Babycenter Helps Me Determine Owen's Giftedness

I get e-mails from babycenter.com extolling such gems like, “Your 3 year old - Ms. Bossy.” Oh really, Babycenter, I think mini-tyrant may be a better title since we share living space. Also, you people out there with kids that have not reached three - leave, just leave, actually run, for your life. Today, I got the following - “Signs of Giftedness in a 5 to 8 year-old. I have a 5 year old! Immediately, after clicking on the link, I realized this was not a tutorial on how to wrap up child up in shiny paper with twisted curls in order to give him away. Assholes! Instead I read a list of bulleted pointed items that would help me deduce if my 5 year old was gifted which means smart, I guess. So, shall we:


Your child may be gifted if he:

Thinks abstractly; that is, he grasps advanced mathematical and linguistic concepts and can talk about such complex issues as ethics, morality, and religion.

Yep. On Saturday, I asked Owen how long he wanted to remain swimming, and he said to me 100 minutes, NOT an hour and 40 minutes. Also, before we eat, he is always quick to say “Thank you Jesus (pronounced “Cheezits”) for this meal. And he told me I did something mean, when I DID DO SOMETHING MEAN.

Is able to intensely concentrate and focus on one activity for long periods.

Absolutely, he can sit focused on the TV for hours.

Has a large vocabulary and understands words not typically used by peers.

Yes, most of his friends do not know of the New England Patriots and Boston Red Sox.

Is confident in his accomplishments and ideas.

There is never a person quicker to show me his poops. Also, the other day he suggested we get married. Again. And I told him (again), “Get an effin job already.”

Is sensitive to other people's feelings.

Whenever I am crying over an empty bottle of wine, Owen is there with a hug.

Well,  I think we know our answer, don't we?

Also, check out who can swim -

The Half Decade Mark

Five Things for Owen on this his Fifth Birthday:

1. You Love Cars 2. You love to play races with your cars, lining them up, rolling them and yelling at Maggie when she takes them. The fact that you asked for Cars 2 bedding with that being your favorite present has only added to your love affair, but also your oddness as what five year old wants bedding. However, let me clear about something - it is pronounced Piston Cup. There is only so much your Dad and I can do to remain straight faced when you cry out that you have just won the “Pissing Cup.”

2. Holy Cow, Competitive. I feel that this is somehow my fault, given that this is surely retribution from God for my own transgressions against my parents. The other day after you defeated your father and me in a riveting game of Xbox Kinect Twister, you said to Dad when he was reading bedtime stories, “Daddy, guess what?” “You and mommy are doofuses, I’m the winner.” Yep. You also throw a major fit when you do lose, “Why I lose Daddy?” “Why you beat me?” And then you sulk. So now we are forced to expunge the “it is only a game”, “it is suppose to be fun” and “it is not about winning” mantras. Again, totally retribution or competiveness is a genetic trait, which I am thinking it is.

3. Mr. Sensitive. It is hard to believe that the same person who is a hyper competitive a*hole . . . err kid, can also be amazingly sensitive and sweet. But true! Yesterday after Maggie woke up from her nap, and was not feeling well. You asked to draw a picture “to make her feel better.” And then as she lay like a slug on the couch, you came up to her, rubbed her head and said “Aww, Maggie, feel better.” This empathy is one of your best qualities.

4. You Are Funny. You do things like this (by the way, go 9ers!).



5. You are the Best. As your parent, I know there is some obligation to make blanket statements like this. But I can’t really remember when you were not part of my life, which must mean that my life is exponentially better with you in it - or I am just really, really tried, which can totally be a possibility. You are my Os, my son, my first born and there will never be anything better than out of the blue hearing you say, “Mama, I love you.” I love you too Owsie. Happy Birthday.

P.S. How were you ever this small?

Hello November.

Hello there people who read this blog, i.e. John. There are no specific reasons (lazy and too much wine) to explain my absence of late. Perhaps it is that the very minutia of my life these past weeks begins with “B” and ends with an “oring”. Not that it can ever be that, for life is never boring when you have an Owen and a Maggie.

