Recalibration

A couple of days ago I sat down to blog for the first time in 1,870 years. Apparently I have been having a tough time lately, because THIS is what came out. I'm feeling much better now, but the insanity should be documented regardless.
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Somehow it all got really hard recently.

For a long time, it was damn, I am totally rocking this whole working-mom-of-two thing. Sure, it had its challenges, but I grabbed them by the balls, knocked them around, and sent them packing. I had it all under control(ish).

Then, about two months ago, everything just seemed to get really HARD. It started when Griffin stopped sleeping through the night (which he had only tenuously begun to do, as he still just wants to be in our bed attached to my person all night long and I will NEVER co-sleep again so help me) because we went out of town for a week at Thanksgiving and totally SCREWED his sleep training. Then he got a horrible week-long stomach bug and a lingering cold for umpteen weeks on end. That was December.

January has been a sassy little bitch of a month, too. It's always a busy time at work, and I've had sick kids all over the place - especially the Finster, who lately seems to fall victim to every damn germ that crosses his sweet path. Between his school, Carter's school, the playground, the library, etc. the poor kid is inundated with evil bugs that want to ravage his little self. So the new year began with the plague striking our family and one by one we all fell victim to heinous colds. Then Griffin's fifteen month ped check-up revealed a double ear infection and respiratory virus requiring puffer treatments (we had NO idea - "he's the happiest sickest baby" per our pediatrician), and on and on it went. He still isn't sleeping through, and every time we decide that TONIGHT is the night to sleep train, he begins vomiting out of nowhere (yes, that was last Friday - all over his room - cue a tummy bug and high fever all weekend) or the coughing and sniffling begins and it all goes to HELL. Not to mention that I've been feeling completely off due to lingering lady issues, and my GOD doesn't the world just profoundly suck when your vagina is sick? (TMI? Well, I don't believe in TMI, bitches. If you don't want to read about my vagina then you should not be on this blog).

Then there was the poo incident, which will go down in the annals of time as one of the most traumatic momming experiences of my life. Little G was on antibiotics for his ear infection, which causes upset tummy (despite the probiotics I was pumping into him), which in turn caused EXPLOSIVE diarrhea ALL OVER THE CAR SEAT. It seemed that everything in my car was coated in poo that morning. My entire baby was covered in poo. MY HANDS were covered in poo. His hands, sweater (one of my favorites, with the sweet rocking horse), pants, shirt and back were covered in poo. I didn’t even REALIZE it was poo – I thought we surely must have somehow spilled chili into the car seat. There was POO under my FINGERNAILS. I did not even have wipes, diapers OR a change of clothes for him, so I had to force him screaming into the carseat to ride in the SEAT OF POO from Carter’s school's parking lot (where this all happened, so I was this crazy poo-covered woman using random clothing items - pulled from a Goodwill donation bag found in the backseat - as rags to alternately wipe down her poo-coated child and the poo-coated seat while attempt to prevent said poo-child from racing away into oncoming traffic, all whilst fancy non-poo-covered parents walked their kids into the children's center - stay away from that lady, Little Johnny. She's not our kind) to Griffin's school, and then lead him by the hand (I could not pick him up for fear of POO) inside, where I used baby wipes to scrub his entire little body to remove the POO. I had to go home at lunch and switch out the car seat because there was POO EVERYWHERE – in the buckle, underneath the breastplate, coating the straps, on the seat. EVERYWHERE.

But I digress.

I am tired. Profoundly, deeply, incomprehensibly tired. Last Thursday I let Griffin cry it out and he slept ALL NIGHT for the first time since mid-November. It was like my whole world opened up in Technicolor - I was Dorothy in Oz, and everything was bright and shiny and hey, there's a huge lollipop, hand it over, munchkin person. I felt amazing. Then the next night the barfing began, and it all went to shit. Again.

My New Year's resolution was to do more for myself in 2013 - take time for me, nurture myself more, the same old shit I've been saying for three years, because no matter how hard you work to keep it all together, when you look in the mirror and see a tired, ragged face with flat, stringy hair, cracked hands and dry cuticles looking back at you, it's a bummer. I used to be pretty - or more importantly, feel pretty, feel like someone who deserved to treat herself well and nurture her body and mind. So I'm trying. I got my nails done - twice! I bought some new clothes. I went to lunch with friends instead of sitting in my office ALL DAY eating leftovers at noon. I am trying to carve out the ME time, because something needs to change.

