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June 27, 2014

Stupid Shoes

It’s almost too easy to move through the rift-raft of routine without realizing what it is you’ve passed. In the same way my drive to work is filled with gas stations and monuments I don’t notice anymore, I find myself moving through life’s motions without looking up to see what’s changed. But then the inevitable strikes; it doesn’t have to be significant, just well timed, and suddenly I’m dazed and dumbfounded, wondering when my 8lb baby became tall enough to ring the doorbell. And though it feels like it happened overnight, it was sneaky, it was gradual, and it just ain’t right. 

I picked Dylan up from daycare yesterday and noticed that instead of wearing his blue, gray, or Elmo shoes, he was wearing the black ones that were way too big for his little fat feet when we bought them a month ago. And because I know that Dylan loves to hide and divide his shoes (damn toddlers), I laughed as I imagined my husband on an unsuccessful shoe hunt earlier that morning that ended with a, “WHATEVER, they’re good enough” moment. 

“Dylan looks like such a big boy in his new shoes!” His teacher said as I walked toward my dancing son, who would rather show off his social skills than rush to greet me. “Yeah, he does look like a big boy,” I replied. And when we finally got back to the house, walked the dogs, had a snack, and got settled in, I reached for Dylan’s foot and pinched the toes of his shoe out of curiosity. Oh, actually, they fit perfect. He’s a size 5 now. But without a minute to digest or celebrate my son’s inevitable ever-growing pace, my attention shifted and I began cooking dinner. 

Hours later, my husband picked up a pair of ridiculously adorable navy blue shoes that his sister got for Dylan some time ago, and had been sitting on my nightstand ever since. “I can’t wait for these to fit Dylan,” my husband said. And as unpredictable as an earthquake, my whole mind shook with the realization that my fun-sized baby has become a full-sized toddler that is quickly becoming a king-sized boy. And even though those navy blues are merely a size 6, to me, they’re some big shoes to fill. But it will happen, gradually, when I’m just as unprepared as I was at size 5. It’s inevitable, it’s life, I cant outrun time by putting him in smaller shoes (though I would love that). All I can do is remember to look up enough to enjoy the ride.

June 25, 2014

Why My Son Will Never Know My Mother

Having a baby forever changes a person, duh. But it’s not just the parents who suffer undergo identity transformations, grandparents do too. When I see my mom with Dylan I think, who is this lady? Because growing up we had a little thing called “rules”, and there were a lot of them. In fact, there was an entire room in the house that my sisters and I weren’t allowed in because it was “too nice” for us grimy peasants children. Shoes on the couch? Psh! Unless you wanted to risk a double amputation, forget about it. Those were the days when talking back guaranteed a smack to the face and you feared the wrath of mom’s disappointment. “Don’t even think about it” were words to live by and eyes in the back of her head was a real phenomenon. And yet Dylan will never meet the legend I know to be my mother because that’s his Oma; they’re two different people. 

Now-a-days, my mom dotes on Dylan and makes excuses for his unruly behavior. Sure, he’s only a 1 year old and that in itself comes with a lot of passes but HOLD UP - he’s allowed in the dining room? I STILL don’t dare! But my mom isn’t the only tyrant gone mellow yellow. Last week when my mother-in-law took my husband and I to dinner, I realized that I too will never meet the legend that is my husband’s mom. Throughout our 9 year relationship I’ve heard countless stories of the strict household he grew up in. From what he’s told me, it sounds like both of our moms were militantly possessed with superior skills in mind control and could hit you with the “one glare” that’d stop you in your tracks (or knock you out). 

So as we sat in the booth of a steakhouse we had no business being in with an exhausted toddler whose bedtime was 2 hours past due, I watched the disaster adventure unfold. There was crying, fussing, squirming, relentless begging, pleading, “up, up, up?” And as I practically died of embarrassment in between the trips outside, my mother-in-law urged me to let it go. “Just enjoy your dinner Mija, let him cry.” But what about all these nice people that came out for good food and a fun Friday? Shouldn’t I consider their experience? “They can leave if they don’t like it, he’s a baby.” Whoa dude- either my husband is super dramatic about his childhood or this is not his mother. 

