Home safe and sound. Snuggled in our bed, he pelted us with complaints until he fell asleep sometime after midnight. “These pajamas? Are just making me too hot!” he uses this accusatory tone of voice, like we personally had the pajamas custom-made with a special, horrible discomfort lining.

“Well, take them off then.”

“This zipper is too hard for three year olds! And everything I try does not WORK.”

“Ask for help nicely…?”

“Please oh please help me with my zipper.”

“Sure.” zip, zip, done. I turned over to go to sleep, and Kevin went back to silently reading The War of the Worlds which if you’ve never read it, you need to. Seeing the crappy Tom Cruise movie doesn’t count.

“Daddy! Why are you just reading and reading and not saying ANYTHING?”

Long explanation of silent reading. I won’t bore you with it, it’s this way that some people read — I’m sure you all are reading this OUT LOUD right now anyway. Whorebitch. Haha, made you curse at work.

“On MY bed? I have this Nemo blanket that is actually warm.” Remember the tone. You people make everything suck for me, on purpose just to be jerks. “And THIS blanket is just like… it’s not cozy at all and… you just aren’t getting me anything cozy and I’m so, so, so… COLD.”

“Nicolaus.” I say it so it means Oh give me a break.

“And I’m so cold.” And you are horrible parents who never really loved me.

“Dude. You took your pajamas off and now you’re griping at us because you’re cold. Be sweet with us, okay?”

“I know, but — you just aren’t giving me anything cozy and you aren’t…”

“Why don’t you just get the fuzzy blanket at the end of our bed?”

He looked. He got the blanket and snuggled up against Kevin, who was still reading without saying anything like the awful and selfish jerk parent that he is.

“Daddy? I just don’t know why you won’t read that book to me? I’m three and a HALF. I won’t get scared.”

“Alright.” So Kevin started reading out loud, quietly, in that Garrison Keilleresque voice designed to put. Children. To sleep.

He read a long passage about British money, and horse-drawn carriages, and the guy’s sister… the perfect piece of out of context exposition to put a preschooler to sleep.

“DA-DEEEEEE. WHAT? Is this book about? What? Are! You talking about?”

So Kevin explained about the War of the Worlds, but not to Nicolaus’ satisfaction. Finally I turned out the light and said, that’s it, enough, the world isn’t going to satisfy you, ever, GO TO SLEEP. And he did, cozied up between us, rolled up in the fuzzy blanket from the foot of our bed.

We love you so much, grumpy little asshole. Welcome home.

Today was near 80 degrees… warm enough that we turned on the air conditioner and I changed from a sweater to a t-shirt before noon. The baby didn’t wear shoes. You know, November.

Tomorrow we’re expecting sleet and snow flurries, and the temperature might climb as high as 32.

The drastic change in temperature is causing major instability in the upper stream of the cumulopuffulous supercellular cingular nextel cloud system, which in layman’s terms means that the clouds here are used to being warm and don’t even own anything heavier than a light windbreaker, so they’re all freaking out and churning and hailing and tornadoing because holy shit you guys. It’s dropping almost 50 degrees.

I swear to God that’s exactly what the meteorologists said. I’m a weather weirdo, so I know about these things. My browser homepage is wunderground.com because I don’t want to accidentally leave the house without knowing about SEVERE WEATHER. Those people understand what neurotics need in a time of SEVERE WEATHER: animated maps with labels and details and explanations and discussions and not one picture of my husband laughing at me for being such a freak.

Which is all fine and good except that oh! Did I mention! My tiny helpless three year old child is on the road during this freaky-assed SEVERE WEATHER.

He was going to stay with his grandparents until Saturday so he could see his cousin sing in the town’s annnual “See? Small town Texas isn’t so depressing!” holiday festival. It seemed like a long time to be away from home, but he didn’t seem to miss us even a little. Any time we’d get him on the phone he’d say “I ‘ove you! And I have these cars and…” then he’d throw down the phone to go play with the hundreds of little metal cars that my inlaws use to make him magically forget that he ever had a mother or a father or a brother or a dog or anything in this world other than little metal cars.

But then he talked to Graham on the phone. He didn’t want to talk to me at all, only his brother and I’m not sure what they talked about because this end of the conversation was mostly silent baby waves and a snot-covered baby poking at the phone trying to figure out how to open it and get Nicolaus out.

Then, I’m told, Nicolaus got off the phone and told my mother in law that he wanted to go home.

Then he started to cry.

Then they called me back and told me they were on the way back to Dallas.

Then my sister in law called to tell me yay! SEVERE WEATHER.

So here I am, feeding my snotty baby ice cream and waiting for Nicolaus to arrive safely.

Wait with me, okay Internet? Here are pictures.

Is that a mole?

No, it’s a ladybug. He was born with it. The doctors recommend waiting until he’s older before having it removed.

Hi! I love things in the following order: Cookies, Graham, little metal cars, my parents, everything else.

