Bedfellow

Another morning of snow here in Hoboken, but this time, I was a little smarter about avoiding a "can we build a snowman!" meltdown. I did something pretty revolutionary. That's right. I kept the curtains closed. They got through dressing and breakfast and had no idea there even was any snow. I know, she's smart, isn't she? It only takes me a dozen times of getting it wrong to eventually get it right.

Anyway, it was all for nought as Toddler Drama came a little earlier this morning. I woke up today to feel the four rubber wheels of a monster truck digging into my lower back. At some point, Julian had moved into our room with his Hot Wheels and had turned our bed into a queen-size Auto Mall.

"Julian, why don't we pack these up and we can have breakfast?"

"NO!!!"

Hmm, OK. "Julian, want to help me make waffles?"

"NO!!!"

What else? "Julian, there's a surprise for you in the kitchen." Now I was skating on thin ice. There was nothing of the sort for him in the kitchen. I would have to improvise fast if he went for this one. But he didn't.

"NO!!!"

Then his voice wound up like a siren, starting quiet and then blaring. "I want you to staaaay in the bed with MEEEE!!!!"

Oy vey.

Since getting rid of the pacifier, he's demanded I sleep with him at night, which I refuse, after way too much cajoling and singing of "Rock-a-Bye Baby". So he's started to find me in the morning and demand quality time in the A.M. under the covers with Mom. And all I want to do is get going with the morning. Snuggling is hard for me at that point. But if I make for the door, he has this way of completely melting, his lips curling out and his whole face cracking and his little body quivering and the tears spurting that I can't bear to see, so I stay with him. Snuggle, snuggle, snuggle. OK, should we eat now? [I know, you're reading this and thinking, "Man, is she a sucker." I know.]

When he's 15 years old and doesn't want to have anything to do with me, won't hold my hand or hug or kiss me, won't sit near me on the couch or even want to be seen with me in public, I'll look back on these morning snuggles and I will hardly be able to believe he ever wanted to curl up in bed with me. He won't believe it either. If it didn't feel so pornographic, I'd probably even have my husband take a picture of us snuggling together amid the mini inventory of the Auto Mall.

Today, it only takes him a few minutes to recharge his 'Mommy battery', as I call it, and then he pops up in bed. I'm hopeful. Now we can get on with breakfast. That's when he says:

"Where's my surprise?!"

Oy vey. How do I always do this to myself?

Groundhog Schmoundhog

"Hey, Ian. You know what today is?"

"Huh?"

"Today? Do you know what it is?"

"I'm tired."

"OK. Well, today is Groundhog Day!" I'm very excited about this, clearly more than he is. I dislike winter, and any faux holiday involving a glorified rodent predicting the weather, hopefully less of the winter variety, is fine by me.

"Do you know what a groundhog is, Ian?"

"Nooooo." He sticks his thumb in his mouth and his walk becomes a little hobbled by the fact that one of his arms is now attached to his face.

I launch into my highly untechnical explanation. "It's like a little dog who lives inside the ground. On Groundhog Day, he comes out of his hole to look for his shadow." I watch Ian for signs of interest. Surely, animals coming out of holes is interesting to a boy, right?

Ian releases the thumb. "Oh. When does he come out of his hole?"

I try to remember the movie. He comes out after Bill Murray shows up with the satellite truck and hits on Andie Macdowell a few times.

"Today, sometime," I say.

Ian is scanning the park. "Mom, I can't see him."

"Well, he'll be here. And if he sees his shadow, it means 6 more weeks of winter."

"Why?"

"Because it does. That's just what it means."

Ian puts his thumb back in his mouth. If nobody was looking, I think I'd do the same. At least until we hear from the rodent.

Last Minute Louie

This post is dedicated to my sister-in-law, Amy, who uses this expression now and then. I just love it, and somebody should have told me about it a long time ago (see more below). Happy Birthday, Amy!

~

One of the most curious things about my mornings with Ian and Julian is the strange irony that I am now in charge of other people who have to be places on time. I am never to my own places on time.

No, really: I used to always miss the bus in grade school and my parents would have to drive me. I missed the bus for a regional track meet once and my Dad drove me 100 miles to get there in time for my race. I was so late sometimes in high school that I used to just skip first period altogether. After I graduated from college, I had this recurring dream that I missed my first class every day for the entire last year of school and then couldn't graduate. If I were an airline, nobody would fly me because I would have the worst on-time record in the industry. By a long shot.

So when Ian first started in pre-school this year, I had to confront one of my biggest personal growth issues head-on. You see, in Ian's school, if the parent brings the child late three times (that means past 9:00 a.m.), then the child is banned from school. I saw this on one of the 467 pieces of paper I had to sign about stuff like permission for your kid to take walks around town, having their pic in the newspaper, food allergies, favorite books, etc. Then I saw that little half-slip of paper about TARDINESS and almost went into shock. Were they serious? Banned from pre-school! [If James Lipton ever interviewed me on "Inside the Actor's Studio" and asked me my least favorite word, that would be it: tardy.]

"Don't worry," said the teacher's aide. "First you get two warnings."

Had they met me? Did they think two warnings was going to do it?

The first two times the child is late, the parent is led to the equivalent of a principal's office to write down on a piece of paper: "I will not bring my child late to school again" and then sign and date it. And the best part about this is that you have to bring your kid in with you while he watches you write this sentence out on a piece of paper. The only thing missing is the dunce cap.

So it's February 1st. How am I doing? I'm pleased to report to you that there hasn't been one humiliating trip to the principal's office yet. I've done everything humanly possible to make it, including failing to strap my kid into his car seat, walking to school with my pajamas under my jeans, and you can totally forget about my hair and make-up. Working from home has its advantages for us Louies.

But, alas, there's still five months left of school. I have plenty of time to screw it up.