After dinner we went back to the house and she went on to tell me that I need to lighten up and let the baby be a baby; that this is the age of exploration and everything for him is a new experience; that Dylan isn’t trying to misbehave, he’s just being a baby. LOL! Though I agree with the bulk of what she said, there’s also a gray area known as a nice restaurant and a brat baby. And yet Grandma was such a good sport! At one point during dinner, a frustrated Dylan picked up his food and flung it across the booth at grandma’s face. She hardly flinched. As my husband apologized and gave me the glare that I translated to, “WATCH YOUR KID, IDIOT,” she shrugged and pulled the “he’s a baby” card. 

Hmph…surely this cannot be the same lady who was feared by my husband’s best friends, one of which voluntarily cut his metal-esque hair to appease her; and there’s NO WAY this is the same lady that scoffed at a stick hanging out my husband’s leg at 11 years old, saying, “I told you not to climb that tree. Deal with it.” Somewhere in between parenting and grandparenting, a personality abduction takes place. And you know what? It’s a beautiful thing. Mom said no? Call 1-800-GRANDMA.

 

June 23, 2014

A Fit of the Fevers - Let Me Babysit!

My baby fever has been in full swing lately. I look at Dylan and see less and less of the baby he once was and more flickers of the little boy he’s growing to be. Then I get all “aww” and think of how much fun it would be to grow our family by another baby or two*. So all weekend long I was looking forward to Sunday, the day my older sister Veronica, who is 18 weeks pregnant, had an ultrasound scheduled that would reveal her baby's gender…and the entire family was invited...YAY! 

You see, pregnancy and I did not bode well. I loved the baby but nine months’ worth of constant discomfort, nausea, 50lbs+ of additional weight, doctor appointments, blood draws, and sensitive gums are hard to forget. Don’t even get me started on the 21 hours of labor that included throwing up my guts upon each contraction. On top of it, I’ve always, always, always wanted to adopt and now that we have a child, it’s hard for me to imagine growing our family by any means other than adoption. That is, until I see a pregnant lady- then I suddenly suffer from selective amnesia. 

I was very lucky to share my first-timer pregnancy experience with a very close family member/friend Cheri, who was also pregnant with her first. We would get together and exchange embarrassing, funny, borderline disgusting tales of what expecting was doing to us, and then we’d relish in the excitement of meeting the stranger we’d love more than anything in this world. Well guess what? Cheri is pregnant again! My fever? Growing steadily. 

So yesterday I excitedly attended my sister’s ultrasound where I anxiously sat for 45 minutes as her little baby avoided making any appearances. So fickly this one! We left not knowing the gender or much of what we saw on the screen. (Was that a hand or its head?) And instead of curbing my craving for some good old fashion baby watching, it made my hunger for all things baby insatiable. 

And like a joke you don’t understand until a day later, I finally get why so many women choose to have baby after baby in spite of difficult pregnancies, complicated deliveries, and all the responsibility that comes with bringing life into this world. Because despite all the challenges, the work, and the gray hair that ensues, it’s impossible to regret a love so real. And the infectious joy babies bring? Forget about it. And still, I have no idea where that leaves me. What I’m trying to say is, can I please babysit your babies? 

*TWO babies? Uhm, that’s a pretty high grade fever.

June 19, 2014

1 Year Old With A Split Personality

Though Dylan may have cherub face, he’s no angel. He weasels through mealtimes, slaps people that get in his way, and whines through any restrictions or limits to his freedom. So when I pick him up at school and they sing him praises, I’m like huh? I don’t know that song. It goes something like, “He ate all of his food; he had a good nap; he danced and played and he kissed Anabelle.” 

At first the good reports made me happy and relieved but the consistency of Dylan’s alleged behavior became too surprising…and suspicious. After too many stories of daffodils and sunshine my curiosity kicked into overdrive. Now I ask the same questions every other week: is he hitting anyone, is he throwing things, is he crying, or in sum, is he being Dylan? The first few times I ran through my series of inquires I was met with a shocked face and a quick, “Absolutely not.” But it didn’t take long for my questions to bring on their questions. Apparently his teachers just can’t see Dylan for the hell raiser that he is. 

So I gave them the juice. I told them how he batters me, how he throws his giant car across the room with violent super strength (the thing is bigger than he is), and how he screams in my face like a pterodactyl when I feed him. His teachers laughed and looked at the seemingly angelic toddler in my arms and said, “Haha, Dylan you don’t do that do you?!” I can tell that they hardly believe me when I express his angry ways, because it’s the same doubt I show on my face when they describe his sweet “laid back” ways. But no, I’m not kidding. He’s a textbook brat with an early case of terrible twos. 