The other evening, while reading stories to Owen and in a blatant attempt get him to behave better, I asked him what he wanted for Christmas from Santa. Now that Halloween is over, I can ask this question ever single freaking day until December 24 and quickly follow it with: “You know, Owen, Santa keeps a list of everything you do and if there are more bads than goods you don’t get any presents. I don’t say you get coal, because then Owen would say, “Mama, what is coal?” Thinking it something extremely cool and something he must possess. This would lead him to purposefully choose the “wrong” thing to do in order to achieve this fated and glorious coal of which I speak. That is how he is, curious (and insane). I just enforce that he will receive nothing since nothing in the eyes of a child is something huge - nothing! Oh hells to the no.

So I asked him what he wanted from Santa. He then proceeded to say, “A new Cars 2 blanket”, (officially ousting Toy Story 3 as his Pixar movie of choice). He also said wanted the “Fresh Beats.” If you are not familiar with Fresh Beat, I give you this:


I could have linked a video, but the viewing of such a travesty would cause the immediate mush of your central cortex, followed by leaking out of your left ear to be forever gone and you forever changed for the worse. You can thank me later. But then he said he wanted a guitar, drums, and keyboard. So I think I will get him this:


One man bad bitches!

I proceeded to ask him what he thought Maggie would like for Christmas, keeping with the theme of good behavior for a bounty of goods. He looked at me and said, “Mama, Maggie would like a Barbie, a car and (dramatic pause) poop.” “Owen, are you saying that Maggie wants poop?” “Yes, Mama, she told me.” “She told you she wanted poop?” “Yep, today. She wants poop. Maggie is really funny. She’s crazy.” Okay then.

And there you have it, not the most exciting of daily adventures, but certainly not boring.

Let's Dance

The problem with not writing in your blog for a bit, is that after a time period you feel that you cannot come back to the blog with the minutia of your daily life, instead a great event worthy of your absence must occur. I am a working mother of two and the only “great event” worthy of mention is perhaps my overindulgence of vodka on Friday night - hello, party of one. (Thank you to my brother-in-law Garen for said term, which I love). Even that only involved 3.5 vodka gimlets while watching Project Runway. Dudes, I know, the awesome.

The best thing occurring in my life thus far is my son Owen’s penchant for peculiar phrasing and fascinating mind. Let us examine the following:



If you are unable to understand the following exchange it goes as follows:

Me: Do you guys want to dance your butts off?
Maggie: Yeah.
Owen: No. Not at all.
Maggie: No, not all.
Owen: No.
Me: Are you sure you don’t want dance your butts off.
Owen: No. Our heads.

Remember that Owen is almost five years old, but uses the phrase, “No. Not at all.” I don’t even use that phrase. If one looks closer at what he does want to do - dance his head off. You can see he wanted to say was: “No. Not at all, I much prefer to dance my my head off.” And that word, “prefer”, in his vocabulary regularly.

I am not sure what any of this means other than he must be watching the BBC late night or his Welsh name of “Owen” is more than just a name. By the way, everyone should want to dance their butts off, heads are far too important.

Its Night Night Time.

I have mentioned before that after John reads stories to Owen, I go in where we do pseudo yoga (breathing, humming, and stretching) and talk about our day. Owen has been on a nap strike at preschool which means that his stories with John last about 4 minutes before he is well under the veil of sleep. It seems that his strike is over, so once again we get to delve into the mind of a four year old. Yippee. Last night’s conversation began with the letter of the day, which was “S”. For socks, as Owen was clear to point out. Owen also likes to sing his ABCs in the style of Super Why while also counting them on his hands. “Use both your hands Mama.” He then proceeded to name all the stickers on his bed various family names and school friends names and then he said “Good job everybody. Thank you for listening.” After that Owen asked me if I wanted to play Elephant in the Jungle. What? Okay, I said, but I don’t know how to play. So we go under his covers, and he starts rolling imaginary dice saying there is a happy face, there is a star. I win. Then, how does one say this delicately, he was visiting his twigs and berries. I have told Owen repeatedly that his private parts are his private parts and only he touches them. Last night he goes, “I am touching my balls, Mama.” And I am all, “Touching your testicles. Testicles.” I do this because that is what you do today. There are no more terms like “dinkey” and “nuts”, it is penis and testicles. If nothing, our children will be adequately prepared for health class unlike me who after attending of Catholic school for 8 years went to public school and watched a cartoon of gonorrhea and chlamydia attacking people in absolute horror. Honestly, it is amazing I even have kids. But as Owen sat “exploring”, I told him that is fine to do that, but it is a private thing that you do at home. Because masturbation is now fine too and does not make you blind. Who knew? As he lay, he said to me “Mama, I am playing with my balls. I am rolling my dice! My dice!” And yes, I have not stopped laughing.