For the past few weeks, I feel like I have been a stellar employee and a crap mom. Kicking ass at the office, and grasping at straws at home. I am edgy with my kids, I've lost my temper with them - which I rarely have before - muttering curse words under my breath out of sheer angry desperation while trying to get Griffin back to sleep (for the 80 zillionth time in one night). I don't like this me.

I am pretty sure that I will stop feeling like utter crap once the sickness goes away, the baby starts sleeping through, and I am no longer an exhausted shell of a woman with a 25-lb toddler using me as a human pacifier all night long. I'm still baking, so that's reassuring. If I ever stop baking, you will know something is terribly, terribly wrong. And I'm getting more organized at home, which feels good. But my god, so tired...

I will write another post soon (before another seven months goes by) which is not like this. I will write about my beautiful, perfect, sweet-natured boys and my truly awesome husband, and I will show pictures of their lovely faces to document them for all time on this little site, and in thirty years I will look back and read these words and remember how insane this all was. And I'm sure I will laugh at my silly 33-year-old self - oh girl, that's nothing. I've been covered in poo more times than I can count - as I get in my flying car to go have a lunchdate with my fabulous 60-something girlfriends and reminisce about when our children were small and we were very, very tired.

And now, for the brilliance of Tina Fey

Okay, I don't have daughters, but I think the majority of this applies nonetheless. This is courtesy of Her Awesomeness Ms. Tina Fey:


"The Mother's Prayer for its Daughter"


First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it's the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach's eye, not the Beauty.

When the Crystal Meth is offered,

May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half

And stick with Beer.

Guide her, protect her

When crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the nearby subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called "Hell Drop," "Tower of Torture," or "The Death Spiral Rock N' Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith," and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance.

Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes

And not have to wear high heels.

What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I'm asking You because if I knew, I'd be doing it, Youdammit.

May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen.

Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long,

For Childhood is short -- a Tiger Flower blooming

Magenta for one day --

And Adulthood is long and Dry-Humping in Cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever,

That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers

And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister,

Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends,

For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord,

That I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 a.m., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.

"My mother did this for me once," she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby's neck.

"My mother did this for me." And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental note to call me. And she will forget.

But I'll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.

Amen.

The One In Which I Bleed All Over My Kid

Last night as we were getting Carter ready for bed in our room (G goes to sleep first, so Carter's nighttime routine now takes place in our room so as not to wake the little one), Max was reading Curious George while Carter and I lay on the bed snuggling together. Suddenly something in the story was REALLY EXCITING because The Roo sprang upright, pointed to the book with a joyous exclamation of some kind (it's a bit blurry), and just as quickly flopped back down - RIGHT ON MY FACE.

Oh, the pain of an almost-three-year-old falling directly onto your nose. I saw stars, checked that my two front teeth were, in fact, still attached, and excused myself just as my nose began bleeding. It's been probably twenty years since I had my last nosebleed, but I stopped it up fairly quickly, dulled my pain with carmelized brussel sprouts (GAH! Adore!) and a wee bit o' white wine, and forgot the incident.

Griffin awoke around 4:45, and I brought him into our bed for his early morning nursing session, as I always do. As usual, I drifted back to sleep while he had his snack, cuddling cozily up to his warm little baby self.

...until ten minutes later, when I awoke and sleepily wondered why Griffin's forehead was damp.

Yes, you see where I'm going with this. Yes, my nosebleed had come back with a vengeance, ALL OVER my sweet baby's head. Yes, sopping up your blood from your sleeping baby's face is a delightful way to begin the week.

Little G looked like he was part of a super-tough baby street gang and had just been in a rumble with the babies from the wrong side o' the tracks. Or maybe HE'S the baby from the wrong side o' the tracks?

Nah.




Don't freak out - those are beets, not my blood. I couldn't resist.



