Thank you!

This is a second-hand squeaker story, since I was unfortunately not there to witness it. But it is too funny not to share.

Because our new house has a large yard, my husband ordered a lawn mowing tractor. So yesterday morning, a truck arrived at our house with a shiny new yellow-and-green John Deere tractor.

The squeaker was interested in what was going on, so his grandma took him outside to watch them unload the tractor. Upon watching the tractor emerge from the truck, the squeaker's eyes grew very round. Slipping away from his grandma, he ran around on the grass in circles shouting "Thank you! Thank you!!"

He still seems indignant that we haven't let him drive his tractor.

Moved

We moved. Or more accurately, we're still moving, or at least unpacking and recovering. We rented the truck Saturday and moved two full loads. I hardly saw the squeaker all day, but apparently he had a great time playing with his cousins and running around his new yard. He absolutely loves having space to run.

And he seems to like the house itself. His bedroom is much larger than his old bedroom -- it holds everything his old bedroom held, plus all the toys we'd kept in the sunroom. I like the house, too. There is lots of space, and it's definitely a better-built house than our old one. My husband says he's happy to have a house like the third little pig's (brick), rather than the unfortunate second little pig's (sticks).

While I like the new house a lot, there are a few things I don't really like. The kitchen is not so great. The cabinets are not as nice as my old ones, and there is no pantry, so there wasn't enough room for all our stuff. The dishwasher is ancient and gross, so that will be replaced promptly. And I don't like the carpeting. It's fairly new and clean, but I'm just very very anti-carpet. Carpeting just seem filthy to me. I can't wait to get rid of it.

But the rooms are large and spacious, and the setting is spectacular. The house is generally in excellent shape; the former owners maintained it well. It will take some time for it to feel homey, but it took two years of intense labor for us to get our old house just the way we wanted it, and I expect that any changes we make will be much more gradual this time.

In any case, moving is a tremendous amount of work. At the end of moving day, I had an enormous and painful blister on my toe. I surveyed the huge pile of boxes in the new house murmuring "Oh my goodness...oh my goodness," until the squeaker asked anxiously, "What's 'oh my goodness' mean?" He looked worried, so I had to pull myself together. It will just take a little time to adjust. He also seemed concerned about my lack of enthusiasm for the kitchen, so he offered to "cook" for me with his little toy kitchen.

Today, I give my notice of resignation at work.

Brain Food

Chocolate: Good for Your Brain.

I knew it.

Sad

One of the coolest things about having a toddler is observing the emergence of empathy. Last night, we were reading But Not the Hippopotamus, which is about a hippo who feels left out while all the other animals are drinking juice together and going to the fair. When the moose and the goose are having juice together, the hippo sits alone at a nearby table, looking anxious and juiceless. The squeaker says, "What's that hippo doing?"

So I tell him that she's sitting alone, watching the other animals sadly. "Why is she sad?" he asks. Because, I tell him, she doesn't have any friends. He seems troubled by this.

Then we read Dinner Time, which is a pop-up book where each animal eats another one, only to become dinner for yet another animal on the next page. (It's kind of a violent book, when you think about it.) On the page with the crocodile, the squeaker observes that the crocodile is crying. I hadn't noticed the tears, but when I look closely, I see that he is right. He tells me the crocodile is sad.

"Why is he sad?" I ask.

"Because," says the squeaker, "he doesn't have any friends." It's good to know that the squeaker doesn't think the fact that a shark is about to eat the crocodile for dinner is more disturbing than the absence of his animal friends.

In any case, Dinner Time has become the new favorite book. He asks us to read it over and over again. I'll have to make sure I pack it in a readily accessible place. Tomorrow is the big day. We settle on the new house. Yikes!!

Mama in Bed

Moving is such a pain. We've spent hours every night for the last few days just packing, packing, packing. There is so much to do.

Last night, after I got the squeaker to bed, I slipped away to get some things done. After 20 minutes or so, I heard his little voice in the bedroom. I hurried into the room to find the squeaker crawling around in circles on the bed in the dark like a blind little mole while squeaking "Mama in bed! Mama in bed!" Apparently, he got lonely with no one to snuggle with.

He's been very snuggly lately. As he falls asleep, he'll wrap his arms around my neck and murmur, "I love you mama, my Snuggle Puppy."

Moving Right Along

The squeaker is doing much better. The antibiotic seems to have worked quickly. He's eating and playing and talking quite normally now. Pneumonia is a scary diagnosis for a parent to hear, but I don't think kids are hospitalized for it like they once were.

Last night he helped me pack up his books for The Big Move. (Of course, we had to stop and read many of them as we packed them, which made for slow packing.) He seems to find the whole event quite exciting. I don't think he has any sentimental attachment to our house, so I think the move will be easy for him. Once his familiar toys and books are set up in the new house, I think he'll feel right at home. If only it was so easy for mama!

