carl in casimirland.

This whole preschool thing should not be overwhelming, but oh is it. And we're not even potty trained yet, which is kind of like the SAT for preschool, so I'm starting to get a little stressed about the plethora of options and the dipes. I suppose I could just homeschool him, although then he'd probably never learn to read. And you know, the way they absorb things at this age, sometimes I feel like it is almost a waste not to hamper their little minds with an endless flow of facts. Sure, you're not supposed to pressure them to learn things; they learn through experience and play is their work and so on. But when they remember cartoon characters of shows they've they've seen once, you start to think that maybe flashcards might be clever? Because if he can know Donald Duck after just one exposure, shouldn't he then just be exposed to the likes of Abraham Lincoln and Eleanor Roosevelt as well?
Perhaps we'll just stick with blocks and Dr. Seuss for now though.

I've learned that my mom is as obsessed with young children wearing undershirts as she is with babies wearing socks or booties. So now Casimir has a little supply of undershirts from his grandma, since I obviously wasn't undershirting him well. Paul likes to put this type on him, you know the style that usually has some sort of classist, racist, or misogynistic nickname, then pull his pants half off his diaper and put his cap on backwards, and he sends him out to say Hi to mommy like that. So funny, yo.

I think we might break up with our pediatrician. She's a nice woman, and it's been going well, so I feel kind of bad about it actually. But I think we might need someone who is perhaps, well, a little less like a pediatrician, if you know what I mean.

The weird thing about the big boy bed, is that the big boy occasionally gets out of it and tip-toes to where I am. I'll be slicing eggplant or typing at the confuser when the subconscious part of my brain tries to get my attention to that little moving object in my periphery vision, and then before another second passes I'll notice a little person, no a grinning little person, and before I can even take a second to just work out the obvious I freak out for a millisecond. It's weird to be frightened by your own child, but when you're not expecting to turn around and see him awake, in that quick second his mischevious and familiar little grin just freaks my shit out. I don't know if you saw this old movie, where a little person pretends to be a child in distress to lure in victims and then kills them, but I always think of that later after I've put him back in bed.

I was asked by a store clerk the other day if I was an artist. Because of the paint stains on my fingers, she said. It was from mixing food coloring in homemade play-do--which doesn't come out quite as easily as the label says it will, by the way-- but part of me really wanted to say that Yes, I am an Artist. I primarily sclupt with clay, and occasionally oils, but come see my exhibition in our kitchen this Friday night at 8pm. Dress is casual, and goldfish and millk will be served.

I've been reading lately how annoying children in public spaces are to some people, and how they should just be banned right along with smoking. I always wondered if we annoy people just by being seated next to them, because with my toddler there's often a whole lot of narrating going on about what's going on around us. That man have coffee! But we have juice. We have juice. He stir it! He stirring his coffee! He mix it all up! He put sugar in and mix it up!
And then the uncomfortable nature of the subject trying to ignore the blow-by-blow examination of his actions, and my attempt to help him find entertainment elsewhere, and the continual play by play while we finish our muffin. I keep waiting for someone to get fed up and just start picking their nose or something, but so far that hasn't happened yet.

I learned today that you should never eat a giant burrito if you're mad about anything at all, because then you just eat 3/4 of it without even realizing what you're doing, gnashing angrily on the beans and rice until you realize it's almost gone and you are indeed quite full, but still cannot stop because you need to prove that you can eat slowly and mindfully enough to actually taste the food. So you finish it just because. And then you don't feel so good.

Well today I was just highly irritated, because it was just one of those irritating days and I was in an irritating mood. It took me like four days to get to raking our lawn and then took two full days to actually complete the raking, because it can be amazingly hard to do unless all the little people in your party are agreeable to the raking plan. That's an awful lot of work for something that will again be covered in leaves as soon as the neighbors lawn service shows up with their big leaf blowers. I don't think I'd bother if it weren't for the leaf pile jumping part.

Some days bedlam just ensues, and I can't deal with huge piles of dishes and piles of folded, not-yet-put-away laundry and that pile of dirty laundry, the dustbunnies that are beginning to colonize, that pile of bills to pay and that stack of unread books and magazines pointing and laughing at me from my bedside table. I don't know if other people have less chaotic lives or just don't notice it or revel in the occasional chaos as some beautiful sign of being alive, but I'm not always in the mood for it. Although, the good thing about not getting to things on your To Do list is that at least you have a list ready for the following week. And on the upside, I finally threw out the Halloween pumkin that the squirrel had been living in. And it was a beautiful day. That was nice.

And I have to stop surfing ebay, or I will be in debt and drowning in piles of all those brand new affordable shoes. How can they sell expensive shoes so cheaply? Did rats get into the boxes they were shipped in? Did they find a head in one? Or are they really just overstock or display pairs or is it really due to "marred" boxes? All I know is that I love shoes and have ever since I was little and would sleep with my new Zips sneakers whenever I achieved the milestone of getting a new pair. Although, unlike the shoe-loving woman cliche, I salivate over flats, boots, and sneakers. Heels are tools of the patriarchy if ever there was. Now I'm getting just as excited about shoes for Casimir, but he's not playing along. He won't even sleep with a new pair when I get one.

I thought it was annoying when people were already broaching the topic of another kid, just three months postpartum, because of course I had to give my sons a sister. Of course. All little boys need a tricycle, some cars, and a little sister. To protect, I presume. But then my mom came over and was like, "So what are you going to do to make sure you dont' have another? Get your tubes tied?" And frankly I didn't quite like that, either. You'd think I was out dealing and soliciting myself while she watched them or something. So I'm not sure what you could say to me about potential future offspring. Maybe just nothing.

And I gathered from a music discussion on an alterna-parenting board that The Wiggles are not really cool to admit liking. Wacky-haired Dan Zanes and laid-back-cool Laurie Berkner are socially acceptable to like (which I do), and extra cool bragging points if they like your music. But I guess the dorky, multi-colored turtlenecked old dudes from Australia are sort of not. If you're cool. I guess I like my kids' music dorky. And until some of my old favorites are singing about fruit salad and big red cars, then dorky is for me.

The orange blur on the right is Casimir in his Tigger costume, but you can't see him because he had the temerity to hotfoot it on the candy run and not pose for me. That blur is actually pretty accurate as to what it's like to watch him in real life, too. I prefer taking pictures of immobile babies who are strapped down.

The pumpkin-bucket full of candy he got has been great entertainment for him for days too. He carefully takes it all out, one by one, and lines it up in a very OCD manner, then puts it back in, then takes it out and makes piles with it, and so on, until I feel like a sort of bad parent who just gives her kid junk food to play with. He did the same thing with the candy we gave out, which is why if you came to our house, some of our candy looked a little handled. But the best part is, he doesn't ask to eat it. He usually caterwauls for candy since his Yia Yia and daddy introduced him to some, but maybe he doesn't want to diminish his stash of varied, squishy building blocks that are wrapped up in neaty shiny wrappers. Whatever- I'm just going to pretend that he doesn't ask to eat any because we never give him candy and he is happy with that. Yeah, and he's never seen TV, either.

I hope that the scary Halloween stuff around (thanks neighbor, who sat on a chair like a scarecrow with a pumpkin on over your head, that was indeed quite frightening when you moved) didn't give him nightmares. He did end up sleeping with us part of the night since then, and has hollered out a couple of times, though. And I noticed that the parting words at bedtime from him are now "REAL WIDE!" (as in leave door open real wide), and not "sleep tight." Well, hopefully Santa won't be scary this year.