Sassafrass

He wasn't the only one who was zonked

It was a weekend to wind down.

More precisely, it was a weekend to play in the lake for six hours (the boy), soak up the sun (the mama), eat plenty of confetti-iced angel food cake (the both) and then nap it all off.

He didn't move for two hours.

And this morning just a few minutes pre-swim, he took this one of me. I like think it evokes a certain je suis Jackie O. You don't have to tell me to work it, grrrl twice, even if it is just to shovel roads in the sand, shoo away giant blue dragonflies and ride on the pontoon boat for a few laps around the lake.

Maybe all that attitude came from laptop detox. Or maybe it was all the chips and Diet Coke I consumed all weekend. Maybe it was me gearing up for another court date on Monday. It was possibly the $40 in shipping I just dropped to ship my business cards for BlogHer (holla) that I procrastinated into...well, $40 rush shipping to order. Or perhaps it was me jonesing to hear this song (I'm not kidding, it is as under my skin as my sunburn).  Awww hell, let's be honest. All that attitude was just the result of a good dose of family, a great deal of sun and the intense desire to crawl back into bed.

It was all good, though. All much better than I even thought it would be or even realized I needed.

Not so fast with the celebrations and hoopla

It's not that I am any less proud of my boy, now Pull Up-free for many nights. It's just that he hasn't exactly stayed dry all night since he was liberated from the velcro-tabbed pee prison.

OK, that's not really fair. He has had a few dry nights. But none in a row and when they come, it is with the rarity of a pair of flats in my shoe-cluttered closet (they're there, honey, but you're going to have to hunt to find them...both).

And still, every morning, he wakes up with a report: Just a leeetle bit wet, Mommy or Ohhh, Mommy, there's wetness everywhere.

Soaked sheets or just a hint of wetness, it matters not. We strip down the bed, pull off the pajamas, slide comfy pants over his skinny little legs and move into our morning. On the days, he is dry, there is a freedom in his walk to the living room, carrying babies and the paci and a sippy cup of fresh water with him.

We are going through a lot, and some of that has swelled up for this boy in these past few weeks. I don't care that he's having trouble holding it. I am more concerned that he understands the bigger things -- the emotions -- are what don't need to be held in.

And yet, there he is on those mornings, shivery in those soaked jammies, and I want for him. I so so so want for him to be warm and dry and comfortable in the safe haven of his bed, where he can sleep and dream and rest his worried little 3-year old self.

Still, he is only 3-years old and he cannot always, or even often, control the comfort he wants to feel. I am in this, choosing not to acknowledge the heaps of laundry in the hallway and my worry that I will not find the way to point him toward this milestone of night time dryness. I am in it to strip down the wet and cold and make it warm and cozy once again.

I can't make our lives completely pressed and tucked in and perfect right now. I am not even sure how smoothly I am getting us through these other transitions. But I can make that bed in the corner of my boy's room. Sheets and blankets and waterproof pads, babies and a paci lots of soft pillows and stack of clean pajamas. I can make that a place to come back to and try again. That, I can do so he can settle in, safe and still hoping and dry. For now.
 

Un-planning the holiday

As the holiday weekend approached, I let down some of my planning, organizing guard and let the new, pink skin of just being unfold.

On my desk, I have a copy of the parenting agreement Lil E's dad and I have already invested several meetings, two progress hearings, hours and hours of mediation, countless text messages and burning conversations in not signing.

Although we we've had one little hour in dispute (a ridiculous reality but those sixty minutes are indicative of much bigger issues), the one thing we agreed on easily was the holiday schedule. So there it is in my calendar, laying across these limbo days between separation and divorce.

And this is how Pull Up-Gate finally came to a close

Night Nine became Nights Ten and Eleven. Then finally, by the grace of the bladder gods, there was one final morning with a very dry Pull Up.

We laughed, we high-fived, we did a happy dance. Lil E even did the move he calls "shaking his tail feathers." Then, as if the years and experiences flashed forward -- past those anxious steps up the school bus on the first day of kindergarten, past the grunting middle school years, past the drivers license acts of faith and fear, past the prom and rebellious switch to majoring in pottery or something Republicany, all hurdling into the days when bumping booties with mommy in the bathroom is soooo uncalled for -- and he sucked in his breath, pulled back his shoulders and nodded his head.

I saw him nod and it stopped me, probably mid-air, and all I could do was nod back, toss the last worn but un-wet Pull Up into the trash and go on about our business. 

Sure, we celebrated. We had our moment, and later at my proud prompting, we had others with my parents and with his dad and the daycare lady. But the big moment was unspoken. My boy crawled out of bed and stepped over the line into night time dryness. He was thrilled with himself and I knew it. Even if he could only dance for a brief moment, I could still squeal and shake and cheer for us both.

