement. Let's see ... since Bigga was born I've been out of the house — at night — sans children — once for a friend's art opening, once on an overnight "date" with my husband while we were in Oklahoma, and once for my book club. I think that's it. Seriously. Oh yeah, can't forget the Back to School Night PTA meeting. Woo hoo!

Last night's outing was a festive occasion: a wedding. I'll admit I was not looking forward to it. Not only was it an obligatory family affair (Mr. P's stepbrother). Not only was someone other than us going to have to put BOTH my children to bed. Not only was I going to have scrape myself together into some sort of decent-looking-ness. On top of all that, it was black tie. Ugh.

But — shockingly — it all came together quite well. I found a dress (on sale!) that I actually liked and felt pretty good in, without succumbing to tears in the dressing room. (I've finally accepted that I'm just not going to look like The Me I envision in my head anymore; the goal now is to find something that is between "inoffensive" and "somewhat flattering.") I wore the gorgeous river pearl necklace from my own wedding that's been languishing in a box for five years. Along with the backup shoes from my wedding that had never been worn (and before you get a horrible image in your head, no, they aren't white satin. They're beaded bronze and quite pretty.). And I even had a random evening clutch lying around that was just perfect.

The service and reception were both at a stately mansion on 5th Avenue right across from the Metropolitan Museum. It was simple and lovely. And not your typical Northeastern wedding, which of course means I loved it.

Despite all my pre-event dread, I had a good time. It was nice to get dressed up, have a couple of glasses of wine and catch up with my in-laws. And ... can't believe I'm going to say this ... I even felt pretty. Imagine that!

It ain't easy being green.

VEGGIE ALERT!

Kiddle willingly ate a (teeny tiny) baby carrot with garlic hummus today. Is the world coming to an end? Surely that's a sign of an impending apocalypse.

One little monkey jumping on the bed ...

He fell off and bumped his head. Mama called the doctor and the doctor said, "Get that monkey to the ER for a CT scan!"

Man, I've got myself one mobile little monkey. I was changing Bigga's diaper on my bed early this morning, when Kiddle asked me to put Diego on for him. I made sure Bigga was smack dab in the middle and positioned so he'd roll either toward the headboard or the footboard, then went to help Kiddle. I was on my way back to the bed less than a minute later ... and heard a big THUD, followed by a piercing shriek. Damn kid had rolled DIAGONALLY down the bed and right off the corner by the footboard. And, boy, he was PISSED.

It took a bit to get him settled down, but he eventually got over it and took his morning nap on schedule. And even slept over an hour — despite the fact I was hovering over him, checking his breathing every two minutes. But when I was nursing him after his nap, I noticed some swelling on the side of his head. Uh oh.

To say I'm an underreactor when it comes to falls and runny noses and head bonks is an understatement. But even though he was alert and generally happy and not showing any typical signs of a concussion, I didn't feel good about this one. We dashed over to the pediatrician's office and she sent us on to the ER for a CT scan, just to rule out a skull fracture. Or, as it turns out, rule one IN. Yep, he's got a small fracture on the right side. But, thank goodness, no bleeding or swelling in his brain. We're at the hospital overnight for observation, with another CT scan in morning. If all goes well, we'll be out of here by lunchtime.

And, lord, my freedom from this place can't come quick enough. I've been here for 12 hours now and have pretty much decided that holding us for observation is my personal punishment for leaving him unattended on the bed. ("I swear I won't do it ever, ever again! Can we go home now? Pretty please!?") With the added torture that a hospital is the LAST place you want your five-month-old hanging out. I can practically see the H1N1 and staph germs wafting down the hall. Ugh.

I do remember not to whine too much, however, when I think of friends who have spent a truly unfair amount of time in hospitals with their little ones, battling heart issues and other things I can't bear to think about. Our (hopefully) brief stay here is really just a minor inconvenience in the grand scheme of things. His pediatrician commented that skull fractures from that type of fall are rare and we were just "unlucky" this time. But considering how little damage occurred, as Mr. P said, "We'll just hope this is as unlucky as he gets!"

I've been so impressed with his spirit through all this. Everyone keeps asking me if he's "doing better" but I don't know how to answer that. I can't say he's doing BETTER, because he wasn't ever doing badly in the first place. He's been his usual sunny self, charming everyone he comes in contact with and taking everything in stride (except blood work and IV attempts ... that was traumatic). If we were doing this whole scene with Kiddle? Shudder. I can't go there.