Two Stories

Story One - Out of the Mouth of Babes

Owen was home sick on Tuesday from some mystery fever that lasted all of the 2.5 seconds his preschool was able to take it and call us for the 24 hour mandatory stay away. Owen was not sick, but he had to stay home. John who has the fortune (not really if you have a sick kid) of working from home, watched him. About to be on an important telephone conference, John told Owen that he had to be very quiet and if anything came up, he needed to go to him and pull on his shirt and whisper what he wanted. Ten minutes or so, there was a gentle pull on John’s shirt, “Daddy. Daddy.”, Owen whispered (amazingly!). “What?”, asked John. “Daddy. Can I have my drums?”. “No.” “I’ll be quiet. I promise.” Then John laughed for 22 minutes.

Story Two - My Running Pants Raped Me.

Since the end of January, I have been running a ton. I have upped my distance, upped my speed and become one of those people who only use stairs. Hate me, I don’t care. Yesterday, on my 5.5 mile Fort Mason Up that Awful Hill Run something occurred. Granted, my running clothes are loose of late. Running clothes should never be loose because you will be like a gazelle down the Embarcadero - sweating and spitting and swearing - all the while, unbeknownst to you, because you are all hopped up on endorphins, your pants will be moving up and down repeatedly. Because you are cheap and prefer to by factory deficient running clothes from Ross, these cotton pants will begin to chaff you. The rough fabric and fantastic running speed no match for the smooth skin of your backside. So not only has the so-called healthy sport of running brought me exercised induced asthma, it now has given intimate knowledge of anal sodomy. Thank you exercise. Thank you.

Eyes Like a Tiger

Two nights ago in a deep sleep I awoke to find our bedroom door ajar with the shiny white of an eye flashing before me. “Owen, is that you?” No answer. I was submerged in the drool phase of sleep and immediately thought this was a dream, all the while fearing my impending murder. “Owen?” No response. John woke up and looked to the door. “Owen?,” we said together. “Are you okay?” This is when he took the door, slammed it and ran back to his room. I stumbled there, to find him on his bed, head buried into the pillow on his knees with his butt saluting the air. This is his usual, “I am mad at you, so leave me alone pose.” “Are you okay?,” I said while rubbing his back. He was asleep in thirty seconds without a word. Maybe it was a bad dream, or sleep walking or any possible number of toddler sleep antics. But if anyone had a right to be mad in this situation, it was me. Being awoken from a coma like sleep to find a pair of hostile mutant midget eyes glaring at you with deep breathes of attitude is not something qualified as a proper wake up technique. And “scared” does not adequately describe my mental state: confusion/non-recognition/fear/recognition/amazement/why-are-you-slamming-the-door-you-are-going-to-wake-your-sister-and-then-I-will-have-to-kill-you/did that just happen? I have read about parents who say nothing is more horrifying than waking to find a pair of tiny eyes staring, and now I completely agree. At least I did not wet the bed.