And that, that and the last little dry diaper tossed in the trash, was enough to make my eyes well up. Silently, tail-shakingly teary for my boy, quiet and content and commando.

Pulling off the Pull-Ups. For good (fingers crossed).

Potty training Lil E -- or my grandiose attempts to turn it into a fabulous and enticing party -- taught me a valuable and frustrating lesson: Let the kid go in his own time.

That means go and go. By some miracle of evolution or genetics, he did not inherit the peanut bladder both his parents have (which, by the way, made every road trip we ever took sort of like we were a traveling band of pregnant ladies). The kid is a camel and can (and will, thank you very much) hold it all day. He has had very few accidents but mostly because his iron will oversees his southern regions and he refuses to go at daycare, co-op and sometimes even Grandma and Grandpa's house unless I am there with him. Handy in Target? Yes. Fun to explain to a daycamp counselor? Not so much.

The only time Lil E is challenged in cameling is at night. He's a thirsty boy and I thought I was being savvy in ending the late night wakings and calls for a drink into the dark by leaving a sippy cup full of water in his crib, then toddler bed and now, big boy bed. It's worked like a charm. So far. So far is important because tonight is Night Nine.

(Keep reading to find out why Night Nine's such a bedtime biggie).
 

Linkety Dinkety Doo: Punchlines Edition

I couldn't decide whether to list this column about George Carlin first or last, just that I wanted other people to read it. It's by Jerry Seinfeld, a quick read that's the concise kind of lyricism I strive for as a blogger and writer and comic to an audience of one (sometimes one-plus-kid in a booster seat). You don't have to click any other link below, but do read this one.

Who knew? I'm listed here as a favorite motherhood blog. Well, to be honest, I'm not listed as a blog, Sassafrass is listed as a blog. Sometimes, though, it's hard to tell the difference, isn't it?

Lil E loves this show. It freaks me out. I just do not get why animals from Australia who talk, politic and watch TV are so compelling to a preschooler.  But then I also do not get Dragon Tales, Caillou or (shudder) Scooby Doo and the kid's crazy about those too.  Shouldn't animals on kiddie TV be reporting about fake Olympics or putting steaks on their black eyes,  not manipulating their way into being mayor of some Earth core jungle village? What is going on in the world?

Maybe I shouldn't go on too much. Rob & Big still makes me laugh out loud on a regular basis. No animals running for office, but plenty of goofery all it's own and just enough dorm-room entertainment to keep me preoccupied until (oh now I'm just shameful) The Hills returns.

What a week

It feels like we've been through it all: Court, a viral cough, the end of co-op, a t-ball awards banquet, the last few episodes of The Hills finally showing up On Demand, the Great Fish Food Bowl Dump of 2008. It's been crazy.

And because of all these happenings, Lil E and I have not had enough sleep and the sleep we have had has been interrupted by coughing jags and crying, mama concern and doses of medicine. We had to rush through some of the fun stuff because of being too worn out or just needing cuddle time. I've missed a lunch with a friend and cancelled a dinner and a party I really hoped to go to. And then, of course, there was The Massive Fish Bowl Cleaning of 2008.

Today, though, things are somehow better. There was a med-free night of good sleep and we are headed to the lake for some time to be unplugged, in the water and away from all those stresses of the week.

There's lots more to talk about. But that will all save until Monday.

Because it always comes back to cussing

There was a lot last week. A lot. A lot of scheduled kid stuff and a lot of tense divorce stuff and a lot of trying to get settled in our place stuff. Somehow, by the grace of God and the insistence of my mother and just sheer exhaustion, I put it aside and just relaxed this weekend.

Yesterday, we joined the masses in grilling out with friends, but in a thrown-together, casual kind of way. Kids bathed happily in gravel and dust, adults had a beer and laughed about kids.

The kids ate first at their little picnic table, balancing sippy cups of milk and lemonade on their heads in between bites of over-sized burgers and pita chips and strawberries.  But because we were at Lil E's buddy Sam's house and Lil E and Sam are who they are together, there was much goofery and three-year old hilarity/color commentary that involves potty stuff and penises. Sam calls Lil E "my buddy, my pal and my friend" and Lil E returns the affection by actually sharing his cars and jokes. They laugh and feed each other bites and spill stuff on each other's laps. It is the stuff of normal dinner time for the two of them.

To keep them from standing on the wobbly plastic table and keep on dipping those pita chips into mustard and ketchup, I told them we could play the rhyming game while they ate. It is highly complicated but goes something like, me saying a word and them throwing out rhymes.

Ahhhh, the old rhyming game, great diverter of tantrums, requests to spend time in the toy aisle of the grocery store and questions about whether my belly is getting bigger because of eating so much or because there is finally a baby in there. We play it a lot.

I started with Memorial Day words -- grill, bun, drink, chip.

