So, good night, with lullaby.

I'm not much of a singer. I can carry a tune (usually), but I only sound good in a couple of keys. Don't misunderstand: I love to sing. But I basically suck at it and I'm very self-conscious about my singing voice. So you can imagine the sinking feeling that came over me when Westley started requesting to be sung to at bedtime.

Now, I get that my child doesn't really care (yet) whether or not I can hit that high note. But I guess if you're me, several bad experiences with your church's children's choir plus one awful musical theater audition in high school plus several instances of being told, "I can't listen to any more of your singing" add up to bedtime state fright. So when I'm tucking Westley in and he says, in his sweet toddler accent, "seeng...a song," my mind is as quiet as the dark bedroom. I draw a complete musical blank. Until "Fuck and Run" or "Suffragette City" or "Total Eclipse of the Heart" pops into my head, and then...just, no.

For weeks, the only child- and my-voice-friendly song I could think to sing to Westley was "Jesus Loves Me." It seriously was the only thing I could come up with while mentally belting, "turn around, bright eyes!" Unfortunately, there's not much to it (I thought). To stretch the song out a little, I added the verse I wrote when I was tiny:

Jesus loves the cats and dogs.

Jesus loves the rabbits and frogs.

Jesus loves them all day long.

Jesus loves to hear this song.

(You're welcome.)

That wasn't a satisfying answer for either Westley or me. I thought I'd be stuck with the classic (and creepy) "Rock-a-bye Baby," or I'd have to give in and go with whatever inappropriate, un-singable thing popped into my head when Westley made his nightly request. Until yesterday.

Yesterday afternoon, Westley suddenly zeroed in on a picture of a lollipop in one of his books: "Get! Loll-pop!"

"We can't get it, honey," I told him, knowing the high-pitched misery was about to set in. "It's just a picture."

Sure enough: "GET! Loll-POP!"

"I don't have any lollipops, baby. I'm sorry."

And then I realized: I know a lollipop song. (No, not that one.) So I started singing, simultaneously brilliant and like a huge dork. Westley stopped fussing, listened, relaxed, smiled.

Tonight, as I tucked his blanket around him, Westley asked me to "seeng." And then he added, "loll-pop song."

And so I did.

It might be the strangest lullaby ever. But it sure beats trying to learn all the verses to "Jesus Loves Me."

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The Post-Birthday Post

Yesterday, Westley turned two. Two!

I've been mentally gearing up for two for a long time. Certainly for the past few months, but really since I had a brand new baby in a sling across my chest, and I talked to the mother of a two-year-old while standing in line. I remember thinking that two seemed impossibly grown-up and far away. Two is a real age: none of this such-and-so-many-months business. I thought some of that aura of seriousness would fade as my child got closer and closer to this somewhat mystical number. But now that it's here, it really is as grown-up as it sounds in my head.

Maybe it just feels serious because two has exploded into my life over the past several days. It's not the terribleness that alliterative culture says I should expect. ("The challenging twos" doesn't have the same ring to it.) Suddenly, Westley's comprehension seems to have increased tenfold, and his vocabulary is quickly catching up. It's the most amazing, frustrating, amazing-again thing I've ever experienced. Truly! I'm joyfully exasperated most of the time, because my son (who was an itty-bitty, fussing, pooping meatloaf with an alien belly-scab a mere two years ago today) is communicating with me! I want to grab strangers and exclaim, "You don't understand! I can have conversations with him now!"

Most of those conversations are about the characters from books and "Yo Gabba Gabba," but still.

Maybe it's because I majored in English, but I'm floored by Westley's language: he speaks in long, clear sentences, uses the right pronouns and articles, and can refer to things in the past tense. If he could write, I'm sure he'd punctuate correctly.

Westley's ability to really communicate with me--and his ceaseless desire to do so--is like a gift. Even mid-tantrum, he's still clear about what he needs and wants. Each day, I guess less and get it right the first time more. In that regard, two seriously awesome. It is the light of certainty at the end of the mystery tunnel.

God only knows what I'd be without two.

