I have a babysitter this morning and nothing to do with this time except blog. Woohoo! Should be a joy, right? Except that I got a crap night’s sleep, my eyes are puffed up like pastry, there’s a really irritating stack of bills for me to sort through at home and I have this horrible pain that makes me think either early labor (really early labor) or Boo-ette (as Harlan’s been calling her) putting out a cigarette with her stiletto boot-heel in my right side.

But I don’t want to bitch today! I discovered a blog I liked Dumb Mommy this week and was amazed at how this Somerville mother of a two-year-old has managed to remain at once positive, pithy and super prolific! She griped, of course, what mother of a two-year-old doesn’t? But she did it in a really funny way and managed to write every 3-4 days. Good work, mom!

And so I felt inspired to lay off the bitching. The big question burning to be asked: Will I have anything to say?

Well, there’s always boo. Just straight boo. The cute stuff he does. He’s become such a little person and such a sweet, affectionate, mischievous one at that. Here it is, the latest catalog of cuteness.

Last night our babysitter, Brittany, said she went up to check on him and he was talking in his sleep, murmuring, “Good boy, good boy.” When our cat Jack pees on the floor (which he’s been doing lately), I generally scream, “Bad! Bad boy!” And yesterday, every time boo did something that irritated me, he’d turn to me, quizzical, and ask, “Bad boy?” And I’d say, “No, you’re a good boy. I love you. I just don’t like it when you throw beans on the floor, throw magnets at mommy, splash bathwater all over mommy’s pants, etc.” So, I think the little guy has been muddling through this issue, trying to figure it out, to the extent that it’s followed him into his dreams!

The other night we were eating dinner and I was painting him a picture on his Buddha Board (the best toy ever for messy toddlers, ’cause they paint with water! It was given to us by my uncle and aunt who own the amazing Sacred Space in Summerland, CA). I painted a car on the Buddha Board, a road beneath it, a sun above and some birds. “What else can I add to the picture?” I asked Aidan. “Mutmee!” he exclaimed, which means monkey. “Owl babies!” So I added a monkey and some owl babies, loving that my boring residential street scene had become a cluttered, imaginative menagerie thanks to my two-year-old who doesn’t yet understand the limitations of reality. Then, a few minutes later, when I asked him if he wanted more of anything, referring to the pasta and yogurt on his plate, he said, “More owl babies!”, and I added more owl babies to my fast-fading picture.

Yesterday I was on the phone with KitchenAid reporting that our blender, which we use on almost a daily basis to make smoothies (mimis) for Aidan, was kaput. I had to go into the kitchen to give the nice customer service lady the model and serial number off the bottom of the blender and she asked me to describe the state of the blades. I turned it on and just hearing the sound made Aidan start begging, “Mimi! Mimi!” While still on the phone with the woman, I loaded some yogurt, frozen strawberries and blueberries, a banana, some kale and boo’s probiotics into the Cuisinart, a poor substitute. Aidan said, “No that one! That one!” pointing at the Cuisinart and then the blender. “Sorry, baby, the blender’s broken,” I told him. “We have to use this one.” I hung up and went to start the Cuisinart, but it wouldn’t go. Everything appeared to be snapped into place, the way it must be before you can do a thing with those silly contraptions, but it wouldn’t work. I made a big show of my annoyance for Aidan, howling and stomping my feet. At one point, I said, “Wait, is there a book?” thinking we might have a manual stashed in a cupboard somewhere. Aidan said, “Book? In living room!” and he ran out and came back holding this talking Barney book my dad got him for free from a garage sale and which Aidan loves. He handed to me and said, “Mimi book?” He was hoping to help me out with my mimi problem with his Barney book. I wrapped my arms around him and we read for a while before I turned back to the Cuisinart and, this time, managed to whip up the perfect mimi.

The other day we went to visit Harlan at the office. The minute we walked in, Aidan said, “Pizza?” The last time we’d been there, maybe two months earlier, we’d had pizza. His memory is amazing. He also sings bits of his favorite songs—Everybody Came, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, Ring Around the Rosie, Time to Tidy, You’re a Miracle—by heart—now he even wakes us up with his singing on most days!—and has taken to saying, “No!” when I try to sing along. “Ainay!” (That’s how he says his name, and apparently Ainay likes to sing alone!) And of course he knows the words to his favorite books, too.

He is going through this phase where he greets everyone, customers in a bookstore, waiters, other patients at my chiropractor’s office, and it makes their day. He shouts out this huge, happy, enthusiastic, “Hi!”, accompanied by his Prince Charming grin, and they turn, startled and delighted that this little guy has singled them out.

When he hurts himself, he’ll come to me, whimpering, holding whatever body part he has bumped or scraped. This morning it was the back of his head and I said, “You bumped your head. Should I kiss it?” He came slowly toward me and I kissed it. “Is it better?” I asked. He shook his head, “More.” So I kissed it again, repeatedly, and he said, “more” and again, “more” and again “more,” maybe ten times, so he could get more and more and more mommy kisses.

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