***

One thing I'm grateful for during these extended hours in the ER and PICU: Kiddle doesn't get home from school until 3:00 and I knew I could count on two different neighbors to lend a hand with his after-school hours. Although two wacky coincidences threatened those positives. First, as I was leaving the pediatrician's office, on my way to the ER, my phone rings. It's Kiddle's teacher. Fuck. I answered with sinking feeling in my stomach. I just knew he'd gotten hurt or had a fever and she was calling me to come get him. But, no, he was fine. She just wanted to talk to me about the upcoming Halloween party. Whew!

Then, once we realized Bigga was going to be admitted, I left a message for LK's mom to see if she could meet Kiddle's bus at 3:00. But, a few minutes later, I see Mr. P outside our ER bay talking to someone like he knows them. I pop my head out the door and see LK's parents. And LK ON A STRETCHER. Fuck. It turns out she'd had a really scary respiratory episode — couldn't catch her breath, gasping, lips turning blue — so she was whisked away from the pediatrician's office by ambulance. Terrifying. Last I heard, her flu, RSV, etc. tests had come back negative, so they aren't entirely sure what happened and she's doing ok now. But that was sure the saddest, most forlorn little face I've ever seen on her. Poor thing.

Eventually Mr. P headed home to meet Kiddle and pick up the things I'd need for our overnight stay in the hospital. Kiddle went over to our other neighbor's house for a playdate with Jack and dinner — where he ate MEATLOAF, MASHED POTATOES AND APPLE PIE without question (although he did turn down the carrots). I think I'll send him over there for dinner every night. After getting us settled in for the night, Mr. P went back home to handle the bedtime duties. And you know what? The damn kid NEVER EVEN ASKED ABOUT ME. Hmmpph.

Update: And then he got up in the morning, got ready for school, got on the bus and still NEVER EVEN ASKED ABOUT ME. Where's the love, little man?

***

So here I sit, on my really uncomfortable chair that will turn into my even more uncomfortable fold-out bed, listening to the surprisingly noisy sounds of the Pediatric ICU. I'm so grateful that Bigga is relatively undamaged and handling the situation with ease, but so mad at myself for letting this happen in the first place. And thankful that, rather making me feel bad, almost everyone I've come across has countered with their own story: a friend's nephew with a skull fracture from a misguided game of throwing rocks, a pediatrician's son who rolled off a super-high pillow-top bed, a nurse's daugher who fell down thirteen steps onto a concrete floor. Accidents happen, I know. And I'm sure this won't be the last time we're in the ER. But it's simply the worst when your child bears the brunt of a quick decision you made.

Big sigh. Of relief and regret.

Staph, Blood and Hives, Oh my.

All sorts of medical drama in my extended family this week. My sister has an MRSA infection in her leg. Naturally the pain and swelling reached its peak while she was away on a girls' weekend. Nothing like a small-town emergency room on a Friday night. And Mr. P's two-year-old nephew had to have a rather urgent blood transfusion last night when it was discovered that his red blood cell count was dangerously low. It turns out he has an uncommon form of anemia that will correct itself eventually, but will require close monitoring and possibly more transfusions over the next few months. Very scary stuff, but we're grateful it isn't leukemia or lymphoma. And that we don't have to start referring to my sister as "Auntie Hop" anytime soon.

On a much smaller, less scary scale, I had my first call from the school nurse today. Kiddle has a runny nose, so I was expecting to hear that he had a raging fever. But instead she said, "Do you know he has a rash on his legs?" Er, well, yes I do. But it's not really a rash-rash ... he had hives on Sunday night and still had a couple of slightly red, slightly bumpy areas this morning. No big deal. Unfortunately she seemed to think it might be a big deal, and was concerned it was either ringworm (what?!), or Fifth Disease because his cheeks were so red. I can certainly understand how she might leap to that conclusion, so I had to reassure her that not only does Kiddle the Rosy Cheeked Boy always look like that, but also that we think he had Fifth last year. Fortunately this call was only about half an hour before the end of the day so I didn't have to pack up Bigga and go drag Kiddle out of school early.

Then he got home. And when I took off his pants, this is what I found. ALL OVER his legs and butt.

Um, that's disgusting. And definitely not what he looked like when I sent him off on the bus this morning. Dear School Nurse, I'm sorry for poo-pooing your earlier concern about my son today. Yes, now that I see him, I also think he looks like Patient Zero for a new strain of the plague. My sincere apologies. We're headed to the doctor RIGHT NOW.

But the doctor confirmed what I thought: no ringworm, no Fifth Disease. It really is a form of hives, simply a reaction to the minor snuffly-nose virus he has right now. The only bad thing is we have to push his flu shot off for another week.

Somebody put some pants on that kid! Gross.

Happy Birthday, my love!

It's Mr. P's 40th birthday today ... and I have to admit I haven't done much about it. But I have sooo many reasons why. Ready?