Owen Turns Four (Pardon the Late)

It is hard to imagine four years ago, I had myself a brand new spanking baby boy. Especially since that baby boy full of blue eye wonder is now a 40 pound, 42.5 inch tall very independent mind of his own fun loving dork. Although to be fair, what four year old is not a dork? So Owen on your 4th birthday (albeit few weeks late), you make your father and I very happy, even if you may cause a certain eye twitching frustration every so often. You are a goof, pure and simple. You love to laugh, you make us laugh, and you make Mags laugh too. Aside from the occasional push, shove, hit you are an amazing big brother. Several times this year, your sister would pull your hair and all you would say was “Owww, Daddy, Maggie pulled my hair.” No retaliation. Although I would say that at this point that ratio is more 80/20 ration, but Maggie is almost two, she should know better. Right?

Your loves at the moment are many and include pretty much anything Pixar, but Toy Story in particular. You also like this new show called the Fresh Beat Band - which is more of a last month type of thing. It is a show about singing, you sing and dance. One day this will embarrass you more than you will ever know, and honestly, I can’t wait for that because this show is really, really bad. But you love it, so we suffer through. You love to do puzzles, which is pretty great since your Dad and I have images of all of us at the dining room table muddling through a 1,000 piece Giants win the World Series one. Oh, you kinda like sports. And my “kinda” I mean fanatically. We finally had to delete the World Series win because it was all you wanted to watch, Renteria’s homerun in particular where you would run around and yell crazily happy. Same for football, although I think you love baseball more. This year we took you to the AT&T Park for the Giants versus the Red Sox, Madison Bumgardner’s debut. For eight innings you sat enthralled. Clapping and yelling and watching the Giants lose (it was to be expected, it was the Sox for god’s sake). But that game made me realize that you were becoming a little guy.

Also this year you graduated to a twin bed. A bunk bed, for future sharing with your sister. The transition was easy and although there are the times you do not want to go to sleep and throw a hissy fit, but its getting better (through bribes of tattoos and candy). Your Dad reads you stories every night for 30 minutes, then you guys sing songs, and then (if we are lucky) you fall to sleep to wake up anywhere between 5:30 and 6:30 a.m.. So, yeah, that right there needs some work. Your sister sleeps like the dead, but you are and have always been an early bird. Luckily this is a trait both you and your Dad possess, because Mama likes to sleep in.

You are four Owen. Next year at this time we will be applying to Kindergarten. Or maybe the MLB, because your arm and bat skills are ridiculous. In fact, a 10 year old commented on it by saying to his friend “Did you see that little kid, I could not hit like that at his age.” Impressive, indeed. But I think kindergarten is probably the safer bet.

You are a good guy Owen. Even at times when I pretend to yearn for a life I had before you and Maggie, there is no way I could ever go back. You make my heart whole, and the pride and love I have for you is overwhelming. Okay, going to stop now, don’t need to cry. Owen Patrick, I can’t wait to see what the next year brings - like later wakeups!

Love,
Mama

The Law of One More Time

Last night John had a work dinner which meant I had both kids myself. Aside from Owen asking every ten minutes or so “Where’s my Daddy?” it went well. By the way, the answer to that was “He is working Owen." and not "He left dude, because you are annoying with your incessant Where My Daddys? Also, he is Maggie’s Daddy too (I think).” After reading him Trees, The Counting Book, Charlie Harper’s ABCs, Curious George Goes to the Library (and wrecks havoc), Good Night San Francisco and tucking him in thirty-three times. Not an exaggeration, each night Owen requires that he is put to bed with his four blankets. All which are from his baby days, three being large swaddling blankets of the same variety and the other a super soft baby blue blanket that he rubs with fervor of a teenage boy.

Owen: One More Time.
Me: Okay.
Owen: One More Time.
Me: Okay.
Owen: Three More Times. (Smart Ass).
Me: Okay, last time.
Owen: One More Time.
Me: Last time.
Owen: One More Time.
Me: Last time, Owen.
Owen: Okay, Mommy. I miss you.

Finally out of blanket tucking hell, I escaped to the kitchen to finish dinner for tomorrow (Baked Ziti). There was an intention to make something to eat. Instead due to the heavenly quiet, I went the single girl route and poured myself a giant glass of wine. Then another. “One More Time”, indeed.