My son is two different people and unfortunately, I’m not as shocked as I sound. Dylan knows how to work the system, playing good boy at school and bad boy at home. He knows he can get away with whatever in his own environment and what won’t be tolerated in the classroom. And unfortunately, I actually do know that song. I know it by heart…because that was me (sorry Mom). So this hell raising brat that acts out and reserves the brunt of his behavior for me, well, that’s my karmic debt…collecting with interest.

June 17, 2014

My Son: The Next BIG Thing

Unlimited potential oozes out of my son's big brown eyes. For all I know, I have given birth to the next superstar, U.S. President, or the guy that will lay claim to reversing all effects of global warming. But on the flip-side, there’s also the possibility I’m raising a serial killer. And though it’s all too soon to tell, I’ve decided to jot down some of the professions Dylan is showing an interest in right now- just for laughs…unless I’m right; in which case this list will have been prophetic and will be edited with a title like: “Mom’s Know Everything, Even the Future.” 

TRUCK DRIVER – This is the most obvious of choices right now because the kid is obsessed with trucks. Though size isn’t that important, he will credit a larger one with incessant applause. He waves hi to big rigs, he waves bye to buses, and then he refers to them all as “trucks” for fifteen minutes following its sighting. 

LIVE SPORTSCASTER [Of Any Type] – There’s something about a loud voice talking over a speaker that tickles Dylan’s fancy. Whether it be the grocery store PA system, the announcer at the horse races, or the guy calling your number when your food is ready, Dylan will imitate you. But he’s not just some Peter the Parrot, Dylan channels his inner Robert Barone and starts his own series of announcements. I like this job for him. 

JANITOR – Dylan is an eager beaver. He wants to sweep, wipe counters, throw away trash, clean the mirrors, toss clothes in the hamper, and even lift and move heavy objects. This is my dream child aka my personal little servant helper. There’s nothing like someone who takes pride in their work and spotless cleaning is where Dylan really shines. He’s so enthusiastic about cleaning that he’ll even make a mess just so he can clean it. Yes, my son is an overachiever. 

DRUMMER – This one loves hitting things. Before he could roll over to his back he was hitting things with his hands. He has rhythm and wants everyone to know it. Why else would he clink silverware on everything in sight? In Dylan’s world, he is the drummer and everything is drumable; including my face which regularly gets played. It’s okay son, you got the beat. 

GREETER – Dylan makes an impeccable greeter because he takes the role very seriously. NO ONE passes without getting a “hi” or “buh-bye” from Dizbaby. He doesn’t discriminate and he knows no bounds. Whether you’re a gangster, a senior, a teenager or a four year old, you’re getting greeted. So if you’re trying to be antisocial, good luck. 

A DOG – It’s going to be hard to explain to Dylan that he can be anything he wants in life as long as it’s not a dog because quite honestly, he has his heart set on it. Despite being a fantastic little walker, he likes to get on his hands and knees and crawl around barking. He drools like a dog, barks like a dog, attempts to eat our dogs’ food, and constantly attempts to gain access into the dogs’ kennels. 

In sum, I’m going to support whatever dreams Dylan has for his future. Even if it means my son is going to be a dog driving the cleanest truck ever with his head out the window yelling “hi” at every passerby. Because hey, that’s just what moms do. 

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June 13, 2014

A Mother's Confession: I Failed to Protect My Son

“Every parent has a low and humiliating parenting experience,” I tell myself when the memory of my own failure creeps into the forefront of mind. I’m not normally so hard on myself but the residual trauma of failing to protect my son continues to haunt me- partly because fairly new to this parenting gig, partly because it happened at a familiar place, and partly because I am in no way shy so there’s no excuse for what I didn’t do. 

It was a Friday afternoon, I stopped by my go-to grocery store to pick up a handful of items only to walk in on a Fiesta themed “Grand Re-Opening” party underway. Apparently all the remodeling my store had performed in recent months was being celebrated in a full-fledged party with prizes, music, and employees greeting patrons at every crevice of the store. 

I was bagging some limes when I heard my 1 year old co-pilot, Dylan, laughing hysterically. An employee to the side of me was juggling avocados for Dylan’s entertainment. “How nice.” I thought. The employee was an older man, a Santa Claus type that I deemed harmless and quite kind to perform circus acts for a random carted toddler. I instructed Dylan to say bye to his new friend before moseying on to another aisle to grab bananas. But as I began pushing the cart out of the aisle, the same man was standing at its end, waiting for us to pass. The extra attention was odd but seemed fitting since it was a grand-reopening fiesta and all. 

