Mer-Family

Last night, I dreamed that I lived in a FEMA trailer. Actually two that were loosely connected. Spence slept in one, Dave and I in the other. In the middle of the night, I heard him stirring and went to him.

As I rocked him back to sleep, the FEMA custodian and his children walked through Spence's room.

"He's up again?" he asked me. Again? I'm thinking. Who is this guy? But, I nod as if this is normal that a random stranger with his children would be walking through my son's FEMA trailer after midnight.

"I usually do this" he says as he proceeds to rub his back in this new-fangled way. Spence immediately went to sleep. Great, he knows my son better than I do.

I was about to ask him just who exactly he was and how often he puts my son to sleep when the trailer started moving. Quickly. I ran to the window to look out and notice that this trailer and one other were hooked up to circus trucks.

We were being abducted by circus masters. I started to silently pray that Dave was in the other trailer. Maybe he'd know how to escape from the circus.

The FEMA trailer picked up steam as we were headed down these steep hills. I was bracing myself against the wall. Spence was still sleeping soundly.

Suddenly the trailer stopped and we were ushered out in the middle of San Francisco. Some faceless circus people threatened us and I felt like I was totally under their control. They informed us that we were to go shopping to get some winter clothes, as we would be leaving shortly for colder climates. I looked over and saw Spence shivering.

I hatched a plan to pretend that my credit card was having some issues (not so far fetched) and ask to use the phone to verify some information. It worked and I was able to get a hold of Dave.

He was there in a flash. We made brief eye-contact and knew our next move. I ran into a specialty swimming store and bought this suit for Spence for cold waters. I threw it on him. Dave and I joined hands and dove into the ocean as the circus people chased us.

Upon hitting the waves, Dave and I became mer-people. Yes, we grew tails. We carefully cradled Spence in his protective suit as we undulated further under water. I knew he would eventually grow a tail, as his parents were both mer-people. But, he had been reared on land and it would take some time. Hence, the special suit.

We were free.

What do you do when you vomit on the street?

Seriously, what is the etiquette? Are you obligated to find a few spare napkins and attempt to sop it up? Or if you were able to aim mostly on the median grassy area, can you feel free to just keep walking?

Let me be clear...I didn't know that I was going to vomit until about 5 seconds before it happened. We were out in a walk in a potential neighborhood that we are scouting for future homeowning. (Great impression, I realize). Far from the car.

I chose to keep walking and prayed that the sullen couple approaching with two miniature poodles were not witnesses to my vomit. Dave supported me. Spence was in the stroller and hardly took note of the tell tale hacking cough.

No, I was not drunk. Just pregnant. Again. And with a vicious case of all day sickness that even medicine cannot totally keep at bay.

Spence's Words

Truck (although it sounds more like "guk!"), bus, car.
Despite my best efforts, it appears that gender can flex in different ways. For Spence, perhaps its flexing more traditional "boy." For now.

Squirrel. Nice. Sometimes kitty.

Cook.

Ears, eyes, nose.

Milk.

He's also shaping up to be quite the listener. (Just like Papa.) When Eleanor started babbling at the pool, Spence turned to her to sign and say "more." She smilingly obliged. Multiple times.

Dave. (Clearly a sign that I need to cut back on my hollering after my husband for this or that...)

And yes, mama and papa.

Dipping.

Yesterday, I introduced BBQ sauce to the boy.

It's my #1 favorite condiment of all times. Truly, my only condiment of choice. Unless chocolate sauce counts. Any son of mine has got to dig the stuff. I have fantastic memories of my mom and I making ribs and drenching them in the heavenly sauce. We could replicate...except for the ribs part.

I carefully cut up his boiled tofu pup and squirted a bit of KC's Masterpiece into one portion of his plate. I then modeled how the tastiness is done. He looked skeptical.

I dipped for him and handed the pup part. Normally, it is deadly to make eye contact with the boy while eating or hand any food directly to him. It will promptly end up on the floor for later hoovering. This time, the novelty of the dipping won him over.