Uh Oh, it’s the Monster Cookie

There is an insanely gratifying feeling when your children begin to speak. Awe mixed with love mixed with complete adoration. Maggie has begun her Uh Oh phase. Dropped a sippy cup? Uh Oh. See Daddy? Uh Oh. Eat your one thousandth strawberry of the day? Uh Oh. Mommy’s glass of wine is empty? Uh Oh. Okay fine, the last one I said. The Uh Ohhhing toddler is incredibly cute. She also says Daddy, Mama, thank you, hiyeee, waffle and a few others I am forgetting because she is my second kid, and who cares, right? My first born on the other hand was very select with his words and did not really say too much. Now the kid is a yammering fool. From his “Mama, I miss you” when saying goodnight to the holy cow you are awesome “Monster Cookie” in reference to the cookie monster. Who is that Owen? Mama, that the Monster Cookie. Who could correct that? He is speaking so well these days and becoming this little person. They are no longer babies, they are an almost 3 and a half year old monster cookie loving kid and a 13 month old uh ohhing toddler. Both whom I love exceedingly.

Owen the Terrible

Oh good lord. No one tells you, no one tells you about three years old because you are dealing with a bi-polar three foot tall asshole. Most parents are comfortable saying “terrible twos”, but not many are comfortable calling their three year olds an asshole, lucky for you, I am. Last night Owen decided that he did not want to take his bath, but watch “TB”. TB being television and not tuber nodule lung disease making a come back. “I want TB Daddy”. “No Owen. You can take a bath or go to bed.” We often give Owen two options to choose from - the one we want him to do and the one there is no way he will do. It has worked gang busters. Until now. Owen has discovered his free will. No longer is it the simple choice of the thing Mama and Daddy want and the horrible alternative. He realizes that there is a third option - WHAT HE WANTS. Freaking cognitive development We posed a “bath” versus “go to sleep” with Owen responding “No Daddy, I watch TB. I watch George.” “No, Owen, take a bath.” While yelling “No!!!”, he takes the cords to the TV pulls them all out. Since electrocution is something we in the McCall household frown upon, he was sent to his room for immediate three minute lockdown. You have not lived until your ears hear the symphony of the wailing angst of a three year old denied his Curious George. Punishment served, Owen leaves his room to apologize and take his bath. While getting undressed, it is clear Owen is pissed off. He is mumbling about George, TB and starting to blow spit bubbles. He knows this is something we hate. “Owen, if I see one bubble of spit, you are going into your room, to bed, without stories.” Owen adores his books. The threat of taking away his stories is akin to taking away my wine after a tough day. There will be tears, screams maybe the occasional punch. But within his demon raddled toddler brain, it was decided that tonight would be a pushing buttons kind of evening. He blew spit bubbles I could not see. I ignored this because the kid was totally right. I did said “If I saw one spit bubble.” Smart ass. He climbs into the tub, looks right at me and bites Maggie’s finger. That was it. “You are going to bed. Without stories.” You could immediately see that this was not his intention, as his face went to “WTF.” John took him out of the tub, put his PJs on said good night and closed the door. No stories. We listened to him scream as he recognized his poor choice. I went in and asked him if he would “Like to read stories to Maggie?” “I take bath.” “No bath, Owen, you bit Maggie.” “I sorry.” “I don’t care Owen, no bath, you can go to bed or you can read stories to Maggie.” “I read stories.” As we read stories to Maggie, he would look at me with the eyes of a puppy and then sort of glare - the bipolar toddler mind raging. John came in and I said, “What do you say to Daddy.” “No spitting, no pulling cords, no biting. I sorry.” Apology accepted, we read stories as a family. Then there were laughs and kisses, and love. He gave Maggie her bunny, tucked her in and then read stories with Daddy and feel asleep. The asshole contained, for now.

Did He Just Call Me Fat?

Last night Owen was resisting putting on his very cool outer space themed pajamas. A proven technique to get a toddler to do what you and not he wants is to pretend that you desire what he does not like. It is helpful to be overly animated and a tad bit psychotic. Something that is right up my alley.