But then it got weird. The man picked up a sealed bag of packaged grapes, ripped it open, and began tossing them in the air and catching them in his mouth. This immediately confused me because it was the first time I’d ever witnessed an employee shamelessly tear open a product for their own consumption on the store floor, but whatever. Maybe he’s a manager and can do whatever he wants, I hypothesized as I neared him. But before I could pass him, he leaned into my cart and put a grape in my son’s mouth. And before I could even react, before I could even think to remove the grape from my one year old’s mouth (grapes are a choking hazard for 1 year olds), the man proceeded bring a grape my mouth. 

I instinctively moved my head back and let out a, “No thanks!” His produce hands were coated in dirt as he brought his fingers back towards my mouth and said, “Are you sure?” 
I saw nothing but brown residue encrusted in his nail beds. “YES! I’M SURE!” I mustered. 

In a daze, I pushed the cart into the nearest aisle and pulled half of the unwashed, filthy grape out of Dylan’s mouth. “What was that? How did that happen?” I thought over and over again, puzzled and drunk on the abominable encounter. I’m not shy. I’ve been known to speak up one too many times. No one bulldozes over me or anyone in my presence. And yet here I was, completely powerless and without a voice in the bread aisle. 

Fearing a second dealing with the strange man, distrustful of my protective instinct, and disappointed with myself, I hurried out of the store. I didn’t know how I was going to tell my husband what had happened. Maybe I wouldn’t. Maybe I couldn’t. There was shame in admitting that I did nothing when a stranger put food in our son’s mouth. I’m Dylan’s mom, I should’ve done better. Done more. Or have done anything other than stand feebly as a strange man approached. I had failed my husband, too. 

I was unusually quiet when my husband arrived home from work. And after I put Dylan to bed for the night, he asked me why. I responded like built up pressure from a shaken can of soda, blurting everything out all at once, uncontrollably purging the emotional experience. “Wait, what? Start over, what happened?” He asked. “I don't even know.” I conceded. 

And before my husband could even talk me off the bad mom ledge, insisting that I wasn’t at fault, I was already free falling through the guilt. I deserved to feel bad, this could’ve been worse. And what if it had? I froze when I should’ve risen. I wanted to hide my face and never talk about the experience again. I didn’t want to be judged and yet I so badly wanted to rid of the feeling that I was a crappy protector and therefore a crappy mother. So I did what any writer does for therapy, I wrote about it. And then I reluctantly shared the story on my blog. 

Not a single person who read and commented on my story blamed me. I soon realized that every parent has had or will have a low and humiliating parenting experience at some point. It’s how humans learn. And parent or not, super mom or not, I am only human after all.

June 11, 2014

Mom Problems: What I DIDN'T See Coming

I expected diapers, inconsolable crying (from both of us), panic, tantrums, spit up, floundering, guessing, and stumbling through child rearing…but no, not this. I did NOT expect girlfriends. At least not so soon. Apparently, my son is a ladies man. Despite his life-long (lol, a whole years worth) gravitation to and admiration of men, he has found himself a girlfriend. Named Anabelle. THAT HE KISSES. ON HIS OWN. Before you cue the “aww!!!” know that mom isn’t down. The fact he’s the only boy in his class (first mistake) probably didn’t help my “girls have cooties” philosophy from being drilled, stained, and stuck in his head (second mistake, damn rebel); and now I have to roll with the punches to my gut

The news surfaced as I la dee da’d my way into his classroom last Thursday. I was met by his lovely teacher Ms. Debbie, who excitedly asked me if Dylan had “his first kiss yet.” I told her YES! He has! With a dog named Bailey that we met on one of our walks weeks ago. It was so cute! My husband says that doesn’t count. Oh. Ms. Debbie proceeded to tell me that Dylan was Anabelle’s boyfriend. PSH!!! Yeah right! My son? No. My son only plays with kids from a three foot distance. My son has zero interest in other tots, let alone a girl (ew). But Ms. Debbie continued on, telling me that Anabelle and Dylan held hands and kissed each other on the lips (gag) throughout the day. You would all be oh-so-very proud of me. Instead of withdrawing Dylan from school right then and there, gathering his belongings and lodging a sexual harassment complaint against this so-called-Anabelle, I smiled and asked, “So which one is she?” It was the blonde with blue eyes. Of course it was, floozy. I played along and laughed, not realizing how serious the relationship (UGH) was. 

