I couldn't even say how he's changed these past weeks, but he has and it's amazing. And run off-the-feety. And kind of messy too. He's long been one to imitate what I'm doing, but he's suddenly the boss of Doing It All Himself. Because he's a shortass, he drags his chair over to where ever it is I'm doing whatever it is that wishes to do himself, then he stands on the chair next to me and takes over. He filled his sippy cup (with surprisingly little assistance from me) earlier today, and spent a good half hour yesterday "washing the dishes", standing at the sink, dishcloth in hand with an inch or two of water in the sink, cleaning a plastic cup and a bowl and a spoon or two. He really gets into the vaccuuming now and at this rate, I figure I'll have my own personal valet by the time he's three.
Being two, he's also now able to begin his transition at daycare too, from the nursery room to the kindergarten room. I know he'll be happier mixing with the big kids as he's always seemed to get along better with them than he does his own peer group of midgets. I look at him sometimes and think "dude, you'll make an excellent younger brother", and then I apologise in advance for fucking up his life by making him an older one instead.
Not that I'm pregnant yet, but I plan to be and oh my god, I must be mental.
And yet, going ahead with it all anyway. I'm thinking though that it might be in February and fercryinoutfuckinloud this spotlight bullshit is KILLING ME. Do you KNOW how many times I hit the damn key that magically makes it spring into action? A LOT. GOD.
Daniel is asleep.
And I'm too hypoglycemic or something remember where in heck I was heading with whatever it was I was saying anyway. Probably nowhere.
Ah yes! It was to do with February, because my period arrived just in time to make the reproductive unit's first day back after the Christmas break two days too late to start down regulating my bits. I think. Or why don't I not put the cart before the horse and instead, wait to see what the unit has to say on the fourteenth?
And if they say "January!", I'll be starting suppression meds in a few weeks, before tripping down the IVF highway and all being well, having two plump and healthy embryos transferred sometime toward the end of February. Then gestate, gestate, gestate and presto chango! Instant family in time for Christmas 2008.
And that's the plan.
and I should probably talk about the emotions surrounding all this planning but the truth is, the plan is in place and it's not like I don't have any emotions about it, I do, but I have no question about what I'm planning to do. This is what I want and I want it because, after having thought about it since five minutes after Daniel was born, I know this is the right thing to do for our family. I won't be giving up any of Daniel's present as I pursue a future, and no matter what happens, more children or not, it's a future that will have no questions about what could of been, and it will be free of regret of what what I could have done to change things.
But I was talking about Daniel and daycare before my low blood sugar got in the way. Yes, he's about to graduate to the Big Kids' room where he'll have WAY more fun than he's had in quite a while in the Small Kid's room and yet, I've just dropped his attendance from three days to two, with a mind to dropping it right way down to one. I don't know if I'm doing the right thing. I mean, I find it really hard to justify him being there three days a week when, in reality, he can be in the creche the two mornings I work at the gym instead, and then spend the rest of the week chilling back with me. Which is likely code for "having the living shit bored right out of him", which makes me think about how much he loves daycare and how much stimulation and actual real playtime with real, actual kids his own age he gets there, and then I wonder about what in fuck I'm doing depriving him of all that. Then I think of my belief, that it's not right that a child so young is so used to spending that amount of time away from his mother. And any working mother taking offence at that sweeping statement? I love you but really, please kiss my ass because it's an opinion, it doesn't mean it's a universal fact. Spotlight can kiss my ass TOO because FOR. FUCK. SAKE.
Point being, I get really fucked up about what to do with Daniel and daycare, so mostly I've done nothing at all but obviously, that hasn't been working for me, so I finally did something,and now that's fucking me up too. Gah.
Daniel's latest and at present, most favorite game is "go to bed", in which he makes a nest out of the pillows from my bed, lies down and throws a cot sheet over his head. The game can be taken on the road too, and countless times I've felt a tug on my shorts or a tap on my leg and turned around to find a sheet enshrouded, ghostly little figure standing behind me saying "More bed? Nigh nigh!". Yesterday, he took me by the hand and led me into the bedroom before throwing the magical sleep inducing sheet over my head and patting my back in a "there there" fashion. He put his Thomas the Tank Engine collection to bed the same way the other day, all seventy hundred of them tucked safely away in my bed, and quite regularly I pull the covers back to find all his stuffed animals piled up under there as well.
It's been so hot lately that there's really nothing more to do except stay home and escape the heat by perfecting this game. We've been spending a lot of time in the wading pool too. we were in there early this morning, under the shadecloth and slathered in sunblock because you'd have to be fucking insane to submit yourself to the ridiculously, scorchingly hot 41C it already was by 10.30am. The wading pool deal = LOVE! for me because it means that in the middle of a severely water restricted summer and after a morning's paddle has been had, I get to empty the thing all over the lawn, meaning my lawn gets to survive and because it does so legally, I get to also give a big Fuck You to the idiot state government that's STILL doing shit all about water catchment and/or desalination plants. Which is a totally boring aside when what I should be talking about is something topical. Like Christmas.
