RAM

I have never harbored any secret wish that Riley be a gifted child. I hope he loves to read and that he's better at math than I am (he'd have to practically be a blind canary pecking wildly at an abacus to be any worse) and most of all that he's a good communicator—because I believe the ability to expertly communicate with other people is what really makes the difference in your life and career, way more than any other learned skill—but really, I have no fervent desire to see him skip grades, win chess tournaments, or go to college at the age of 14.

So I hope you don't think I'm bragging when I tell you that HOLY GOD MY KID IS A GENIUS CALL MENSA RIGHT NOW.

Okay, I'm exaggerating, but Riley is seriously blowing my mind lately with the things he can remember. He can recite the contents of most of his favorite books, page by page. Even the tongue-twisting Dr. Seuss shit. He knows all the lyrics to "On Top of Spaghetti", which is more than I can say for his father (JB: "Uh, all covered with . . . uh, line?" Me: "CHEESE, DAMMIT."), and he pre-announces each Maisy segment after only one viewing ("Boats, Mommy! Dis one with da boats!").

It's sort of amazing to see how his little brain just soaks up information all day long, he's aware of so much more than I give him credit for.

Then again, he still predictably whacks the bejesus out of his head on the dining room table every single time he crawls under it to retrieve a toy, so . . . okay, let's hold off on that Mensa call. FOR NOW.

Denial

Riley will now pat and kiss my belly, and tell his baby brother hi. Well, he does this with the spontaneity of a trained seal, which is to say I'm not sure it would occur to him to do these marvelous things if Daddy wasn't nearby saying "Let's tell the baby hi! Let's give the baby a hug!", but I'll take it. Having my son tenderly pat my enormous belly and shout "HI [BABY'S NAME]!" into my navel is possibly one of the best parenting moments I've experienced to date.

I am choosing to focus on these sweet interactions rather than the memory of last week, when we visited a family friend who had a young baby. JB ended up holding the 6-month-old for a few minutes to see how Riley would react, and oh, our boy's face. He stormed over to JB, demanded the baby go back to her mother, and when she wasn't immediately jettisoned from JB's arms, Riley clambered into JB's lap and curled against his chest, his back to the baby, his eyes a well of despair.

Poor little prince. I very much doubt the belly patting and hi-baby-brothering is at all connected in his head to the upcoming appearance of a small, squalling attention-stealer, but like I said, I'll take it all the same.

Doo doo (another misleading title)

One of the sillier games we play with Riley involves asking him where his shark is, and then he whips his hand up into a sort-of shark-shape and makes the Jaws sound: "Doo doo." Sometimes we play Family Shark where we ALL get out our sharks and have a festive little Shark Fight, which surprise, Riley always wins (his shark is very agile).

Sometimes the Where's Your Shark routine can actually derail a full-bore tantrum, short-circuiting whatever part of his brain is stuck on SCREAM ABOUT THWARTED INDEPENDENCE and returning him to a sort of sniffling, moist-eyed sanity. Even if it's a little insane to pretend your hand is a shark.

I was thinking today about how quickly kids move from one thing to another, how Riley is always morphing from one obsession to the next, and how in a matter of—what, days? Months?—we won't be doing the Shark Hand Thing any more, and at some point in the not too distant future I'll probably have forgotten our little family ever used to spend time making our hands into sharks and saying "Doo doo."

But now I've written it down and I've told you about it, so the Shark Hand Thing has been preserved in some tiny way. Tell me, what silly thing are you doing with your kids right now?

Rhymes with "mooing"

One of Riley's favorite phrases lately is "Doing?" As in, "Doing, Mommy? Doing?"

Wow, the more I type that the more it looks like it should rhyme with 'boing', but it's do-ing, as in "WHAT ARE YOU DOING MOMMY HUH HUH HUH HUH DOING DOING DOING DOING?"

Here's me, all day long:

"I'm cooking dinner, Riley."

"I'm putting garbage in the garbage bag, Riley."

"I'm feeding the cat, Riley."

"I'm losing my damn mind over here, Riley, can you maybe say something else?"

(Riley, switching gears slightly after hearing a noise outside: "What was dat, Mommy? What was DAT?")

I love that my kid is talking so much and we're actually able to communicate on a fairly sophisticated level (well, comparatively, I mean we aren't sitting around discussing the finer points of Coen brothers movies or anything but it's a nice change from the caveman-esque grunts, screams, and arm gestures that defined the 18 Month Zone), but duuuuude. Doing. Doing. Doing.

The upside, though, is that Riley can now be programmed to pester JB. "Psssst," I'll say to him. "Go ask Daddy what he's doing." And off he'll run.

"DOING, DADDY? DOOOOOING?"

Sure, that may sound mean, but JB is the one who taught Riley to "slime" Mommy (ie, wipe his mouth and nose on my pants). I think I deserve some major retaliation for that one.

End of the weekend (thank god)

I can't figure out why Riley's been so cranky today. Well, it might have something to do with the fact that we returned home yesterday from a holiday spent with loving family members who took turns doting on him every second of the day and thanks to having some backup someone was always giving him their full attention no matter how many times he asked for that beshitted Bing Bunny book, and now he's at home with his boring old parents who keep trying to do ridiculous things like pick up a magazine or load the dishwasher instead of hauling out Mr. Tatey Head for the frillionth time; or maybe it's the mucus-spraying cold he seems to have picked up in the last 24 hours; or maybe it's the fact that I tried to give him crockpot chicken and dumplings for dinner and he dramatically declared it "too freaky" before bursting into the sort of tears normally reserved for gravesites and middle school dances; but I'm just not sure. Maybe it's the full moon.