I keep thinking about how I've been a Marylander my whole life. Plus, I've always lived in a neighborhood, with nice tree lined streets and sidewalks and people all around. This rural house is going to be a big change. How do people go trick-or-treating out there? What is it like not to have neighbors all around? Why does the new house have an alarm system? And will the squeaker spend his childhood pining for the liveliness of city life? For the tranquility of a suburban life? Will he fit in with the rural kids?

And most importantly, when we leave behind the petting farm that is close to our current house, will we still find cows and pigs and goats to pet in the rolling farmland of Pennsylvania?

Sick Squeaker, Again

The squeaker has pneumonia. He seemed coldish on Wednesday, but not so bad that I felt he needed me to stay home from work. He slept fitfully Wednesday night, but I figured that was because of his stuffy nose. Thursday afternoon, I called my mother-in-law from work to see how he was feeling. She seemed concerned about him and said he wasn't eating, that he was listless, and that his chest seemed congested. To me, that just sounded like a bad cold, so while I felt anxious to get home, I didn't rush. But when we did get home, we found that he was so short of breath that he couldn't say more than one or two words at a time, and that his breathing was rapid and shallow. I felt distressed that my MIL hadn't told me that, which would have been much more useful information than what she did tell me. And I felt bad that I hadn't stayed home with him when he needed me.

Luckily, the pediatrician was willing to see him though it was late in the evening. She listened to his breathing, but then treated him with a nebulizer because she said she couldn't tell how the air was moving in his lungs. Then she listened again, and said that while the nebulizer had helped a lot, she was pretty sure he had pneumonia in at least part of one lung. She told us that if the nebulizer hadn't helped, she'd have sent us to the emergency room because his breathing was so labored. She sent us home with a nebulizer and a prescription for an antibiotic. On Friday, I stayed home, but the squeaker already seemed energetic and lively, though he has a bad cough and he still seems a bit short of breath. Today he is even better. People keep telling me that he needs to rest, but it's hard to get him to do that when he's busy running around the house in his superman cape.

Sharks!

The squeaker has a large collection of small but otherwise realistic-looking animals, including sharks and whales. He can identify most of them. He likes to put the sharks and whales in the tub when he takes a bath. Afterwards, he and his papa dry them off and talk about them:

Papa: What kind of animal is this?

Squeaker: Orca!

Papa: Yes. How about this one?

Squeaker: Hammerhead shark!

Papa: Very good. And this one?

Squeaker: Great white.

Papa: Good job. Do you know this one?

Squeaker: Nursery rhyme shark!

[Long pause until it dawns on papa what the squeaker means.]

Papa: Yes...that's right. This is a nurse shark. [stifled chuckles from papa]

Looking for the Killer Emu

The google search that has brought the most readers to my blog is "killer emu."

What's with that?!?

The Secret Gardeners and Blogging Love

I enjoyed this story on NPR this morning about the guerrilla gardeners, a group of about 30 gardeners in London who secretly beautify public areas under the cover of night with flowers and other plantings. They talked about drive-by beautification through "seed bombing," which is when you throw a little packet of seeds, compost, and water into a derelict area. Makes me want to start a secret seed lab in the basement of my new home...

I've also been enjoying reading the comic strips Zits, which has been poking fun at blogging for the last week or so. It does make me reflect on something that seems vaguely exhibitionist and confessionary, neither of which are traits I associate with myself. But I have to admit that I love blogging. In part, I love it because I love writing, and it's fun to have an outlet for writing that isn't a dusty, unread journal on my nightstand. I also enjoy having a way to keep in touch with old friends whose daily lives rarely intersect with my own nowadays.

And then there is the opportunity to read and respond to blogs that entertain, amuse, and even provoke (thanks, Kurt, for your creativity and hilarity, and for your great comments). And last, I love the opportunity to connect with other like-minded mamas. Nonlineargirl was so kind as to write a bit about me and the squeaker in her own blog (thanks!), bringing new readers here (hope you all stick around!). It seems that many of these mamas feel a bit isolated in their own communities, just as I do. Perhaps that is in part because people no longer stay to raise families in the communities where they grew up -- our jobs and our spouses jobs lead us elsewhere, and families end up spread out and disconnected in unfamiliar places where meeting like-minded people seems nearly impossible. It seems to take only a bit of chit chat with another mama at the playground before you realize that the other mama seems to live in an entirely different world, and you wonder if you'll ever find a mama whose experiences mean that she understands your perspective.