I had almost forgot (blatant denial) about little Anabelle when I arrived at Dylan’s classroom the following day, where I found him seated at a table slaving away on a Father’s Day gift. I decided I’d let him finish his work and stick around a bit (your welcome husband). And that’s when I came face to face with the other woman in Dylan’s life. As I sat on the floor aside MY crafting son, I felt eyes. I turned around and there she was, Anabelle, a little two footer staring me down. She actually looked pretty upset. She proceeded to walk right in between Dylan and I, put her hand on his arm as if she were claiming him (he’s not property lady), and scowled. So territorial this girl! 

“Hi Anabelle! I’m Dylan’s mommy!” I was being nice but she just stood there like a hater, and that’s when it got awkward. I put my hand out to show her I meant no harm (you know, like you do to dogs before you pet them), only for Anabelle to jerk her shoulder back aka the nonverbal cue for “DON’T TOUCH ME, PEASANT STRANGER.” Okay then…I continued to play nice. Dylan finished his work, said bye to his girlfriend completely on his own, waved, and then kissed her. I gotta get this on camera I thought. My husband is NEVER going to believe this. So I did. I asked Dylan to give her a kiss and with zero hesitation he did. And like a psycho crazy stalker mom I spoke without thinking, “WHAT?! DO YOU LOVE HER?” Uhm obviously. 

Because Dylan only goes to school a few days a week, it’s been a while (in baby time) since he’s seen this Anabelle chick. So last night I ran through our regular series of questions before putting him to bed and threw in a curve ball. “Are you excited to go to school tomorrow?” He nodded with a big grin. “Are you excited to see Ms. Debbie?” He nodded with a big grin. “Are you excited to see Anabelle?” He nodded with a big grin and said almost too perfectly, “Anabelle!” Pause. “What did you say?” “Anabelle!” 

GREAT, so he hasn’t forgot. 

P.S. Dad's proud and so not helping the situation.

June 10, 2014

A Weekend for the Books

I had a fantastic weekend. I ditched husband and baby on Saturday morning so I could visit a warehouse sale of one of my favorite brands, BB Dakota. They have 2 warehouse sales a year and both times I tried to make it out to them, the line was ridiculously long and not moving. I decided there was no way I was going to miss the sale a third time so I recruited my fave sister Angela and we were at the BB Dakota headquarters at 8:30 am....for a sale that began at 10. And let me tell ya, it was worth it. Momma got some new clothes! Leather shorts? $5. Cutest dress ever? $10. Basically I went a little crazy but not crazy enough because now I want to go back.

And Sunday? Don't even get me started. The husband and I went on a six mile walk with Dylan in tow and let him run all around the neighborhood. Dylan was in one of those "YAY!" moods where nothing bothers him and in return, I baked the boys cookies. It was magnificent! Incredible! The exact weekend I needed! Until I went to bed on Sunday night only to wake up at 3:34 am to throw up. The culprit? Food poisoning. I'm not going to get into details, I already feel like I went T.M.I. on ya'll, but rest assured I will not be visiting El Pollo Loco anytime in the near or far future. 

I didn't eat a single piece of anything yesterday. And because I wasn't sure I was food poisoned, I kept my distance from Dylan in fear of spreading the flu. Dylan knew I was out of it because he walked into my room cautiously and said, "Hi," as if he were checking up on me. Before I knew it, it was Monday night and Dylan was in bed. I was weak and my husband was eating spaghetti. I missed Dylan. The morning couldn't come any quicker, I wanted to see my baby!

And it was amazing. When he finally woke up I crept in his room and was met with a dozen kisses, several long hugs, and a pleasant "buh-bye!" as I walked out the door to head into the real world. I'm pretty sure that when I'm seventy years old reflecting on my life, these years of being a parent are going to be on the golden highlight reel because nothing brings more light into my life than these experiences. Except maybe my own childhood, because that was also pretty epic. Thanks mom and dad.