Snippets

- My parents have been in Jordan and London for the past ten days, visiting my sister-in-law's family and my cousin, respectively. They haven't traveled internationally for almost forty years, so hearing about my small-town folks trekking about the Middle East will be a HOOT, let me tell you. That said, I miss my mom - I never realized how often I call her, mainly to whine about how tired I am, and I keep having to remind myself that she's not an option. Until tomorrow, when she comes back. MAMA!

- We had our orientation meeting for Carter's new school today and I am once again blown away by its awesomeness. He's getting very excited about it and has been telling everyone that he's going to a NEW SCHOOL and he's going to make NEW FRIENDS! Hopefully this excitement will dull the inevitable anxiety during the transition. I told his current school that he was leaving a couple of weeks ago, and it went better than I anticipated. The director didn't give me crap about it or make any snide comments, but that's probably because I got all teary when I was telling her and made it a point to reiterate how much we like her facility and how great they've been and how it's nothing negative about her school, etc. Then I had to tell his current teacher - more teariness from yours truly. Then she started sniffling too and all was forgiven.

- We have no major trips planned this summer, and I am very pleased with this. When Carter was a baby we hauled our asses to Cape Cod and Boston for a week, and as lovely as it was, traveling with tiny babypeople is a stressful experience. I'm perfectly content to bop on up to see Grandma and Grandpa for a long weekend in July and call that our summer vaca. It helps that I'm from wine country. There will be wine - oh yes, there will be wine. And candy. And really, really good coffee.

- Little G has quite the sniffle today and I've been sucking snot out of his face like it's going out of style. I find myself once again praising the heavens for the brilliant Nosefrida - and I'm also quite grateful for our happy little humidifier friend.

- Speaking of the Schmiffins, we did a little sleep training back in late April, and for a few lovely weeks everybody at Chez Draitser was sleeping through the night. Despite all my hand-wringing about it, it was easy as pie - the first night he fussed for about 35 minutes (Carter and Daddy slept on the living room floor) and then conked out til 6am, the second night for five minutes, and that was it. Then he started teething and the whole thing was shot to hell. He's currently waking up once a night around 2am, and I do an 11pm dreamfeed before going to bed. Once these accursed teeth break through (DEAR GOD, TEETH! WHERE YOU AT?) and the cold evaporates, we'll re-train. I had forgotten that's how it works - something always arises - sickness, teething, whatever - JANKS your great-sleeper up, and you need to redo everything. Sheeeeeesh.

- I am really loving on Farmer's Markets lately. Our old Hollywood one was not particularly kid-friendly, but I discovered an amazing one in Studio City, just over the hill from us, with an incredible petting zoo (bunnies and duckies and piggies, oh my!), train (not that Carter will ride on one), pony rides (ditto) - the whole shebang, and Carter's daycare friends go every Sunday so we've been meeting up for playdates in which they basically run around like hooligans while we (okay, me) scout all the celebrities with their kids wandering by (what's UP, Jason Priestley and family!?!). Throw in some organic produce and everybody's happy.

Last night as I was changing Carter's diaper, he was holding his Lightning McQueen racecar from Cars in one hand and his Scruff train from Thomas the Tank Engine in the other and he proceeded to make his friends have the following conversation:

"Oh, hello, have you seen The Lion King?"

"Yeah, the meerkat and the warthog are friends and then they fight like this:"

(racecar and train attack each other in clanking jumble of wood on metal)

"Okay, now it's time to talk about Monsters, Inc."

"Yes, the scary monster is in the boy's room and then he trips over the soccer ball and falls down on his bottom and it's SO FUNNY!"

(proceeds to laugh hysterically while train/racecar clank once again)

Sidenote: while he went through a huge Lion King phase a few weeks ago and wanted to watch it repeatedly every weekend (yes, TV is still only a weekend treat), he hasn't seen it recently and has only seen Monsters, Inc a few times, weeks and weeks ago - apparently that soccer ball scene made a big impression. Occasionally we'll be driving to school and he'll pipe up from the backseat - "Mommy? The scary monster was in the boy's room..." yadda yadda.