And yet here they are, all over the web -- thoughtful mamas who like to write and to read, who care about the political and social environment around us, who think about how to raise generous, compassionate kids in a culture of consumerism and superficiality, who think about how their mothering choices impact the world around us and how to raise stable, attached kids with the capacity to be great human beings. They are mamas with the confidence and the boldness to do things a bit differently. And I thank them for their ingenuity and their participation in a blogging community that helps us all feel a little more connected.

Ice Cream Disaster

We did the silliest thing the other day.

It started when we took the squeaker out for ice cream. Normally, we buy two cones or cups, one for each of the grownups, and then we both share with the squeaker. We've figured he's really too little to handle his own. He is usually pretty happy about the sharing arrangement. But the last time we went, we bought him his own little cup of vanilla (he always chooses vanilla), and he seemed quite pleased with it. Little did we know that a precedent had been set.

The next time, we reverted to getting only two, with the intention of sharing with the squeaker. We were going to eat them in the car on the way home, so we figured sharing was also the least messy solution. And he had never seemed to care about having his own before.

So my husband gets in the car with his cone, and hands me my cup, and then there's this moment where the squeaker is waiting for his.

But there isn't one for him. I scoop some onto my spoon and hold it out to him, which must cement his realization that he did not have his own. After the outraged silence came the furious screaming. The drivers around us could not have missed the shrieks and sobs emanating from our car. The squeaker could not believe we had gotten ice cream for ourselves, and none for him. And in that moment we realized how truly stupid that was. What were we thinking?!? We couldn't even treat him as if he was having a terrible twos tantrum, because we figured he was just too justified in his fury. Ice cream for mama and papa -- right in front of him -- but none for him?

Ultimately, papa had to sacrifice his own ice cream cone, which the squeaker enjoyed. His little tear-stained face was quickly covered in ice cream. And mama and papa will never made such a stupid mistake again.

The Well-Dressed T-Rex

I have a co-worker whose kid has strong feelings about what he wears. He will only wear one pair of shoes -- he won't even try on the others. And he's obsessed with one particular sports shirt. When it's time for him to get dressed, he eagerly goes to the closet to help select his outfit.

The squeaker, on the other hand, couldn't care less what he wears. We have dinosaur t-shirts and lion onesies, and he might comment about them once they are on, but he's not really interested in selecting his clothes. I'm not sure he's ever given thought to his shoes, either. However, yesterday he told me that we both need sandals. I was very surprised. I guess he's not entirely indifferent to what he wears.

Still, he spends most of his time barefoot and stomping around the house with his hands out like claws, pretending to be a "baby T-Rex." Of course, I'm supposed to be the mama T-Rex, so I'm sure the neighbors are thoroughly entertained as we both stomp around the house growling. (The baby T-Rex also seems to fall frequently -- on purpose -- necessitating frequent rescues by the mama T-Rex.)

Soon, there will be no more neighbors to watch us! Sweet privacy...

New Job

I got the job!!!

Six weeks from now, I'll be a part time attorney, and I'll have so much more time with the squeaker. I'm not sure yet what kind of schedule I'll have, but I'm not too worried about that. I probably couldn't have found a job closer to the new home than this one is (it's about half an hour away, which is pretty good considering the rural neighborhood we're moving into and the fact that I'm only licensed in MD). The new place seems excited to have me, which is a welcome change! The people seem very nice and the work looks quite interesting -- lots of writing, which is what I really like to do. And no client! Hooray!

So that's the big news for today. Sorry, no squeaker stories. Maybe tomorrow.

Petco Playground

We went out for noodles last night for dinner at a noodle place that is across the parking lot from a Petco. The squeaker was excited about the Petco as soon as we got out of the car. So we tried to bribe him to eat his buttered noodles dinner with the promise of a trip to the pet store. He delicately ate the corner of one noodle, which I suppose was meeting his obligation to have "just one little bite." Sigh. I guess he is still not feeling 100%.

But he did eat something, so we trekked across the parking lot to visit the ferrets, mice, and turtles. On the way out, we saw a woman with a small dog in her shopping cart. The squeaker asked, "What's that lady doing?", so we told him she was taking her little dog home. He replied, "Have it?"

No, we said. It's that lady's dog. She's the owner, and she loves her dog very very much.

The squeaker thought a moment, and then said: "[Squeaker] loves the dog very, very much. Have it?"

No, we said. And the squeaker looked sad, which made mama and papa sad, too.

Ride It!

The squeaker seems to be feeling better, though he isn't really eating. (He does eat french fries, ice cream, and candy with enthusiasm, though.) Over the weekend, we took him to the Smithsonian's Natural History museum to see the dinosaur bones.

He was very excited about the experience. He identified the different kinds of dinosaurs and admired them. But his very first reaction to the giant beasties was hard to indulge; he took one look at the enormous model of the stegosaurus and said, "Ride it!" Needless to say, he didn't get to do so.