June 5, 2014

My Reality: It's a Mess

Obviously I’m not perfect. So any hope at being the perfect parent  can forever be chucked out the window. Buying into the idea that my house should be clean, the days should run smoothly, and raising a 1 year old should come naturally (when in fact it isn’t and it doesn’t [always]), is almost too easy. The truth is that I’m a learner for life and each experience comes equip with lessons and opportunities to grow (which I sometimes resist and have to learn over and over and over…and over). Relinquishing ambitions to be perfect is like a gift to myself. I don’t have to lose sleep over my parental fumbles because perfection just ain’t reality. So what is reality? Hah. 

Well, I really want Dylan to have a full tummy, a happy heart, and a sound mind. And the parent in me wants to go about it doing it all “right.” That’s a tall order that can’t possibly be fulfilled, especially without letting some things go…aka control. And this image of Dylan eating is the perfect metaphor for my mommy reality. Dylan does NOT want me feeding him what he knows he can feed himself, even if it’s spaghetti that stains the skin orange. What does he care? But letting a 1 year old feed himself spaghetti means half the food on his head, the other half on the floor, and a major date with the bathtub. Deep breath. [I guess] I’m down for that! 

Quite frankly I encourage (sorry spouse) the mess. I’m don’t chant “throw the noodles, throw the noodles” or anything, but I enable his quest for independence by letting him feed himself as I also feed him. The result? The classic baby-meets-spaghetti and therefore spaghetti-meets-everything mess. Though I want so badly to prevent extra work aka clean-up, it’s just not realistic. I had to learn that there’s some collateral damage that comes with a full stomach, happy baby, and good times. And it’s in the form of an extra bath and finding noodles where you wouldn’t even believe. Oh, and I also learned to schedule spaghetti and bath night on the same day. That’s reality for ya.

June 3, 2014

Confession: Things I Don't Tell My Husband


My husband and I are poles apart. In the world of astrology, we’re each others' opposite. But in my world, we’re just as similar as we are different. Though our core beliefs are shared and ground us, we operate from two very different places…and it shows. So depending on which way the winds blowing, our differing ways are either a source of conflict or amusement. Add parenting to the mix and OY VEY! We’re a side show. We both want the freedom to do things "our way" and in an effort to avoid unnecessary criticism, scrutiny, or good old fashion nagging, there’s are a lot of I didn’t hear that and I’m looking away now moments from both of us.  

So on Saturday when we crossed paths with a panicked mom frantically searching for her lost child, my husband wasted no time informing me that I’d be dead meat if I lost his Dylan, to which I said it’s bound to happen. Everyone loses sight of their kids while shopping at some point, right? (Kids are crazy!) I assured him that when the time comes, I’ll keep the story to myself. He was cool with my proposal until I  added that when HE loses Dylan, he better freaking tell me. His response? “NO WAY!” I doubt he's capable of keeping such a juicy experience to himself but it made me consider all of the things that I refuse forget to tell my husband. Then I laughed to myself.

Like when I casually mention that I let Dylan sample my Reeses McFlurry, I leave out specifics… like how much I gave him. I’m not above bribing and if I have to walk two dogs with a kid in heels after work, I’m going to make the process as painless as possible. But my secret treat disbursement isn’t only exercised out of necessity. I bake from scratch and use that as justification for giving Dylan a whole cookie…or two. Dylan loves them, calls them “keekees,” and begs for them. A sugar related parenting fail is too easy when it’s fueled by flattery. Why yes, I did whip those up, here you go! I mean, it's not like I'm throwing pop-tarts in his crib and closing the door.
 
And I don’t dare tell my husband the circus that ensues when I make dinner because that’s when Dylan really abuses my indiscretions. If it were up to Dylan, I wouldn’t spend a minute chopping vegetables or prepping meat. Something about mom standing in the kitchen and doing her own thing brings out the needy, evil toddler in him. He tugs on my legs, cries, hits cupboards, and demands full attention. So if Dylan’s off banging sliding closet doors, or pulling on the blinds in the living room when I'm cooking, I let it slide. My logic? The terror will cease once dinners done so let’s Nike through this bad boy and just do it (as quickly as possible).

So FINE! My husband doesn’t want to tell me when if he loses sight of Dylan? I can live with that. Clearly I have my own tidbits of intel that don’t make it to the surface of our conversations. And it’s okay. No really, it’s okay. I came clean last night and my husband shrugged as if the confessional were no big deal. Which really just means that I can expect a series of creatively worded questions aimed to exploit my inability to lie in the future. I just hope when that day comes, we’re both in a I didn’t hear that kind of mood.