Sunday, November 05, 2006

The thin line between....

Love and Obsession

I found out on Friday that Taxman checks my blog from his CrackBerry when he can't use his computer. Like when he was away on business and didn't have 'net access in his room for a couple of nights. His CrackBerry loads at the speed of dial-up, yet still....

To quote: "I wanted to know what was going on at home."

Because the morning and evening phone calls, instant messaging during lunch, and other random e-mails weren't enough to satisfy his yen for the bizarre culture known as "temporary single parenting with infant and toddler."

Adorable and Exasperating

Poor AM can't seem to get his schedule together. He's got a pretty sacred long afternoon nap, which is holding steady solely because that is also when Miss M naps. Otherwise, he is reduced to a series of catnaps at random times because we are taking Miss M to school, doing school pickup, errands, grocery shopping, et cetera.

Because I can't predict how long he'll sleep, and because the steam heat is so fricking loud and I am petrified I will not hear him before he tumbles out of our bed, I've been putting him down on the floor. When he wakes up happy, i.e. not crying, he has gotten into the habit of just crawling out to find us. If he doesn't make any noise, I don't even know he's up until I hear the slap, slap of his little palms on the wood floor in the hallway. Then when I appear in his line of sight he grins and makes his happy excited noises.

It's so cute I can forgive the fact that it happened twice last night (at 7:45 and 9:30), which essentially now means that he can't go to bed, officially, until one of us goes to bed and tucks him in with us.

Precocious and Weird

Miss M has a liking for letters. In fact, she can write a few of them and will often fill pages of paper with crayon letters: A, H, W, M, O, X. At home we don't give it a second thought, but when the pages started to come home from pre-school I suddenly stopped to think of what is running through the teachers' heads. Do they think we drill her or something? That we spend our afternoons hunched over her with stencils, forcing crayons into her hand? They do realize this is her thing, not ours, right? (Ack!)

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