somewhat uninteresting general update

What a crazy week. On Monday we closed on our house, which was great, memorable fun. The sellers are four adult children who had inherited the house, and you could just tell they loved it. I’m a sucker for the back story of a place. And knowing how much I love and miss our PA house, in which we lived for only a year and a half, I totally understood their emotion in letting it go.

On Tuesday I handed in my dissertation, accomplishing what I had set out to do this semester. I know I’ll have more revisions, but I’m hoping to set a date to defend it sometime in March.

Last week P finally got over his cold, and this week I caught it. I’ve been desperately trying to get well and also avoid baby-j so he doesn’t get sick. A 2-day car ride to Michigan with a sick toddler would not be fun. I’ve washed my hands so much this week, they’re starting to crack and bleed. (I know: I should use lotion. But then I use lotion and feel like I need to wash my hands again.)

Daycare continues to go pretty well. baby-j has become a master at the pouty, don’t-leave-me look when we leave, but apparently he’s fine a minute after we leave.

I took some video of the house to share with (or, if you prefer, to bore) the relatives over the holidays. Here's a picture I took this week of the view out the kitchen window.

hearing voices

Last night I finally got out the Kitchen Aid mixer that I received as a birthday gift last month and baked some oatmeal-chocolate-chip-cherry cookies (from N’s delicious recipe). The mixer was surprisingly easy to use and clean, and it was great to have it for this recipe, which typically involves a lot of sweat-while-stirring because of the oatmeal, chocolate chips, and cherries.

So this afternoon, after lunch, I mentioned that the cookies were calling my name. “Eat me! Eat me!” I intoned, imitating the cookies... at which point P complained that I always use the same Adam-Sandler-inspired voice to personify inanimate objects.

P then helpfully recommended that I try a different voice for each inanimate object. Did I comply? Of course not: who am I, Jim Dale? Instead, I took the opportunity to get on his nerves by using the same Adam Sandler voice on all the food on the counter. Tomatoes, avocados, coffee—they were soon all shouting greetings at P. Hi, P: I’m a tomato! Whassup, P? I’m some coffee! You get the idea.

piece of me redux

So Britney Spears has a new video out called “Piece of Me.” (P, you can click here to see the first 30 seconds of it; I know you’re dying to do so.)

As you may recall, baby-j has his own poem entitled “Piece of Me.” Since we still don’t know from where this recitation came, we can only assume that baby-j actually wrote the song for Britney and was rehearsing it back in October. For some reason, though, she didn't incorporate his lyrics. Or his choreography. Click here to revisit baby-j's version of "Piece of Me"; I’ve also posted his video again below:

anti-latte

Ah, the latte. It looks innocent enough, doesn't it? Unfortunately, I consumed what will likely be my last this past Tuesday, December 4th due to what I assume was food poisoning.

There's a Starbucks in the library of our grad school where I went to write for a bit before meeting with my advisor Tuesday night. After drinking my latte, I immediately felt ill. I've been in bed with extreme nausea and a massive headache since. This afternoon I began to feel better, though. Even resumed eating solid foods this morning. Whoo-hoo!

I had actually been working on eliminating most of the milk from my diet (not the cheese, though--I can never give up the cheese). I had pretty much stopped getting lattes. I really don't know what I was thinking, getting one earlier this week.

Anyway, P, as usual, was totally awesome in assuming all household duties, including taking baby-j back and forth to school... how fortunate that we had school, because I was not in any condition to take care of him.

In other news: in case you needed it, here's one more reason to hate "The View." This should go without saying, especially if you've read this post and that post, but should he desire it, baby-j can wear all the dresses he'd like, in school, out of school, whatever. I really can't believe we're having these conversations in 2007, but then, I guess I can.

third (first) snow

This is a pic from yesterday’s frolic in the snow, which went well until baby-j decided that he wanted to get into the car. He loves the car lately—this bodes well for our upcoming Michigan holiday trip.

This was his reaction when he realized we wouldn’t be going into the car:




Today was a productive day, at least. baby-j was in daycare/preschool from 9:30-3:30, which will be a typical day once I return to teaching in January. I spent the time away from him in my office, alternately freaking out about being away from him for so long and working on revisions of my dissertation. I printed out my current hefty draft, which was interesting... it actually looks like a dissertation. I might actually finish it.

Back to daycare: I’m really so impressed with the one at my work. Ms. S has been AMAZING. This morning she stayed with baby-j in the regular classroom, knowing how much he hates the “combined” room. Then, when I went to pick him up, it looked like she had been hanging out with him during naptime. Though he takes 3-hour naps at home, he woke up early from his first attempt at naptime away from home. I think Ms. S sat down and hung out with him while the other kids slept, comforting baby-j. It’s times like these when I wish I could stay at home with him... but with the daycare at work, it feels like it’s the next best thing, which is really great.

daddy / daycare

This is a guest blog entry by P, father of J and partner to L. As always, all critical comments, especially on grammar and syntax, will be ignored.

J started part-time child care this week, more than a year after our first aborted attempt to have him begin the lifelong hell of dealing with other people, aka socialization (see Sartre, Beckett, etc). As you might remember, that first go lasted all of three hours, during which J was sleeping for two and a half. In the waking 30 or so minutes, he managed to cause enough damage to warrant a phone call for me to pick him up, in which he was called names that I wouldn’t call a dog by a mangy middle-aged woman.

Needless to say, we were a bit burned. And very, very nervous about enrolling him at the child care center at L’s school, which came highly touted by everyone. But, as the entry age of 2 years, 3 months got closer, we knew we had to make another go at it, or L’s dissertation, my new job, and our sanity might be permanently marred.

So L dropped him off on Monday. There were about 15 kids from 2.3 to 5 years old in a medium-sized playroom. And about 5 adults. We like that ratio, thinking it might keep J’s animal side in check, more than that bad-mouthed lady of a year ago, at least. And after a few minutes, they separated into even smaller groups, with J in a group of about 5 with 2 adults.

And then L left, to go pay the tuition and ostensibly to work on her dissertation for three hours until picking him up again. And waited for her cell phone to ring, saying we had to pick him up and take him away and throw him into the jungle where he belonged.

The phone never rang. L picked him up as he ate his lunch at a table with several other kids. The lovely teacher, Ms. S, said he had a pretty good first day: there had been a few bouts of tears, especially when J realized that Mama was gone. But he’d played well and hard, and was doing fine. And then the same thing happened Wednesday.

Friday, alas, was my day to drop him off. When he started bawling as soon as he entered the room, Ms. S pointed out that I had the harder job than L--J now understood, as it had been repeated, that he was to be left parentless for an extended period of time. J cried loudly, screaming at me in sloppy, budding J English that I dare not leave or, or, or...

As I was sitting next to him, rubbing his back and trying helplessly to distract him with a toy truck, a boy a little older, maybe 4, came over and started rubbing J’s back as well, saying, “It’s OK, J, don’t cry.” And then a girl of about that age came over with a paper towel and began rubbing J’s eyes, drying his tears (if a little roughly). While these efforts had little effect on J’s tantrum, they brought tears to my eyes, and hope. That this place might work out. And that in a year or so, J might be the one trying to comfort another.