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The other day I realized that the days are just FLYING past and that my boys are growing bigger with each one that passes, and I'm not writing ANYTHING down lately. Yesterday I was reading a magazine while pumping (for the 40,873rd time) and there was an interview with some 70s female rocker - Stevie Nicks, maybe? - and she said that she writes in her journal every night, "because if you don't write it down, you'll still remember it, but it will be just a ghost of a memory." And by damn, I don't want ghost memories of my babies' childhoods, I want the total, whole-hog, detail-packed EVERYTHING of a memory.

Oh, these boys of mine. Every (crazy, exhausting) day is something new. Lately Carter likes to tell us "the plan" and tick things off on his fingers. As in:

"Okay, here's the plan: 1: We go home. 2: We take off our shoes. 3: We wash our hands. 4: We take a nap. 6. We wake up from the nap. 5: We watch SUPER WHY!!!"

...all said while ticking the items off on his little fingers, held up in the air. I have no idea where he got the "here's the plan," but I don't think Max says it, so perhaps it's just another of the many things that I say regularly that I am not fully cognizant of, so that when he repeats it later I am taken aback and have one of those "kids say the darndest..." moments until I realize that I probably said that very thing to him yesterday.

The Super Why fixation is a new development over the past few weeks. Of all the kids' shows I know, I couldn't have picked a more educational one for him to obsess over - plus racing to his "Why-Flyer Chair" is one of the only ways to get him into his carseat each night when I pick him up, so bless you, Super Why. Sometimes we'll be out for a walk or at the park and he'll take off running and shout "SUPER WHY!!!!" at the top of his little lungs. Pure joy. It's also his inroad to making new friends, as I've noticed him walking up to strange children at the park and saying "I'm going to go home and watch SUPER WHY!" Usually these are much older children and they just look at him like he's a little insane, but watching my shy boy become more sociable is pretty much the most adorable thing I've ever seen.

Griffin is 8.5 months, crawling and exploring everything and everywhere. He's simply the happiest baby, so much so that when he does cry, it is so strange and rare that we all just stop and look at each other like "who is this strange child and what has it done with our baby?" Then two seconds later he's smiling again and bouncing, dancing, up and down in your arms. He's pure joy and love and big squishy baby thighs all wrapped up into one sweet roly-poly little package (weighing in at 19.6 lbs at his 8-month check-up, solidly 50th percentile across the board, yet he seems so huge compared to Carter's tiny 10-percentile self).

It'll sound crazy, but I do believe that Griffin has now said two words - the first, Carter's name, was uttered over a month ago, and he IS talking about his brother - "Dar-duh! Dar-duh!" No Mama, no Dada - this boy only has eyes for his big brother. And for the ducks in his bathtub and on the walls of his bedroom - "Duh! Duh!"

Brothers. Watching their relationship develop is both magical and nervewracking. It's all sweet and fine until somebody gets their head sat on. "We don't hit/squish/step on/crawl over/tease/steal toys from the baby" is a daily conversation with The Roo, who has become FIERCELY protective of his train set and lets out a "NOOOOO, Baby Griffin!!!" wail whenever Little G starts heading toward the tracks. He could be ten feet away, but if his smiling, drooling little self is pointed in the general direction of the trainset, panic ensues and the frantic "NOOOOO-ing" begins. Sharing does happen, and is getting better, bit by bit. There are lots of "CanIPlayWithThatToyBabyGriffin?" asked AFTER the stealing of the toy has already occurred, but at least Carter's asking. Not that Griffin ever minds. His brother can do no wrong in his eyes. On weekends, when Carter is perched on the couch watching his precious Super Why (or Thomas, or Dinosaur Train), Griffin crawls over and pulls himself onto his knees just to stare at Carter and wonder how on earth he can himself up there and join the party. Then we start with the "Carter, please don't kick the baby in the face" talk, because I don't need an errant heel to the noggin interrupting my (desperately needed) morning coffee.

And now, as I run off to a meeting, I leave you with 87,231 pictures of my kids.

Matching jammies - because I can.

G helping with the laundry (this entails flinging it out of the basket and all over the kitchen).



6:14am. Let the madness begin.



Just like Daddy



Demolishing a cupcake - THAT is my boy!



Mommy's birthday breakfast

Visiting Grandma & Grandpa - Easter

He was still just a little pumpkin here - February, 4 months old

At their 6-month/2.5-year appointments, with Grandma

This is what happens when you let your two-year-old eat yogurt on the couch.