“Oh Owen. What awesome alien PJs. I love those PJs. My PJs. Mmmmmmiiinnneeee.”
“No, no, these mine PJS.”
“No way Owen, mine, mine, mine. I want to wear them now.”
“No Mama, you too big.”

And just like that, I now have one child.

It Is Worth It

Sometimes as a parent you will stand holding your screaming banshee like child retreating inwardly to ask yourself was this worth it? Not to mention the fact that you have been sober for almost two years. But then one day your three year old son who is very curious about body parts says to you “Mama, what is that?” while pointing to your nether regions. Since you have a degree in Biology, you make use of it by saying “It is my vagina, Owen.” Your son turns to his Dad and says “Daddy, where is your vagina?” You then fall to the ground in a fit of laughter thinking, oh yes, absolutely worth it.

A Tale of Two M&Ms

When potty training, one must resort to bribery in order for the child to comply. Owen is potty trained, although still in pull ups, which will end soon. For #1 he gets an M&M and for #2, a matchbox car. Appropriately phrased, he is amassing a shitload of cars. So now we only reward “big poops” with cars. Yes people, this is my life.

On Tuesday night, there was a “little poop” where Owen asked “M&M, Mummy and Daddy?” I reached for the M&Ms which I keep in an old pickle jar (and yes, I recognize it is not Oklahoma circa 1933). Standard protocol is Owen reaching in and taking one M&M, something that he has been doing without issue for weeks. Accidently, he grabbed two. “Two?”, he said. “Two M&Ms”. His glee obvious. “No, Owen. Just one. Just one M&M, put the other one back.” With a look of pure confusion, there he stood, an M&M in each hand, directing his gaze between the jar and his M&M holding hands. “Owen, put back the M&M. You just get one. One only.” Looking at his face, you could see his brain completely engaged. The devil on one shoulder shouting “Eat them. Eat them both - NOW.” And the angel chirping, “Mommy said only one. Put the other one back.” Then it happened. He looked at me, he looked at John and with almost lightening speed popped both M&Ms in his mouth and laughed an almost cackle. He fooled us! Admittedly, the semi-stifled laughter John and I shared was probably not the best parenting move considering last night given the same opportunity, Owen stole a handful of M&Ms. I can say that this is one of my favorite moments with my son yet, because everyone has to give into the devil sometimes, especially in the face of M&Ms.

From the Mouth’s of Babes

Yesterday morning as I sat on the couch, looking at Owen I exclaimed: “Boy, am I tired.” He looked at me, and without any hesitation said, “Take a nap, Mommy.” I am also pretty sure, he thought to himself “Good god, what a stupid bitch”.

One Love

I think everyone has an idea as to what sort of parent they would be, permissive, strict, middle of the road and everyone has steadfast “I’ll never”s. Some of mine being I’ll never hit my kids (well at least when sober so I can’t remember) and I’ll never try to be the cool parent (because really do I want to be friends with my kids - hell no. I want slave labor). But today I broke one of these “I’ll never”s. Today, I bought my son Owen a tie dye shirt. It is no secret that all things hippie make me angry, to Birkenstock socked feet, to the Grateful Dead, to white people with dreadlocks, to the general retardness of something that happened fifty years ago and should be a glimmer in everyone’s eyes. Again, surprising I moved to San Francisco. And why did I have to buy my son a tie dye shirt with gigantic peace symbol on it? Because his preschool class are being rasta reindeer and performing Bob Marley’s One Love for their holiday show. Yes, 3 year old Rastafarians, singing and dancing to Reggae for Christmas. When thinking of reindeer, I think Rudolph, red noses and holiday cheer, I don’t think of tie dye clad toddlers with fake dreadlocks and antlers signing One Love. But I can't lie, I love that this is happening, even if it means that Owen does now owns a hippie peace shirt. Because let's face it, there are always matches, but not many opportunities for your son to be embarrassed 10 years from now as Mom whips out Rasta Reindeer 2009 for the 1,000th viewing.

