Here and Everything In It

20 Months

Yesterday, Innis hit another month milestone but I was too busy sending death threats to put together a proper post.

Today, however, is a new day.

To begin: Innis is getting SO SMART. I know every mother probably says this about her kid(s), and it's partly due to the fact that I have no experience with humans this small, but I am blown away every single day by the sheer magnitude of stuff this little guy is absorbing and learning. Just amazing.

Recently, he's started to sing. And speak in little sentences (for example "Innie hit knee!" and "doggy bark!" and "Innie outside?").

He's also learning about choices. Yesterday I was trying (trying being the operative word here) to vacuum, and being the little (un)helper he is, Innis was trying to help me do it. Now usually I do the floors first and then break off the long hose, pass it to Innis, and vacuum the furniture with the hand thingy while he toodles around with the extension rod, hose, and floor cleaning part. He's generally pretty happy with this because the vacuum's running and he hasn't yet figured out that the hose has to be connected to the machine to actually be effective.

But this time, he didn't want to wait for me to finish the floors, and was whiny and cry-y and grabby -- so I offered him a choice. He could go sit in his highchair, or play with his toys. He looked at me, and then spun around to his toy box.  The next time he started complaining that I wouldn't just LET HIM CLEAN, I gave him the same choice, and he said "toy ... chair" and then grabbed his bulldozer. Ah, the onset of understanding ultimatums ...

The not so great thing to come along with his heightened ability to verbally communicate is being on the listening end of it ALL THE TIME. Don't get me wrong. I love having conversations with Innis while I'm peeing or trying to assemble living room furniture or attempting to talk on the phone. That goes with the territory. This is what tests my motherly calm:

Innis (from right behind me in the kitchen): MUM!

Me: Yes, Innis?

(Silence)

Me: Did you call me?

Innis: MUM! MUM! MUM! MUM!

Me: Yeee-eeessss?

Innis: MUM MUM MUM MUM MUMMMMMEEEEEEE!!!

Me: Yes, honey. I hear you. What would you like?

Innis: INNIE OUTSIDE? OUTSIDE? INNIE? OUTSIDE? OUUUUTSIIIIIIDE?

Me: Not right now, sweetheart. In a sec, when Mummy's finished doing the dishes.

Innis: MUM? OOOUUUTTSIIIIIDE??????? INNIE?? OUTSIDE? OUTSIDE? OUTSIDE?

Me: Yup, I hear you. Soon. Just be patient.

(Silence)

Innis: INNNNNNNIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE ... OUTSIDE?

And so on and so forth. This is often accompanied by crocodile tears and much throwing of himself dramatically against my legs. Patience is a skill we're both still working on in month 20.

And I quote, "POOL? POOL? INNIE? POOOOOL? INNNNNIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE?"

But oh my god, this kid makes me laugh.

And melt:

And write all those gushy things mums-with-blogs tend to gush about because they like to take advantage of their interwebs readership.

But to end off, here's some toddler speak, in live action. I had a second part where Innis continued to recite the names of everyone he knows, but Brad did something inappropriate during the recording, so I can't publish it. He is such a video bomber.

(Excuse the mouthful of food. What can I say? The boy likes to eat.)

Alright You Slimy, Hundred Legged Mothertruckers. It's ON.

Centipede #2:

This one apparently didn't make it up the stairs before succumbing to the killer instincts of Rex (I presume). It was already in its death throes by the time we came downstairs this morning. Pretty much near the end of its miserable, crunchy little life, rueing the moment it decided to squirm its way through whatever crevice allowed it access to the Inside World.

But this one, I killed. Cold heartedly. With very little remorse, and with only one relatively minor heebie jeebie seizure.

So bring it, bugs -- oh wait. NO. Please don't bring it, I don't want you in my house.

But be warned: if you ever DO happen to show your grody little selves within the boundaries of our rented property, KNOW THAT I WILL KILL YOU.

Ooooh, It Burns

I pretty much convince myself I'm going to die several times every week. Mostly from various types of obscure cell mutations, with some blood poisoning or toxic chemical exposure thrown in for good measure, and this is because I am unbalanced, with (sometimes often) unrestrained anxiety issues.

This is basically my experience on the internet, most days. If anything, it makes for an interesting existence -- and for Brad, too, since he has SO much fun living with me and all my ... quirks. I'm sure if I wasn't who I am, his life would be so BORING.

So I had this mole. This mole on my leg that to anyone else would just appear to be what it was. Nothing serious. Get it checked out, whatever. Don't stay up all night obsessing over it, losing sleep over this tiny little thing.

But I did, and I was tired. So Friday I went to a dermatologist. And people ... it was a WART.

A WART. ON MY SHIN.

I have suddenly become a scary, scary witch of unnattractiveness ...

(can people die from that?)

... but disregarding my hideousness, the dermatologist checked me all over with a magnifying glass to make sure none of my other freckles and skin flaws were causes for concern (I recommend this!) (and also, do you think she had a manic radar? I didn't even have to ask for the all-over exam, she just did it. I thanked her profusely for such consideration -- even if it was just protocol -- for the peace of mind and for not being made to feel like a crazy person ... even though I didn't really say that last part out loud, for fear that she would think that I was, in fact, a crazy person).

And then she burned a part of my leg off.

Ok, it was a just a little bit, and I didn't really want it anyway since it was all warty and whatnot, but still. IT HURT.

And now I have a black hole of charred nothingness demarking one of my lower extremities. It looks like this: ok no forget it, it's too gross.

But now I do not have a wart. Which is the upside of this searing of my flesh, and which is nice. Another upside is that I now know what I would smell like if someone decided to barbeque me. You know, because I wouldn't actually be around to smell it myself. It's like one of life's great questions, answered.

ANYWAY, thanks to modern medicine, when the ash clears and the charred skin sheds, there will be no obvious evidence remaining of my former toady self.

And Innis will never have to know about my sordid, warty past, which I'm sure will do wonders for our relationship down the road when he suddenly realizes I'm not the coolest person in the world after all and begins to look for any reason to justify why I'm just so embarrassing. I figure if I can keep the most detrimentally awkward stuff hidden -- like a certain person's wart history, for example -- we can make it through his teenage years relatively unscathed.

75% Confirmed: The Impending Spawn Is A ...

 

G I R L !!!!

Which is hilarious, because I'd already convinced myself this baby was a boy. And at exactly this time during my pregnancy with Innis, I had to get my head around the opposite, because I was convinced he was a girl.

Oh, maternal hormones, you liars!

It's not conclusive because the umbilical cord was in the way most of the time, although the doctor said the parts he saw looked like girl parts, and when I asked if little boys have anything that could look similar to what he was seeing, he said no. SO. I think he's just being safe with the 75%, and I'm at this point willing to bump that number up by at least 7 more percent to mitigate any caution on his part.

I guess we'll find out for sure at next month's scan. I don't mind, though. The more I bounce back and forth on this, the happier I am to realize that girl or boy, I'm equally over the moon.