YAY! CUTE.

Oh wait. Yay. SNOT. Gross.

This trip sucks. I hate you all. You never order me anything from the McDonald’s drive through no matter how much I wimper. And the damned baby likes cats more than he likes me.

Dit-TEEEEEEEEE.

A week is a long time, isn’t it? And yet, not much stuff happened. Graham learned how to climb onto the dining room chairs. The house got messy, then clean, then messy again. My hair suddenly went from on its way to needing a trim sometime soon to oh my god Tiffany what in the fuck animal are you wearing on your head –? It always happens like that, in one day.

Then we drove six hours for Thanksgiving. On our way out of town we stopped at the dollar store — the real dollar store where through a miracle of modern economics every single thing costs exactly one dollar — and I bought $22 worth of random crap that would entertain the boys on the long car ride. Every hour I gave them each something, always identical because I have already learned the first rule of parenting more than one child, as quoted from the very helpful Dr.Sears web site: Don’t ever buy your children two similar but slightly different toys unless you want to witness the last scene in Hamlet in the backseat of your car. Or whichever Shakespeare one it was where everyone stabbed everyone else with swords while screaming at each other and drinking poison and giving each other poison and the stabbing, with the swords and the screaming.

So I bought: Two sets of crayons, two coloring books even though Graham can’t color worth a crap, two little chalk boards, two light-up yo-yos even though neither one of them can yo yo worth a crap, two sticker scene thingies, two chinese takeout style gift boxes, two little flocked plastic horses with hair brushes even though tiny hair brushes are a choking hazard, two awesomely huge twistable glow in the dark necklace things, and two paddle ball thingies even though am I insane? Paddle ball? In the motherfucking car?

Nicolaus was super cheerful about the trip already, and the dollar store shit sealed the deal for him. It always surprises me that he does so well on long car trips because whenever we’re running errands, after ten minutes in the car he starts quoting The Grapes of Wrath and filing formal petitions with Amnesty International for his immediate emancipation from the inhumane, cracker-crumb excrusted shackles. “I just think we are never going to be home again forEVER.” And so forth. But if you call it a car trip, he turns into this happy, easygoing child. Slash dolphin slash scientist.

Graham on the other hand thought the whole trip was a stupid idea and he found the dollar tree toys totally insulting. “Whore!” He’d cry, throwing a fistfull of chalk back at me, “You can’t buy me with your trinkets! GET ME THE FUCKING FUCK OUT OF THIS MOTHERFUCKING CAR.”

Except for the paddle ball. He loved that.

About thirty minutes from Kevin’s aunt’s house, Graham reached a limit of some sort. He howled like a siren. Finally we pulled over and I fed him in a McDonald’s parking lot. “Oh thank God,” he said, “Thank. God.” He ate and ate and ate and ate. And then he sighed with great relief that the terrible car trip was over.

Then we put him back in the car seat, and he went completely batshit. WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU PEOPLE? Do I look like a baby who wants to live in a CAR?

“It’s okay…. Graham… baby…” Nicolaus tried to soothe him, “We’re almost there…”

Wait. “Yeah, we are actually. How did you know that Nicolaus?”

“Because I’ve been here before.” I wish he’d just go ahead and start appending his sentences with DUH! out loud.

Although once he said the word duh to one of his toy cars. So I asked him if he knew what that meant. He said, “No I don’t. I just – I hear bigger kids say that sometimes, and I decided not to say it because I think it sounds like it means something kind of rude.”

So maybe he’s too polite to ever say, “Duh, mother. What’s it like to be so dumb?”

Anyway. We got where we were going, and had a Thanksgiving dinner that – well, probably could be beat but the company was lovely and the kids had a great time.

Then some other days happened and we came home.

But Nicolaus is still down there with his grandparents. And it is insanely quiet without my boy/dolphin/scientist here setting up experiments with toy horses and plastic tubes and AAA batteries and rubber bands. And I miss him like absolutely crazy.

Although it is neat to hear what Graham has to say while his brother is out of town. A lot, it seems, especially if you take volume into consideration. DAD-EEEEEEEEEEE. Dad!EEEEEE. PupEEEEEEE.

He keeps bringing me books and pointing at different things and asking “Dat? Dat?” Like “Okay, now’s my chance! Teach me how to talk while the dolphin/scientist/chatty little fucker isn’t here.”

And that my friends, is the true meaning of Christmas.

Photo taken seconds before Graham’s chalkboard was thrown at my head.

Today started around five in the morning. Hard to say with no accurate clocks – we mainly have them for the soothing ticking white noise – but that’s my guess based on how many cursewords my brain put in between Oh my and God.

A few months ago I trained Graham to sleep through the night using sort of a modified system of Cry It Out, based on the Ferber method. The Ferber Method, if you aren’t familiar, works like this:
Night 1: Stand by the baby’s crib. When he cries, pick him up immediately and take him to your own bed.