"I'ma gonna GETCHA!"




Baba's Birthday



Everything! Is! So! Exciting!









My little love - May 2012





So I went to a COMEDY SHOW last night. Yeah, you read that right. I left the house! To be in public, and socialize with grown-ups!

This is a very big deal. I didn't realize until recently that I was going a little stir-crazy, until a couple of weeks ago I went to an impromptu work dinner with our sales team. It was only a few blocks from my house, so I was able to go, eat, drink, chat, and still be back in time to put the boys to bed. And it felt AMAZING. There I was - in a super-swanky Beverly Hills restaurant, eating on the company's dime, tossing back martinis (okay, one martini) and pounding insanely expensive sushi like it was my last meal. I wore heels and lipstick and brushed my hair and IT WAS GLORIOUS.

Afterwards I realized that it was a wee bit pathetic that I was so excited just to be out in public at night, and that perhaps I should start listening to my husband when he encourages me to get the hell out of the house (he says it much nicer than that). Because I really haven't gone out - not at night, at least, save for the very infrequent date night -for, oh, SINCE CARTER WAS BORN. Maybe I've met up with friends a couple of times in the past two years and eight + months? I can't even remember.

And as sad as that sounds, it never really bothered me, because every single ounce of my energy was totally preoccupied with momming. I went to work, I took care of my boys, I ate, I cleaned, I watched some TV/read magazines, I slept. Rinse and repeat, since September 2009. Sure, I'd see girlfriends for coffee or brunch on the weekends and meet someone for the occasional lunch during the work week. But nighttime? Gasp! People still do that? Huh? Go to dinner, see shows, have conversations amidst the happy noisy burbling of a crowded bar/restaurant?? How is it possible that this world has gone on without me?

I didn't realize that I wanted to get out of the house so badly until it almost didn't happen last night. The comedy show started at eight, and Griffin was resisting bedtime like never before. Finally I looked at the clock - 7:57pm. Even though it was only a few blocks away, I clearly wouldn't be there on time. Apparently something in my brain snapped, because I went into the living room where Max and Carter were sitting together at the computer and yelled at my husband for the first time in our almost-six-year relationship - how I'd missed the show, and I was sure that the doorman wouldn't let me in late, and OHMYGOD I had no idea it was so late WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME, THIS WAS THE ONE NIGHT I WANTED TO DO SOMETHING, THE ONE NIGHT IN OVER TWO YEARS! Max rightfully issued a stern "YOU NEED TO CALM DOWN" and I did, a little, and grabbed my keys and kissed my son goodnight and basically fled the apartment as quickly as possible, hanging my head in shame that Carter witnessed Mommy's mini-meltdown.

And of course I made it to the show. I met up with a girlfriend, a fellow mom. We were on "the list." We were fancy. A friend of ours was performing, and it was all kinds of hilarious. Afterward we waded through the crowd of people in the dark bar area, and I said to her "Look around - they don't know that we have kids! We look just like everyone else."

People were drinking, smoking, flirting and canoodling, and I got to watch it all with new eyes, like some bizarre cultural anthropology study of 30-something Los Angelenos. Huh. This is what people are doing while I am singing Moon River and nursing my baby, while I am reading Make Way For Ducklings and telling my little boy his favorite Mommy story, about the huge magical slide. There I was, in what is now a completely foreign universe, dabbling my toes into the waters of nightlife again. It was strange and intimidating and yet I felt the mild stirrings of something exciting and new - dare I say, balance? A happy, healthy medium of momming and socializing?

I didn't linger. I chatted a bit and then raced home to my boys, apologized to my husband for being an asshole, curled up on the couch down the hall from my sleeping babies, and felt proud. I did it! I WENT OUT. IN PUBLIC. WITH PEOPLE.

As a mother, I am confident, capable - but as a social animal, I need some serious practice. Because it seems that all mom and no friends makes Mommy go CRAAAAAAAAZY. So here goes nothing. The Great Get Your Ass Out of the House and Be Sociable Challenge. Bring it on.