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Rule of Two

I was just sitting down to describe how, after refusing to hold hands in parking lots, and refusing to eat, Westley has started refusing to go to bed at anything like a reasonable time (like any time before, say, ten o'clock).

Because of course sleep would have to enter into it. Because these sudden hatreds come in threes when you're two: you reject safety, you reject nutrition, and you reject sleep. Saying "no" is where it's at!

And then I realized: last night (and the night before and the night before and the night before...) Westley performed a one-man show so tragic you'd think Shakespeare had had something to do with it; tonight, suddenly and for no apparent reason, bedtime seems to have gone off without a hitch. In fact, I haven't heard a peep from him in over an hour.

(Now if I could just get him to keep his shoes on in the car.)

I know birthdays are important milestones, especially when you're little, but it being Westley's "birthday eve" doesn't make up for weeks of sleep issues. Clearly, something's up. Either Westley is giving me an early gift for his birthday by putting himself back on his old bedtime routine, or else he's messing with me.

(He's messing with me, isn't he?)

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Lunch is a Battlefield

I knew this day would come. My adorable, fruit-and-vegetable-loving, sugar-shunning, adventurous eater of a child was destined to turn into a food-loathing, impossible-to-feed crankypants at mealtime. I guess I thought I'd have just a little bit more time to prepare.

But it was like a switch flipped. One day, Westley was happily eating all manner of healthy and delicious things. I just had to plop him in his high-chair, spread some food out in front of him, and in 15 or 20 minutes, almost all of it would be gone.

Snacking on brown rice cakes and broccoli at Northgate Community Center. (Those were the days!)

Now, suddenly, all food is awful and unacceptable and "Waa! Waa! Why in God's name are you making me sit in this high-chair, you crazy bitch?! You're killing me! Waa!" At least, that's what it sounds like, when my efforts to put a delicious dinner on the table are met with shrieks of horror. Tofu, which he used to adore, is off the menu. So are the old stand-by favorites rice, peas, and mushrooms. Ever-popular bananas have become fruta non grata. The same goes for avocado and cucumber.

It's part of the whole "having a toddler" thing. I get that. Intellectually I know that he's not doing it on purpose to piss me off (he's not, is he?). And--most importantly--I know that I do not want to fight with him about food. Of that I am completely sure. But my first instinct when he's hollering at me across the lovely spread on his plate is to fight with him.

Which, of course, does nothing except make him cry and scream, which makes me want to cry and scream.

I'm completely confident that someday Westley will return to his produce-loving ways. That doesn't worry me (yet). I'm much more concerned about maintaining my sanity while I wait for Westley's hunger-strike-phase to pass. Because I'm freaking out here, when I'd much rather be cool as a...food my kid won't touch with a ten-foot pole.

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Keeping it Real Estate

So we're buying a house. We're buying a house today, actually. As in, we have an appointment to sign important, life-altering paperwork in an hour.

The last few weeks have been a roller-coaster ride. And by that I mean that I've been experiencing giddiness and dread simultaneously, while also fighting the near-constant urge to puke. It's a lot like being pregnant, actually.

Just like when I was pregnant and suddenly everything in my life revolved around growing and birthing and raising a tiny human, I cannot help but think about the house. Every thought includes a phrase like for the house or when we move: We'll need a new area rug for the house; When we move, I want to unpack Westley's room first; I want to do something nice for the house when we move so it knows how much we love it and how long we waited...

The weird truth is that I feel like much more of an adult (and maybe even like more of a mother) buying a house than I did having a child. Maybe it's the huge stacks of paperwork and the dozens of professional people with job-titles like "agent" and "officer" and "technician." Maybe it's seeing that incredibly large dollar amount emerge before my eyes. Or maybe it's just that you hear much more about young parents than you do about young home buyers (because the former is just more narratively interesting). Anyone can have a baby. But buying a home is something only grown-ups do.

