girlfiend

Boyfiend invited his teacher friend and her husband who live a few blocks from us to my birthday party. I don’t know them very well, but I’ve run into them in the neighborhood and chatted with them a few times. Saturday night’s party stretched into the early morning hours and they and a few other friends from the neighborhood were the only people left. Boyfiend and I were the only parents in the room and two of the three (his friend was the other) teachers.  Two of the men in the conversation, E and D, are Boyfiend’s friends from high school. Mix and the teacher friend’s husband rounded out the group of 7.

The subject turned to city schools, a controversial subject among city dwellers in our age group. We live in a neighborhood where the schools would be great if enough parents actually took the chance and sent their kids to the neighborhood schools instead of parochial or private schools. The conversation reflected our school backgrounds, current situations and prejudices. Boyfiend and I are always trying to convince our peers to stick it out in the city and make the schools what we want them to be. At the same time, if a private school scholarship fell from the sky I’d take it in a heartbeat. Unless it’s a school based in any part of Christianity. I won’t go there. It’s hard to be one of the only Jews in a school where you have to pray to Jesus.

Boyfiend teaches at my former (public) high school’s rival school. As we discussed the relative superiority (E’s opinion) or inferiority (my opinion) of some Philadelphia suburban school districts to our neighborhood school we talked about how race and economics plays into the quality of education. I joked that when I was in high school (and my school was rich and snotty) we thought of the students where Boyfiend teaches (also rich, snotty) as the kids of guys who work at auto body shops. His teacher friend, without hesitation shot back, “Oh yeah? Well we  thought you were all a bunch of Jews!”

I laughed and said we were, and we were. About half of us, anyway. But I immediately hated her and wondered if she hated me for my auto body joke, a career choice that was taken from a statement someone else had made seconds earlier in the discussion. The district where she works (and went to high school) is so ridiculously wealthy (and white!) that it really was a joke, but clearly it struck a nerve. I guess the question is was I out of line or was she?

I wouldn’t ordinarily describe myself as compulsive, but there are certain situations where I cannot help myself. Like when it comes to scales. If there is a scale in the room I must weigh myself and remove as much clothing as appropriate for the situation. For example, at the gym I will weigh myself naked since the scale is on the way to the showers in the locker room. At the doctor’s office I will take off my shoes, sweater, and any other layers I can remove without looking like a complete nutjob if the doctor comes in. Throughout my pregnancy they would weigh me clothed at the beginning of my appointment. But if the appointment called for the removal of clothing later I would weigh myself again without clothes just to be precise.

Anyway, I have found something else to be compulsive about. I was sent a sample package of strips that test breastmilk for alcohol to review on my breastfeeding blog. Tonight I had one drink over the course of an hour and a half. It was a Manhattan, so it was all alcohol, no mixer.  Figuring that one drink wouldn’t have much of an effect on me I decided to test my milk before putting the baby to bed. According to the test I was basically loaded and shouldn’t be breastfeeding. So I waited an hour and tested again. The test was as clear as can be. But in the meantime the original test turned black. And after a few minutes the second test started to get darker.

Now I just want to test repeatedly to see if the first test was a fluke. I want to drink a glass of wine and test again. Drink a shitty light beer and test again. I want to test at timed intervals throughout an evening just to see. But I only have two tests left! I don’t know what to do. I have an unopened package of test strips I said I’d give away on my blog and I’m dying to bust into it for the sake of research. I don’t know how I’m going to contain myself.

I thought the article, “The Case Against Breastfeeding,” in the most recent issue of The Atlantic was irritating.

The baby is ten months old already and eats more than his three-year-old brother.

I can’t believe I have a three-year-old.

The Fiendling is steadfastly refusing to use the potty. The mere mention of it has reduced him to tears. It is funny how his mind works. We’ll be doing something completely unrelated to the potty (since I refuse to even utter the word in front of him) and he’ll say, “Maybe tomorrow it won’t make me sad.”

At least he got a hair cut and started brushing his teeth in the morning and at night.

My baby is going to be three on Sunday and he is perfect and terrible in the way that all almost three year old children are. He is loud and sweet and fussy and agreeable. He is smart and stubborn and a know it all who is interested in and wants to know about everything.
He cannot pronounce ‘Rs’ or ‘Ls’ right now. He puts his head down on the piw-wow and reads the latest favorite from the library, Tains, Canes and Toublesome Tucks.

He is learning so much so quickly. He groups his trains together and tells me which engines start with the letter E, and T and D like dada starts with D. He tells me that Diesel rhymes with Easel and Bennyboo rhymes with poo. He shows me the words he knows on paper and spells mama and dad and his name and his brother’s name. He knows the letters that begin the names of his friends and families and asks to if he’s unsure. “Mama, Freight car starts with F or it starts with C like car starts with C.

Colors are described as big or middle. He wore his big red pants with his middle red shirt yesterday and requested to wear a diaper that was big green like Emily (the engine, of course) is big green.

He stacks blocks and counts them and counts them correctly the first time. He understands how to count now, actually counting things one at a time instead of repeatedly. Before he’d count the same thing three or four times, but now he gets it.

When he turns into three this weekend he says he is going to use the potty. Right now he doesn’t know how, but when he is three on March 8th after his happy birthday party he will use the potty. When he turns into three, and right now he is two- not almost three, just two- he will also get a haircut, stop biting his nails, and start brushing his teeth in the morning, not just at night before bed. When he turns into three his brother will turn into one and then he will be big.

He knows who his friends are and his friend’s moms and brothers and sisters. His friend Baby Doodle’s mom is going to have a baby next month and he has already decided that BD is going to have a baby sister named Sarah just like his friend Annie has a baby sister named Sarah. Not like his cousin who has a baby sister named Isla that starts with I like iguana starts with I.

Sometimes he is miserable and cranky and refuses to eat. He cries and fusses and throws toys and hits and kicks. He knows these things are wrong but he is almost three and cannot always help himself. He is able to verbalize that sometimes he just doesn’t want to be nice. And I understand that. I don’t always want to be nice either.

Other times he is just lovely and sweet. He gives big hugs and kisses and tells us all how much he loves us and we love him. He brings his brother toys and shares his food and snacks with him. He hangs onto food, chocolate even, setting it aside for dada to eat when he gets home from work.

He’s been very much into me the last few months. He wants me to change his diaper and give him his bath and put him to bed. He wants me to get him food and read him stories and press play on the DVD player. He doesn’t want dada or grandmom or grandpop or anyone else. “Just mama,” he says, and most of the time I oblige. I never had a true sibling, but I can empathize when he just wants me to put his brother down on the floor so he can lay in my lap and sleep on my legs. I understand that sometimes he just wants me to himself, especially since he’s been sick the past few weeks. I love that he wants me. I know I’ll be devastated when he’s too big to want me, need me the way he does now.

He is my small, sweet boy who runs and tackles when he shouldn’t and plays nicely with his friends. He is terrible and perfect and I am so proud of him, and so sad that he’s growing up.