Night 2: When he cries, don’t pick him up immediately. Drag your ass a little. Then instead of taking him to your bed, take him somewhere less appealing. Like the futon in the guest bedroom, or the main hallway.

Night 3: When he cries, don’t pick him up at all. Unless he like really really freaks out.

Night 4: When he cries, hug him and say “Aw, do you need a hug?” and then lay him back down. Then stand next to the child’s crib and pat him gently on the stomach for two and a half hours, or until your arm is completely numb. After 2.5 – 3 hours, he should go to sleep.

Night 5: You did it! You got him to sleep! IN HIS CRIB. All you have to do is pat his stomach for 1-3 hours every night. Isn’t it nice having a sleep-trained baby?

This is all based on my memory of the Ferber Method books, which I’ve never actually read but I know people who have read them, and I’m pretty sure I got the basic system down right because it worked. Until a couple of weeks ago, when his molars started coming in and he somehow got his hands on an assault rifle. See? The problem isn’t a lack of gun control laws, the problem is that no one is enforcing those laws in order to keep illegal weapons out of the hands of angry teething children.

So he’s been waking up throughout the night, making demands and threatening me until I give in and bring him to our bed.

Then at some point we are joined by the scientist, who is also a dolphin — it’s complicated — because the scientist had a horribly scary dream which was so violent and scary that he doesn’t want to tell me about it because it might scare me but really if he could sleep in our bed that would be great.

Which is all very peaceful and cuddly family time until Graham notices that his brother is here. “Budder! Budder der.” He points and grins, because oh boy we are going to have some great fun. And some of us do have fun. I’d say as many as 50% of us have Padre Island spring break levels of fun, jumping on people’s heads and poking eyes and playing peekaboo using the only blanket. The other 50% of us keep our eyes closed as much as possible and try to remember what Ferber said about 5 AM giggling dolphin/scientist pillow fights.

No wait. I take that back. 25% of us keep our eyes closed and try to remember the Ferber thing. The other 25% of us stay asleep throughout the event.
—————
That’s where I fell asleep last night while writing this post. I promise there was a lot more to the day than that, although on reflection none of it was all that exciting. Except for the part where Nicolaus used his allowance to buy a huge package of pretend money for his pretend stores and so he could be pretend rich. He thought it was hilarious that he was using real money to buy pretend money. Meanwhile I used real money to buy real stuff that I was pretending to need. So, you know.

And then some other stuff happened and we all went to bed, except for me because I wasn’t tired and I wanted to really quick post about the day.

I’ll admit that after my painful trainwreck of a feeding experience with Nicolaus, I was a little bitter and grumpy about the whole boobie feeding thing, to the point that with my second child I didn’t take it day by day… I took it minute by minute, feeding by feeding. But now at 14 months with no exit strategy, I get it now. I’m a believer. So I am again volunteering my marketing expertise to help the LLL and other boobie feeding advocates to offer valuable information for new mothers. You’re welcome!

22 REASONS TO BREASTFEED
1. You’re shallow and you want to lose weight really fast after you have a baby

2. You’re too fucking poor to afford formula

3. The internet will judge you if you don’t do it.

4. And so will your doctor.

5. And the nurses in the maternity ward.

6. And your realtor.

7. Breastpads look AWESOME. I wish I had known these were out there before I wasted all those years stuffing uncomfortable, unflattering toilet paper down my bra.

8. Researchers have not been able to show that breastfeeding doesn’t give you magical powers.

9. Instantly makes you a way better mother than all those ignorant formula bitches.

10. You’re kinda into pain.

11. Done correctly, you can look like you’re doing something really important while you take a nap.

12. For a lot of women, let down is super tingly.

13. “I feed him – YOU change his diapers.”

14. Face it: You’re too lazy mix formula correctly. I mean use the exact amount of water and powder and everything every time? Are they serious?

15. You get to be condescending to your grandma.

16. While lactacting, you’ll be qualified for acting jobs starring a whole new level of kinky porn.

17. You live in a third world country where the water is tainted with donkey shit, which is unsafe to drink and lacks proper nutrition for a growing infant.

18. Opens up many new litigation opportunities. Go into any restaurant or coffee shop and feed your baby. It’s a numbers game… the more you nurse in public the better your chances of being thrown out and being able to sue the ever loving shit out of a mega corporation. May not work in hippie towns like Seattle and Austin where no one cares what you do with your boobs.

19. Breastmilk is useful for many things beyond feeding your child. It can soothe open wounds, cure eye infections, and help you play hilarious beverage-related pranks on people.

20. One recent study suggests that by the age of seven, nearly 30% of all breastfed babies have the ability to fly.

21. Research shows that feeding formula to a child leads to agression and increased instances of ADHD, familial conflict, resentment towards parents, and depression.

22. No wait. Sorry, that’s spanking. Or television. Whatever. You monster.