One. Anything he wants, he buys. So it makes it nearly impossible to come up with a good birthday or Christmas gift for him. Especially one he doesn't know about, because 99% of what he wants is very tech-oriented, making his participation in the selection process mandatory. In the past I've gotten him tickets to various events, but this year nothing stood out as something he would enjoy.

Two. We come from two different schools of thought on birthdays. That's not to say that I need outrageous gifts or a big party on my birthday, but I do like some acknowledgement and thought-through planning. He's not into the whole birthday-celebration-thing in general, and is really not into the details (i.e., one of my first birthdays with him ... an unwrapped season of Buffy and NO CARD), which has slowly dampened my enthusiasm over the years. Otherwise known as If-He-Doesn't-Care-Why-Should-I Syndrome.

Three. That said, I did throw him a surprise party (well, ALMOST a surprise ... thanks for busting it, Mr. Weeden. Yeah, I'm talking to you, Dan.) a couple of years ago. And I did it then partially because I suspected that, by the time his 40th rolled around, we'd have two small children and I might not get my act together. Self-fulfilling prophecy, I suppose.

Four. I thought we would have moved by now. And originally I had grand ideas of flying out a couple of his best friends to wherever we might be to celebrate, or at least sending him back home for a fun boys' weekend. But we're still here. And it doesn't seem quite as exciting to send him to Long Island from New Jersey for the weekend.

Five. I'm a cheapskate. Well, not really. But I am in regards to the fact that we're still looking at an out-of-state move in the (hopefully) relatively near future. All I can think of is the stuff we'll need when we have a bigger house, and I'd much rather get him a giant TV or create him a cave/office when the time is right, instead of spending money now on something he doesn't really need.

Six. And this is the biggest reason ... I suck. I hate that I'm so disorganized and scattered and uninventive right now that I didn't get it together to do something lovely and special for his 40th birthday. Particularly because he did such a nice job of planning dinner out with my friends and taking me to a play for my birthday. Hopefully I can make it up to him before his next birthday. After all, he's 40 all year, right?

Are we talking the same language?

Here's what happens when my regular English runs into Queens English (as in Da Queens, not The Queen's).

Me: Sweetie pie, will you rub my shoulders tonight?
Mr. P: Ok. When I'm ready.
Me: Will you be ready in two minutes?
Mr. P: No, I'll do it in a couple of minutes.
Me: Like I said ... two minutes.
Mr. P: No, in a few minutes.
Me: So ... three minutes.

Mr. P: Argh! Several minutes, ok?
Me: Well, why didn't you just say that in the first place?

Over the years we've encountered our fair share of regional differences in our speech. I say tennis shoes, he says sneakers. I say have my picture made, he says have my picture taken. He thinks I sound like a dumb hick, I think he sounds like an obnoxious Yankee.

But this concept of "a couple" continues to be a roadblock for us. It took me several years of "I'll be home in a couple of hours" turning into three or four — or, "I need to go to the office for a couple of hours on Saturday" really meaning five or six — to finally realize that a couple does not mean TWO. It means way more than two, in fact. Sigh. Why can't he just use English the right way? And, of course, that would be MY way. Sigh.

"I love trains!"

Note to self: Do not give the three-year-old a new train set at 5:30 in the evening, unless you want to have the following conversation an hour and a half after he's gone to bed, already clutching three new train cars.

Kiddle (sobbing hysterically in his room): Mommy! Mommy!
Me: What's wrong, Kiddle?
Hysterical sobbing continues.
Me: Kiddle, what's the matter?
Hysterical, yet suspicously fake, sobbing continues.
Me: I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong.
More sobbing.
Me: If you don't stop crying right now, I'm going back downstairs.
Silence, at last.
Me: Thank you. Do you need me to help you with something?
Kiddle: Yes.
Me: What do you need?
Long, quiet pause.
Kiddle: I need train tracks.

Needless to say, no train tracks were forthcoming. And he finally went to sleep about 10:00.

Perhaps it does grow on trees.

How exactly does a three-year-old know what money is? I kind of get that he understands that bills are money. But coins? Hmmm. I've certainly never made a point of talking about what money is. And, the reality is, he doesn't see actual currency that often since I put everything on my AmEx. Now, if he called a credit card "monies," I'd totally understand. A few recent financial transactions we've had:

A couple of weeks ago, he pulled out a change purse of random foreign coins from my desk drawer, opened it and started passing out "monies" to me. Um, thanks. That's MY money and I'm not headed to Europe anytime soon.