The day dawned like any other, with me lying in bed groaning for a few minutes more and Daniel tugging at my arm saying "mummy! MUMMY! Gettup mummy! Gettup!". So I did and he did and then the little tyke about shit himself when he looked through the doors to the front room. It was filled with balloons and piled high with gifts and was all too much so, ignoring that it even existed by pointedly NOT looking its way, Daniel ate his breakfast while I drank my (fully loaded, double shot, high octane) coffee. Then after much coaxing and reassurance (ie bribes) Daniel finally got into the groove and began ripping into the gifts. Then we spent the morning playing with the Thomas the Tank Engine SCORE! that dominated the day, and we had chevapcici for lunch before going for a walk to feed the ducks before dinner before going to bed. So we had a very quiet day, which is a non loser-ish way of saying it was a lonely one.
Daniel had fun though, and as Christmas is for the children and about family, I guess we fulfilled all the Christmas requirements.
Goodwill to all men aside, I'm kind of upset at a friend of mine though, who said she'd come by NO MATTER WHAT on the day and who, after sending a text in the early afternoon stating "not sure when but will be there soon!", never showed up at all because she was too tired. Which is a totally acceptable excuse, but seriously, what's so hard about sending a simple fucking text message to let me know? Can't make it, too tired, the end.
Thing is, I don't give a shit what day it is, if you've made a commitment to be somewhere, notify someone if you can't make it. Don't just forget about them. Geesh.
I reckon that I'm the only person IN THE WORLD who lives by that standard so I should probably suck it up and quit judging others so harshly (and consequently feeling so sorry for myself) for not living by my personal set of rules or whatever in heck Dr Phil would have to say about it.
And in the absence of a neat segue (although I supoosed being pissed off is a segue of sorts) I've decided it's time to introduce toilet training to the Bee household.
It only recently dawned on me that the dude isn't about to spontaneously stand up and pee in the john, so I downloaded an ebook, because who can resist the temptation of potty trained in five (FIVE) hours? Actually, given that toddlers LOVE and learn by repetition, the book makes a whole lot of sense and I reckon it would work brilliantly if Daniel wasn't able to hold onto all manner of waste for an entire five hours instead. We'll give the ebook a try sometime in the near future, but for now I'm happy with him running around all day with no pants on and sitting him on the potty at regular intervals. He won't pee though, or poop - which is a definite sign he's ready for training as he's very able to hold on - and he ends up at the point where he's frantically groping his man bits and caving in at the knees, but even then, he saves it up 'til he's wearing a nappy, an event that these days and unless we're going out, happens only at naptime and bed time, at which point he lets the flood gates open. With the No Pants system in force, I figured it would be the accidents that led to explanations about potties, and that the explanations would eventually lead to behaviour, but with no accidents, and no way to get the boy to pee - despite the thirty billion gallons of milk and water I'm forcing him to chug down each day - how does one go about the explanation slash education part of the equation? To which I answer my own self, given enough time with the wind in his personal willows, it'll all work out and the natural order of things will prevail.
Speaking of shit, there are not enough words descriptive of hate that would explain how I feel about my hair right now. I had an awesome cut three, maybe four months ago, and three weeks ago I went back in to get an inch or two off the bottom to bring it back to its blunt cut and swingy glory. This enjoyment of my hair came after years of hating it so much that all I EVER did was tie it back and forget about it because why bother doing anytihg with it if it's gonna look like crap anyway, right? So anyway, this one day I'd walked into a random salon, waved my hand in the general direction of my head and requested they get rid of some of that shit. So with a flash of her scissors, Nicole did just that and kid thee not, it was like one of those unveilings you see on tv. I was all touching my hair and breathlessly asking "is that me?" because my hair, without the help of trick lighting or magic mirrors, looked good. Which it has NOT done for the aforementioned Quite Some Time. People, I was wearing it down most of the time, DOWN. MY HEAVENS. That being the case and Nicole being my new best friend, I went back about three weeks ago, all excited and breathless (again!) at the idea of the blunt being renewed and the fiery new love of my hair being fanned to an even greater flame. This time though, she went on abo9ut "just a few layers, long ones, will look AWESOME".
"Pet", I said, "I've had layers a few times in the past and you know? Hate. Seriously.".
"Long layers! she cried.
"No", I answered, a thousand times. At least.
"Long, sweeping layers. Less than an inch, I PROMISE. They'll make your hair look...", and then she hit me with the fucking carrot of dangle, "...thicker.".
And I CAVED, for I am a slut for empty promises of thicker hair, and now my hair LOOKS LIKE SHIT. Even the top of it, around the front, doesn't sit right anymore, and it's at that boring suburban shoulder length where it annoys the SHIT out of me by being too long to toss behind my shoulders to keep it out of the way. The layersmmean that any pony tail I wear looks all scraggly too, which also looks like shit but less so than the fuzzy weird shit ends my hair always turns into when it's layered I'VE DONE IT ENOUGH TIMES I SHOULD KNOW BY NOW.
So I'm back to wearing it up all the time and hating it.
They say that there's only a month between bad haircut and a good one, but it's been three weeks and I hate it even more. I feel sick about letting someone else talk me into something I KNEW I didn't want, my only excuse is that she did such a great ob lasgt time that I gambled, thinking she might succeed where many others have, by and large, hacked the shit out of my hair. It's going to take at least three months to grow the layers out, then at least three more to get it back to the length it was when I liked it. By then though, my hair will have fallen victim to the drugs of hair misfortune, aka, fertility drugs, so by the time the layers are grown out and I've got some length back, I'll have about two strands of hair left anyway.
If I EVER get the opportunity to coif more than that into a nice blunt cut...I'll probably fuck it up anyway with ANOTHER stupid "style cut" because there seems to be some karmic debt involving hair hate that I need to pay back.