But weirder still is that Rob and I have done the home-buying process once before--and it didn't feel quite so scary and grown-up back then. I remember feeling more relieved than excited as things were getting squared away. Now, I'm going over budget numbers and I'm actually looking forward to finding creative ways to pay for the things we need (for the house and for ourselves). I'm kind of excited that I'm getting a new (very efficient) furnace for Christmas...and my birthday...and Valentine's Day...and...

The only thing (besides the gnawing dread) tampering my lovey-dovey feelings towards my new (almost) home-owning situation is my other child. Westley is most certainly not excited about moving, and doesn't like it that Mommy and Daddy keep talking in animated voices about serious-sounding things. Today, as we were talking to a prospective furnace guy, Westley very clearly asked to "go home." And it absolutely broke my heart.

I realized that in my excitement and nervousness over our new living space, I'd nearly forgotten about the little someone who would be living there with us. As big a change as this is going to be for me, it's going to be even bigger for Westley. I need to get out of my own, house-fixated mind and into his a little bit more. Yes, he loves his new yard. But he doesn't yet understand that his home is about to change.

Maybe that's why I feel like more of an adult this time around. This is our second house, but it's our first family home.

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Home Inspection

He didn't understand the empty houses. It was hard getting into and out of the car so many times. But he enjoyed running circles in new and unexpected floor plans. From the kitchen to the dining room to the family room, round and round, over and over.

Now he doesn't understand why all these adults are standing around talking when there are sliding glass doors to unlock and fall leaves to collect.

He doesn't understand the man with tools that are not ours to play with. There's a perfectly good screwdriver just sitting there! And he's allowed to play with Grandad's tools all the time! He's too busy squeakily zooming down the hallway in wet shoes to notice the looks that Mommy and Daddy are exchanging, the tense way they squeeze each other's hands.

His eyes aren't filled with dollar signs. His brow isn't furrowed with worry. He doesn't know about old furnaces or cracked skylights or carbon monoxide or asbestos. He can repeat the words "new house," but his heart doesn't race when he utters them.

He just knows that there's a yard.

A yard to play in.

And he doesn't understand why anyone would want to stay inside on a beautiful day like this.

(For him, things are looking up.)

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Back, Out

It's the closest thing I'll ever have to a sports injury.

At least, it feels how I imagine a sports injury feels. And I can picture myself old and gray, leaning on a cane, hand on my hip, grimace on my face, grumbling, "The old football injury's acting up again." Except that I never played football. (I still don't really understand football, and being married to a sports-loathing man, I suspect I never will.) The most athletic event I have ever participated in was my son's birth, and I'm certain that that's where my "sports" injury came from.

Westley was occiput posterior, and didn't turn; he was born facing up, the way monkeys are born (I'm told). My back pain in labor was unbelievably excruciating. I'd never heard of "back labor" or babies being born "sunny-side-up" at the time, but now it's the only thing I can think to point to as the source of the persistent lower back pain I've been dealing with for almost two years.

Generally speaking, the pain is manageable. But this morning, as soon as my feet hit the floor, it was clear that something was wrong. And then I discovered that it hurt to walk. It hurt to move.

Oh my God. It hurts to move. And I have a child to take care of!

Fortunately, I also have a mother and a husband who put their work on hold, stepped in to care for Westley and even track down a number for my doctor on her day off, when all I could do was sit and cry from the pain.

Several hours, a doctor's evaluation, my first acupuncture treatment, and some anti-inflammatory medicine later, I'm feeling slightly better...physically. I'm still a bit of an emotional wreck. "Random muscle spasm" was the verdict, which does not make me hopeful for the future. I have been to more doctor appointments in the past two years than I went to in eight years prior to that! And I'm following all of the recommendations from my health-care professionals, and still--still!--I wake up in the morning and can't move? How am I supposed to feel good about this?

It's all very scary, and it means having to explain to Westley that it's okay, Mommy is crying because her back hurts. And that no, he can't come "up" for a hug, because Mommy can't lift him today.

I'm not trying to be a professional athlete. I don't plan to run a marathon, or even a 5K. Picking up my child when he needs comfort is not an athletic event, but right now, I can't do that. I was worried about getting my body back after childbirth, but now I'd just settle for getting my back back.

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