(Note that even in the best of times, the boy remains vigilant in his suspicion. He knows there's a cranky Sunday coming up, and he's getting his game face on.)

Oh yeah, I remember this

Anyone have a cure for pregnancy-triggered Restless Leg Syndrome, AKA Jimmy Leg, AKA OH MY GOD I AM LOSING MY MIND MAKE IT STOP MAKE IT STOP MAKE IT STOP, etc?

Let me know if you do. Until then, I'll just be over here practicing my Riverdance routine at 3 AM.

PS: Happy Thanksgiving, I hope you have a wonderful holiday.

Doors close, doors open

So, I've learned that ClubMom is officially shutting down their blog program, which means I'm . . . well, there's no other way to say it: I'M BEING LET GO.

The plan is to escort me from the building by the end of December, and between you and me, I am totally going to steal a shitload of staplers between now and then.

In all seriousness, I am really sad that the ClubMom blogging gigs have come to an end, because I have truly enjoyed writing here. It's been a great outlet and I've learned so much from your comments. It's been nice to have a place where I'm motivated to share my parent-life minutiae, I don't think I would have captured so much of Riley's early months without this blog.

Plus, I'm not going to gloss over it, I will miss the monthly paycheck. Sucksh, as my 2-year-old-who-has-unfortunately-learned-to-say-"sucks" says.

Anyway, I thought I'd give you a heads up, especially since other bloggers are sharing the same news. My plan is to keep on writing here throughout the end of December, so I hope you'll keep reading. For those who aren't already reading me elsewhere, I'll let you know where you can find me after this site shuts down.

Thanks for reading. And thanks for making this whole ClubMom experience rewarding enough that I'm sitting here thinking "Damn" instead of "Whew!".

Vanity supersizing

In my relentless quest to find one, ONE, ONE GODBLEEPINGDAMNIT pair of maternity pants that do not force me to spend 99.7% of my day hitching my waistband back up from the bottom of my ass (I used to be able to fix this via the Bella Band, which now drives me batty with its itching confinement, plus I swear it gives me heartburn), I bought two cheap styles at Target today: one pair of jeans, one pair of black slacks. Both sport the ever-sexy Full Panel, meaning they stretch over the entire massive protrusion erupting from my midsection. HOT. And yet they are by far the most comfortable pants I've found so far, in that I can take three or four steps in a row without frantically hauling at my waist. Thank you, Liz Lange.

(By the way, I just want to mention that wearing ill-fitting pants for weeks and weeks and months on end is a form of torture I think has been overlooked in all the pregnancy books. Yes, there is heartburn and gas and leg cramps and swollen hooters, but the Bad Pants Syndrome is something that sort of wears you down over time, and adds to your overall crankiness and short temper, until the 395867th time you have to bend over to chase a scampering toddler and your pants shoot down towards your ankles again, well, that is when you will consider with all seriousness ripping off your pants in the middle of Safeway and finishing your shopping in peace, with your saggy-butt underwear on display for all to see.)

Anyway, I couldn't help but notice that both pants were a size 6. And by "couldn't help but notice" I mean "stared at the tag in shock and awe and rejoiced inwardly in a completely ridiculous manner". It's ridiculous because people, even if you removed all the pregnant from my body, there is no way on this earth I would be a size 6 at the moment. There are people who eat fruit and salad during their pregnancies, and there are people who unhinge their jaws the moment the second line turns pink and spend 9 full months cramming Hostess snacks into their eat-holes. And I think you can guess which camp I fall into.

Sadly, even though I know it's BS, I love the pants just a little bit more because of their size. Okay, a lot more. Baaaaaaaaa.

Clock-watching

It's 11:03 AM and Riley's nap is about an hour away. You'd think I would take solace from this fact but the nearness of it is making him cranky and out of sorts and all the snacks in the world (for both of us) aren't really helping matters. If we watch any more Blue's Clues or Maisy I will keel over and die of boredom and/or guilt, so the TV is out. We've already made Lego towers, a giant sofa pillow fort, and drawn endless variations on "A BEEG TRUCK MOMMY" with crayons. My brain feels thick and fuzzy and I can't stop yawning. I haven't showered yet and my face is shiny, my sweatpants are uncomfortably rolled underneath my bulbous pregnant belly. There's laundry to be done and the kitchen is liberally sprinkled with crumbs but here's a whiny toddler bringing me that godawful "8 Silly Monkeys" book and my mouth tastes stale and what time is it now? Oh, it's 11:04.

11:03 AM is often my Least Favorite Time of Day when I stay at home with Riley, with 6:08 PM being a hot contender for 2nd place. What is your Least Favorite Time of Day, also known as the Long Dark Tea-Time of the Toddler Soul, AKA The Witching Hour, etc etc etc?

Bad things in the world

Last night on the national news there was a brief heartbreaking segment about abuse in Serbian psychiatric institutions and Riley, who had been ignoring the television until then, suddenly turned and watched as the cameras showed children and adults, twisted and deformed and crying out in anguish from their jail-like cribs. Before I had a chance to distract him or ask JB to change the channel, Riley turned back to me and said, "Baby go night night?" And I didn't know what to say except yes, the babies are going night night.