He crinkled his nose. Shook his head. Then tried it himself. The tofu pup was scarfed with ample BBQ sauce in a matter of minutes.

Soon he was pointing to the Craisins. Then the watermelon. He dipped them in the ambrosia like a champ.

Like mama, like son.

Before 9:30

In the pre-Spence days, I would not even have left my bed before 9:30 a.m. on a lazy Saturday morning. These days are quite different. So far this morn, I have...

• proclaimed, "I am too tired I cannot even form words."
• pretended that the boy was still asleep and not kicking my rib.
• consumed large quantities of iced toddy coffee. (Have you not all made the switch?)
  
• made pancakes, ate, and kind of cleaned up.
• fed the boy.
• made the boy a strawberry shake which he promptly threw on the floor.
  
• mopped the kitchen floor.
• danced with the boy.
• bathed the boy.
• listened to the boy say "fish."
• changed two poopie diapers.
  
• vacuumed.
  
• mowed the lawn (after 8 a.m., of course).
• got pooped on by a bird.
  
• mopped the bathroom floor.
• had two relatively lengthy phone conversations.
• put the boy down for a nap.
  
• showered.
• got dressed.
• checked my email.

This is more than I accomplished in most weekends before the boy. Kids really kick you into gear. What have you done before 9:30?

Weeds.

Calla lilies are not weeds.

After an afternoon discovering and picking cala lilies in our backyard, much like Columbus discovered America, I was sat down and told that the cala lilies were not weeds. They don't just happen unexpectedly. But, they were planned, planted and nurtured by my mother's care.

She was a gardener. I was just 10.

On this the day of her birth, I decided to go out and whip our decidedly not-cala lily weeds into shape. Spence was otherwise occupied kicking our stolen red kickball. So I grabbed the tiny gardening implements and hit the "flower" boxes.

A full three minutes into the adventure, a decidedly prickly plant pierced my skin. Yes, I should have been wearing gloves, but I hate feeling confined. It was a bit tingly, but I actively practiced denial and surrendered to the gloves.

Now five minutes into the "gardening," I brushed my forearm against the prickly weed. Another minute passed and the tingly became an annoying burning. Spence dodged out of view and I quickly helicoptered over to him. By the time I returned to the task at hand, my forearms had erupted into puss-filled pillows. I grabbed the boy and went inside.

He kicked and screamed at the thought of leaving the outdoors. I glanced down and actually watched the pillows inflating. I searched for something to take. No luck. A flooding sensation of sedation started to overtake my body. I flopped on the couch and called Dave. No answer.

"Allergic to plant. Swelling," I texted him. He called within moments.

I burst into tears and started slurring my words. He threatened to call 911. He was home within minutes, loaded me into the car and spilled me into the Northeast Clinic despite my active protests peppered with more tears.

An antihistamine under my doctor's watchful eye and I started to feel even more drowsy, but less drugged.

I guess I am less of a gardener.

The Coffee Jar.

With all this drama about BPA, I humbly propose The Coffee Jar. Now, it is not my idea...I gleaned it from some other source which has now flown out of my brain. But, it really is perfect for you iced coffee drinkers, which with the weather warming up, you all should be.

I do have the pricey SIGG water bottle for the boy and a lovely Thermos contraption that I stole from my father-in-law. And my dear Resident Teachers just gifted me a fancy dancy coffee mug so that I would no longer have to lug a jar around. But for this moment in time, I cannot get enough of The Coffee Jar.

Oh Coffee Jar, how I love thee! Let me list the ways...

1) If you lose it, it was just a jar. No feelings of expensive coffee carriers lost. You can just smile and imagine someone recycled it.

2) It seals completely. It easily tucks into your bag.

3) No BPA.

4) Very large. With this boy in my life, I consume a lot more coffee. With The Coffee Jar, you can pick your size. I choose 24 ounces.

5) It's a conversation starter. You know people will ask you about The Coffee Jar on the bus.

Go ahead, try The Coffee Jar then share your favorite reason for using it.