At the zoo last week he wanted to go on this little carousel ride (it had an elephant ... need I say more?) that cost 75 cents. He first said to me, "I need monies," so I, of course, directed him to his father. "Daddy, Daddy, I need monies!" he cried and POINTED TO MR. P'S POCKET. "I need monies in dere, Daddy." Yep, he's definitely got the concept down.

And today was the best. He dashed into the kitchen and said, "I found a penny!" Seriously, how the hell does he know what a PENNY is? Someone explain this to me, please. I'll have to test him tomorrow to see if he knows the difference between nickels and quarters. Perhaps I can train him to scavenge for quarters in the fountain at the zoo and actually contribute a little to the family coffers. He's extra cute. He can get away with it, right?

The boy from Queens ...

Five years, man! FIVE! Five years. Five YEARS! Five years!!

Who'd have thought when I met you for the very first time, way back in 2001, on St. Patrick's Day Eve, that you were the future Mr. P? I certainly didn't. And I know YOU didn't since you don't even remember meeting me. (Let me add a hair flip and a "hmmphh" in response to that very first display of forgetfulness. It should have been my first clue that you truly are the absent-minded professor.)

Fast forward a few months to that random night when Molloy said, "Hey, Mr. P's in town and we're all going out. You coming?" (Oh goodness, wouldn't that be funny if he actually called you "Mr. P" too?) I still didn't see it coming.

And then ... you did it. You said you'd call me when you got back to Cali — AND YOU DID. You actually called me. Incredible.

But I still didn't know you were the one.

Not until that fateful visit to California, when we both thought, "Hey. I really think we've got something here." And, boy, then it was ON. The next six weeks were a happy blur. I went from yeah-there's-this-guy-in-LA-I-kind-of-like to oh-my-god-I-have-an-all-caps-BOYFRIEND-and-he's-moving-back-to-the-East-Coast-and-wants-to-marry-me all in the short span from Memorial Day to the Fourth of July. I don't know if you realize how momentous that was for me. I don't open my heart easily, and hadn't even peeked through a crack in the door in the five years I'd been in New York. Thank you for keeping your heart on your sleeve, so mine could catch up.

Five years ago today, we celebrated our commitment to each other on a gorgeous Indian summer day in Oklahoma. All the wedding-planning stress was absolutely worth it, as our friends and family gathered around us, supporting us. But as fun and busy and enjoyable as the entire weekend was (and damn, it was a great weekend, wasn't it?), do you know what still stands out the most to me? Our vows. The emotion was almost visceral as we pledged to join our lives. So many little choices, big decisions and happenstance, since the day each of us was born, culminated in that moment. It was intense and electrifying.

And here we are five years, one house, quite a few cars and, most importantly, two fabulous kids later. Thank you for supporting my desire to stay home with those kids. Thank you for continuing to pursue your dreams in a way that still makes me feel safe. Thank you for liking the same TV shows as me — and for agreeably watching the ones that you don't. Thank you for getting along with my family. Thank you for making me laugh and being the funniest guy you know. Thank you for wanting to know, and even listening to, my opinions on your work. That goes a long way toward making me feel like a contributor, although an unpaid one, to our family's fortunes. Thank you for hearing the oh-so-slight difference between my normal voice and my sarcastic voice. Thank you for being my best friend.

I'm still amazed that we found each other — the boy from Queens and the girl from Oklahoma — and that you are so utterly perfect for me. I honestly can't imagine anyone could be better suited to be my husband. I thank my lucky stars every day that you are mine. I can't wait for the next five years, and beyond.

Happy Anniversary, my love.

It ain't easy bein' cheesy.

Dear Bigga Bit,

I'm sorry. I know you're not into dairy products, but that slice of leftover pizza was calling my name this afternoon. I simply had to eat it. I know I said I'd cut out cheese for a few days to see if you napped better, and I really, really tried. But it's HARD. Cheese is so tasty and apparently a more common ingredient in my diet than I ever imagined.

A piece of string cheese for a mid-morning snack. Sprinkled on my favourite salad. A slice of provolone on my turkey sandwich. Melted and gooey in a black bean burrito or a chicken quesadilla. And pizza. Yummy, yummy pizza.

But not yummy for you, it seems. Unless all that wiggling, crying and man-sized tooting this evening was just part of you and your brother's master plan to torture me. Good job, by the way. Tell your brother the plan worked.

I didn't complain (too) much when I had to stop drinking milk and eating ice cream. It was tough to give up ice cream — after all, it was summer and I had already suffered through an ice-cream-free pregnancy thanks to gestational diabetes.

But cheese? You're asking too much, baby. Too much. But a necessary sacrifice, I suppose, to keep you sweet, happy and SLEEPING.

And just so we're clear ... don't get any ideas about chocolate. Capiche?

Love,

Muenster-free Mama