My Morbid Chatterbox...

So Oliver has decided it's time to start conversing and I have been waiting for this since he was born.

But instead of excitement from others I have encountered the exact opposite.

It's okay, I'm used to it.

See, when Oliver passed the 6 month mark and could finally eat food, people told me "my life would never be the same." They were right, but I thought it was exciting.

When Oliver turned 1 and started walking, people told me "my life would never be the same." They were again 100% correct. Sure, the first few weeks were terrifying but I swear he became happier the moment he claimed independence.

Now Oliver is 18 months and the words keep coming. Everyone rolls their eyes warning "my life will never be the same." And yes, they all predicted it correctly. But hearing Oliver count to 10 and say the alphabet makes my heart sing every time.

Well, almost every time...

Last Thursday we were sitting in the park drawing chalk circles on the ground when another toddler approached us. Oliver dropped his chalk, waved and said "Hiiiiiiii!"

And, after a few moments the toddler turned to leave and again Oliver dropped his chalk, waved and said "Die, Die."

"Die Die!?"

In addition to telling me how "my life would never be the same" everyone also told me Oliver would have his own dialect that only Brett and I would understand. At this moment I knew 'everyone' had once again been correct. I knew Oliver's intention was to say "Bye bye."

He's 18 months old and he'll straighten out the B's and D's eventually; but until then, I'll remain the proudest Mama in the world no matter how many people he wishes death to on a daily basis.

A Bit of Craziness...

It's been a while since I blogged, but I have a fabulous excuse.

Hubby and I have decided to move.

Not a simple move across the street, but a big move from New York City to Chicago. It happened fast and furiously and the two of us have been prepping our brains out.

First, we had to fly to Chicago to look for a home. Then we had to research and find a preschool for Oliver. Next we had to buy a car.

While those were the three major elements to check off the list-  those checkmarks actually proved to be the easiest. See Brett and I have always found the big things easy.

It's the minutia that makes me crazy.

After looking at 10 houses we walked into the 11th house and both knew we were home. Then the details of the mortgage, paperwork and negotiations began.

After touring 5 preschools in Chicago, meeting with the directors and observing the classes we knew instinctively which one we both wanted Oliver to get accepted to. Then came application procedures and the fact that we missed all the deadlines.

After walking down the street searching out cars we liked, we narrowed the choices down to two that deserved a test drive. One quick drive up and down the West Side Highway and we knew instantly which one I'd look cutest in. Then the details of calling car dealers throughout the United States began to see who could give us the very very best price.

Now that we've secured the home until the closing and Oliver has gotten into our first choice school and we found a sweet deal on our car, the minutia of the minutia begins:

1- Calling the movers
2- Arranging the dates
3- Getting the plane tickets
4- Throwing out everything we don't want anymore
5- Saying goodbye to everyone who has made these past six years in New York City the most special and unforgettable years of our lives.

I'll get through 1-4.  But the mere thought of #5 has me quaking in my shoes and crying every morning. I hate hate hate goodbyes.

So that's what I've been up to.
I hope you can forgive me.

I'll keep you updated on the insanity as the moving date approaches.

There's just no winning...

The weather in New York City has been glorious and the entire island is experiencing a collective good mood. With warmer temperatures new baby bumps are revealed, children can go hatless, and blueberries become cheaper at Whole Foods.

The past month has brought 3 huge snowstorms that kept most of us cooped up in our 700 square foot apartments with little ones who were bored blind. They rebelled against us for reasons we understood but could do absolutely nothing about. Basically, this was the winter we all considered drugs.

But just like Sandra Bullock winning an Oscar, out came the 60 degree weather and surprised us all.

At 1:59 pm Oliver woke from his nap and I ran into his room with a smile from ear to ear. After the world's quickest diaper change I grabbed his stroller, jacket, and snack and we were out the door. 10 minutes has got to be a record. We were headed to the playground.

The problem was everyone else had the same idea.

Our most favorite playground, Washington Market, was so crowded Oliver would have gotten stomped alive. So we continued to Battery Park which is no less lovely, just an extra 15 minute walk.

This was crowded too. Hmmm...I started to think. This could get dicey. I let Oliver loose and memories of summertime flooded back.

Within one minute Oliver was into the sandpit.  I was pleased that he was raking his hands through the sand. He was clearly over gulping it down by the fistful phase.  That's what I call progress. However with progress comes struggle. Apparently we are now into the throwing sand phase. Shit.

After removing Oliver from the sandpit came the fountain. Since starting pre-pre-school Oliver has had a major obsession with water. They taught him how to wash his hands and if he could he would wash them all day long. Now, not only was he covered head to toe in sand, we were both all wet too.

And, finally, the swings. It has been months since we hit the swings, Oliver's clear and favorite playground activity.  The problem here wasn't the actual swinging, it was the actual waiting. Waiting on line is torturous for a 17 month old even if they're the first and only one in it. It was verging on embarrassing how he was unraveling.  The mother whose baby was in the swing took pity on us and took her baby out much too early to ease Oliver's obvious physical pain.

So. the good news is we're back to the playground.  The bad news?  We're back to the playground.

I guess every season has it's perks...

Bad Mommy

Thursday Oliver vomited.

Friday Oliver had pink eye.

Saturday Oliver's boogers started again.

Sunday Oliver fell at the park and got a bloody nose.

Let's just say it's been a hell of a week. For everyone involved.

And back at school today, Oliver was cranky, but really can you blame him?

However, he's definitely regressed a bit.

See it took a couple of weeks to get Oliver to stop throwing his sippy cup 

clear across the room when he finished. He thought it was hilarious and I 

clearly didn't. I refuse to raise a kid with bad manners so the rule became, 

"you throw it...you lose it." And it worked. For the past month he's been 

handing me the cup when he finishes or he places it carefully on the table.

But not the past few days.

No he's pissed. And he's taking it out on us.

He's pissed about the eye drops we have to put in his eyes in the morning.

He's pissed we have to wipe his nose every 5 minutes.

He's pissed we had to give him a bath to rinse off the blood.

Clearly he has reason to be pissed. We are terrible uncaring parents.

So today while picking up a new shirt at a favorite store of mine where hip 

young single thangs work, Oliver decided to chuck his sippy cup. 
What did I do? 

I took it away. This set off a tantrum of epic proportions which I ignored. 

He was simply pissed I took the sippy away. Anyone could see that. But as 

I paid for the shirt, the two stupid young thangs were looking at me in horror 

for not giving the cup back to my baby. They glared at me and the whole time 
I could see their thoughts flashing in neon above their perfectly plucked 

brows "What a horrible mom she is!"

Now it was my turn to be the pissed off one.

Here I was, being a mom, teaching my child a lesson on manners 
when he was CLEARLY misbehaving and I was being judged. After this 
whole past week of taking care of every possible bodily fluid of Oliver's, 
I was being judged by a sippy cup. The rest of my day I carried a chip on 
my shoulder to everyone.

Tonight at dinner I let the chip go. You know why? When Oliver wound 
up that arm of his to chuck the sippy. I glared at him, as only a mom can 
do, and you know what? He got it. 

He carefully unwound that arm and set the sippy on the table.

Those girls can go to hell.