For the Owes

This morning we took Owen to his two and a half year wellness pediatrician appointment. His percentile ranks were 75% in height and 80% in weight. Needless to say all of those “he is built like a linebacker” comments since Day 2 of his life did not go to waste. He did great. He made his patented “show me your eyes” face when Dr. Langston directed light into his pupils. The face evidenced here:



We are fortunate he is the picture of health, and a great kid to boot. He is getting older, and bigger, and more talkative. And that is sad in lots of ways, but totally amazingly awesome in much more. I feel blessed to know the person he is becoming. Hooray for Owen.



And that person is a complete goofball, or as I like to say “Goofball McCall”. But look at his parents, was there another way? So to Owen, Happy 2.5. I love you very much.

Maggie Smiles; Owen Does Grease

Maggie Smiles from Cassandra McCall on Vimeo.

Owen Does Grease from Cassandra McCall on Vimeo.

The Terrible Twos

Oh sweet Jesus, you know when you have one kid and are contemplating another kid and you are all – how hard can it be? Let me be the one to tell you – freaking hard. Actually hard is not proper in its description. Let me rephrase it this way, this entire water boarding torture method – CAKE!! I really do believe that at times I would like to have a bucket of water pour on my head while semi-upside down than to live the life of a mother of two. You might be thinking at this time I am embellishing but dear readers, I am not. My daughter, god bless her, is for the most part a wonderful baby. But for every plus she has there is one thing that blackens it all and that is her banshee like wail. Actually I wish it were a banshee’s wail, because upon hearing it I would be dead. But nope, when I hear Ms. Maggie’s mighty mouth, I am right there next to her, with my ear to her wailing willing every part of my body not to tense up. It is said that your anxiety transfers to the baby making them even more of a mess, so it is best to take the abuse and sojourn on not caring that there is a good chance your hearing has been damaged permanently. I am getting better at going to my safe place during this child inflicted abuse, but at the same time I am thinking – is this what doctors refer to as blacking out during traumatic events? Maggie’s biggest issue so far is her uncanny ability to miss her window of sleep so that she will stay up for about five hours straight during which time she will quietly lull herself into a sense of calm only to ten minutes later find her way back to crazy baby. This leaves me to the entire three hour scheduling window – she gets up, I feed her, awake time, then 90 minutes of sleep. When on this schedule, things are beautiful and lovely, I am blessed, but when the train derails, it is a massacre of carnage. Luckily the train has not been derailing too often, and my willingness to leave and join the circus quelled. Owen is adjusting aside from a few issues involving his going to bed, and the fact that he likes to cry out Mommy!!! Daddy!!! for a good 20 minutes. This from a child who for an entire year did not even go boo when put to sleep. But he is also in his two no stage, or as he likes to say “No Way”. Which is pretty cute and completely irritating at the same time. But he does seem to love “mine baby.” I try to tell him that it is my baby, and that I carried her for nine months, but he does not seem to care, because everything is “mine.” Its like I did not get the memo or something.

He Takes After His Mother

John IMed me yesterday with the phrasing “Our son is weird.” To which I immediately shook my head in agreement and asked “What did he do now?” Seems Owen when returning to the house, ran into the living room climbed upon the coffee table and started screaming. Why? Because under said coffee table was the remnants of his Cinnamon Raisin English Muffin had in the morning. John moved the table, and Owen swooped upon the leftovers eating them. This is funny because I once knew another being to do this - my dog Buddy. Buddy and my dog Ebony would receive treats. Ebony being a fifty pound cocker spaniel was voracious in appetite, so when Buddy got his fill he would kick his Bonza under the oven. A week of so later when the urge struck, Buddy would go to the oven and start barking until it was moved and his treat was found. It seems my son now does this. I guess I should be happy he has a good memory, because finding food you left eight hours previously is a real skill. However, I am worried he spent the entire day thinking about the last remaining nugget of that tasty English muffin. This is entirely possible, because he is just a tab bit anal. What do you expect from a child born from the girl who would ate her food for an entire year in reverse alphabetical order? I kid you not.