I recently spent two solid days in a state of near-complete inertness while an evil stomach bug ravaged my body, rendering me capable of only two activities - mumbling incoherently or thrusting my head into a large red plastic bucket to empty the contents of my gut. Oy - that was descriptive. Sorry.

Anyway, at the very least, said virus and accompanying downtime allowed me some rare moments to gather some words for this here long-neglected bloggity.

So after shelling out for a new desperately needed haircut AND highlights on Saturday, I was feeling pretty snazzy 'til the puking began. On Sunday my husband and sister–in-law took the boys to a long-anticipated playdate with their little cousin in Orange County while I laid at home trying to keep down thimbles of Gatorade. Aside from being at work, it was the longest I'd ever been away from my boys. The fact that I was only semi-conscious made it far more bearable.

Illness not withstanding, life is trucking merrily along these days. The working mom world does not seem nearly as daunting as it did a few months ago, but I've come to realize that that's always the case. Griffin is almost seven months old, packing on the pounds (17-something at last count, but he has a check-up next week) and enjoying his solids (favorites are carrots, squash and anything involving rice cereal). He's just SO mellow, it blows me away. Never cries. Seriously. Sure, maybe he'll wail for a moment at night when he wakes up hungry and clambering for boob - which he does, multiple times per night. The plan for last weekend was to begin sleep training, but then the whole barfing thing started. This weekend is my birthday and I would really love to celebrate by getting a full night's sleep, without a baby in my bed. Yep - he loves our bed. We moved his mini crib into Carter's room last week in hopes that some distance would help, since he wouldn't be three feet away smelling my awesome mommy smell all night. It seems to have helped a little, but he's still up every few hours, yelling for boob.

Carter was mercifully easy to sleep train - we did that dreamfeeds method (Sleep-Easy Solution? No-Cry Sleep Solution? Never did read the book - just got a five-minute synopsis from a friend and that was enough) and he was sleeping through the night by six months-ish. Little G (Griffin Schmiffin, Finnster Binnster) is a different story - he doesn't seem to follow a pattern like Carter, who awoke religiously at 11 and 2 to nurse, making it easy to anticipate and gradually phase out the night feeds. Griffin is all over the place at night. I'm beginning to wonder if he is uncomfortable in his little mini crib and if I should upgrade to a big boy crib, or get a new mattress. OR perhaps just let him cry it out one night and fall asleep on his own in his crib, which he's done OH, maybe three times ever. It seems that it's going to come to moving a sleeping Carter into the living room to camp on the floor with Daddy while I sleep-train Griffin myself. Ugh - and I wonder why I've been putting this off. Truthfully, there is something wonderfully snuggly about sleeping with your kids, isn't there? Then I wake up in the morning in some wonky position with my arm flung haphazardly across a pillow so as not to squish the baby, my shoulders in knots, and I think OH YEAH, this is why you have your own bed. Huh.

On a competely different note, our little family is currently faced with an extremely difficult and daunting decision. See, I work for a big old movie studio in Los Angeles, and we have one of those insanely awesome corporate daycares, run by Bright Horizons. I call it the Harvard of Preschools, because it's absolutely top of the line kickass incredible in every way. It also has a three year waiting list...which we have been on, for three years and a couple of months.

Last week I got an email that Carter had been accepted to a spot in the Preschool program, beginning in July. Well, hot damn! I should be totally psyched, right? Erm, no. Instead, I find myself RIDDLED with anxiety. I abhor change. Loathe it. And so does my little boy (though perhaps that's less due to genetics and more due to being two). I just keep thinking about how upset he'll be to leave his little school, his little friends, the teachers and toys that he knows. He's been at his current preschool (next door to Griffin's infant/toddler center and part of the same facility) since his second birthday over SEVEN months ago, and he just recently stopped whining and clinging to me every morning at drop-off. After SEVEN months. And that was just moving from one building that he'd known his whole life to another - right - next - door. He even knew the preschool teachers already, and had older friends who had already transitioned over.

SIGH. So there's one thing - the heartache of having my little boy adjust to a new reality every day.

Then there's the price - almost twice what we currently pay. Ouch. But that's not a deal-breaker. I know from reading Erica's preschool post and the subsequent comments that the cost ($1,178) is actually - shockingly - not bad. And we are willing to pay it to give him this experience.

Then there's the logistical nightmare of two kids at two different centers. Even with two kids at the same school I am rarely rolling into the office before 9:30 these days, and I leave at 5:45 to pick them up, then race home to fix dinner and do the whole nightly routine. Fortunately, the WB Children's Center (for that is its fancy name) is just a few blocks away from our current location, but it is still a solid extra 15 minutes both AM and PM (if not more), which means we'll now get home at 6:45 or 7 instead of 6:30. Lordy. Griffin (who is also on the waiting list) will get sibling priority once Carter is enrolled, but still probably won't get in til Summer 2013 (unless a parent from the Toddler A group is laid off sometime sooner, and HOW AWFUL is it that I am secretly hoping that occurs?!).

Lastly, there's my massive guilt in telling my current location that we're moving Carter. Although the owner can be a cantankerous and overbearing little person, with whom I've certainly had my differences (um, no, I am not rushing to the pediatrician EVERY SINGLE TIME my child has a fever to get you a damn NOTE before he can come back, crazypants), I do believe that she cares about my boys, and even respects my wacky crunchy views on stuff. Plus, I still try to go visit Griffin every day at lunchtime, since it's only a few minutes down the road. That said, dealing with her inevitable guilt trips about pulling Carter is not something I am looking forward to. And before you say she won't, I once heard her saying to a mother who had just LOST HER JOB and had to pull her kids out "It's such a shame - he was doing so well. He will miss it here so much..." Nice, lady. I think my best bet here is to tell a wee little white lie and say that the company subsidizes the cost of their Children's Center (which they do - a little. A very, very little). Other good ammunition - my company's daycare is open til 7, instead of 6pm like almost every other place in town. You know, so you can STAY AT YOUR DESK and WORK YOURSELF TO DEATH for just a lil' longer every evening before you are mercifully released to your children. Yeehah!

So there you have it. Those are all my anxieties, all the things giving me pause. Oh wait - not all. There's Parker. GAH! For some reason this one's like a knife through the heart for me. Parker is Carter's best friend. They adore each other, have known each other their whole lives and have been chasing each other around since they could crawl. I joke with Parker's dad that we're future in-laws (yes, that's MISS Parker). Every day when we drive home and I ask what he did that day, it's almost always the same - "I played with Parker with the orange ball." Or the legos. Or whatever. Parker is two weeks older than Carter, so they transitioned from the toddler center to the preschool at the same time, which made the change somewhat bearable for him. But at his new school, she won't be there. No Parker. KILLS ME.

Yes, yes - we'll have to arrange playdates. It will happen. It must. And I fully intend to enroll Carter in Parker's Sunday Gymboree class, just so they can hang out, to ease the transition.

Okay - so those are my worries. And yet, despite it all, today I emailed the lady telling her we would accept Carter's spot for this July. You see, I took my husband there for a tour last week. He'd never seen the place, as he wasn't with me on my initial tour THREE YEARS AGO, when Carter was a lima bean in my belly. And despite all of my worries, all of my anxiety, there was no denying that there's something magical about the place. The real turning point came when the tour lady asked me what Carter did all day in his current program, and I had NO IDEA. I couldn't give her an answer. Because I don't know, and that SUCKS. My brilliant little boy is counting to 100, knows all his letters and the sounds they make, and can identify some words on sight, so I know he's learning - but beyond that, I don't really know what he does all day. Aside from a dinky one-sheet of "March (or April, or May) Lessons" that they send home in his bag once a month (of which more than half is the same stuff from the month prior) and the collection of artwork/projects he brings home, I couldn't tell you what they are working on. There are no parent-teacher meetings. There is no communication. Sometimes Carter will be fussy on the way home, and it will take me specifically asking the next day to find out that he'd refused to nap all day. Or that he didn't want to eat his fruit. Or yadda yadda insert-whatever-here. They can't even tell me these basic things about my child, let alone have conferences and write journals about his development (which my company's school does). And even though I'm comfortable there, and he's happy there, and I really, REALLY don't want to rock the boat, I know that that's not okay.

So here we go. Clearly this has been weighing on me, and I'm still shaky with my decision. But we're jumping. Wish us luck.