Fill! Will! Hill! Sun! Won! Stink! Pink! Crink! Fink! Bwink! It quickly became a mouths-full preschooler rhyming frenzy.

Then, Ethan chimed in with variations on nature -- sky, red, bird.

Fie! Sigh! Ky! Cry! Die! HAHAHAHA! Die. Dead! HAHAHA! DEAD! DEAD BIRD! Fed! Bread! Bed! Gird! Fird! Pird! Followed by more apparently rhyming vocabulary only amusing and understandable to people not tall, heavy or old enough to ride roller coasters.

Then, Sam tossed out the animals -- dog, cow, cat.

Pog! Fog! Pow! Padow! Fow! Rat! Hat! Dat! Fat!

And then, as the finale, with the perfection that is small children and the universe and messy burgers with neighbors separated by just a fence and space taken up by screaming rhymes, Sam threw DUCK! up into the air.

And I saw it fly up in slow motion, saw Lil E reach up his hands with excitement and anticipation. I saw his mouth thrust open, all for the thrill and the love of the game. And then, like we all can see seconds in where it will land, he caught it, screaming out:

FUCK!

But really, because of all the spirit for the game, it came out more like:

FUUUUUUUCK!

And Sam, like a good teammate, a supportive buddy, pal and friend, he raised his hands alongside Lil E in sort of an unmet high-five.

YEAH!!!!

I nodded and said "Good one" to minimize and hope they didn't really recognize the score that was shouted out for all the grilling neighbors to hear. And they carried on as if nothing too special was actually said -- Kuck! Buck! Luck! Ruck!

And then it was back to sippy cups of milk on the head, mustard licked from fingers and ketchup smeared across noses. It was over and time to get back in the sandbox filled with gravel. Dinner was over. No biggie.

As they filled up old milk containers with pea gravel and made it rain down on their feet, I thought, "That's my boy right there. He's so wrapped up in rhyming, he doesn't even realize what a good cusser he's going to be."

That's the stuff of Memorial Day weekend, my friends. That's the makings of memories.

UPDATE!: Lil E on the dinosaurification process

When I told Lil E that I blogged about the pesky little dino invasion in our new place, he had this to add to the conversation:

Mommy, did you tell them they aren't real?

Mommy, tell them the dinosaurs ARE NOT REAL.

Mommy...well, actuuuuually...

Mommy, actually, tell them they ARE real.

Mommy, the dinosaurs are real.

Mommy, they really are real.

Mommy, they are. They are real.

(and then down to the slightest stage whisper possible in a Honda C-RV)
They are actually reeeeeaaaaal.

The kid's catching on to this whole bloggy exaggeration thing quickly. Too quickly. Actually, way too quickly.

Guess what? Grrrl power isn't hurting our boys. So what is?

Let us go back to the days of combat boots and a newly-pierced belly, of protests and grassroots activism and smoking clove cigarettes while producing a 'zine that spilled out all the secrets and desires and soul-borne poetry that wrapped around a thesis and papers and so much reading and highlighting and scribbling notes in the margins that the text itself became illegible. Yes, those were (as you know by now all too well) the grad school days.

Perhaps these days have been on my mind because I've been speaking to Lulu a lot about what she's been talking about in her off-hours. Regardless, I was reminded this morning over coffee and reading the news on my laptop how many times I (and we in our dusty little office in the corner of the Language Arts building where we could reasonably be ignored of our blaring Ani DiFranco and laughing over the frustration of committee meetings with the president of the college or dean of whatever) entertained this question:

"Women Studies?! Well, where's the Men's Studies?"

To which, we (in our infinite wisdom and indelible snark before snark was even in our collective lexicon...oh the olden days) delighted in replying:

"Oh, that's the rest of the college."

Yes yes yes, you've heard it (and probably here) a thousand times. It is just so freaking true. And I was puzzled every single time I  fired off that reply how the addition of one area of study could threaten so many people. No one was arguing when agriculture or Russian history or entomology were adopted into other departments. Was I so wrapped up in my Sharpies and posterboards that I didn't hear western civ people or anthropologists or pursuers of paleophytology studies all defensive and worried about the students waving around dried cicada shells and combine parts?

I brushed it off to being Oregon -- home to the crunchiest and most conservative people I've ever met, all in one big, beautiful, tofu-and-jello-mold potluck of a state.

The crazy thing is, that theme, that question, that strange and competitive and threatened defensiveness has also made its home at my table right here in Chicago. The topic is back to boys and girls but the conversation is around parenting and our kids and who will get or be or inherit what.

My friend Charlene and I had our own conversation about this yesterday. It was a quiet IM talk about how frustrating it is to hear people stereotype boys and their abilities or inadequacies as verbal, sensitive, intuitive people in their early years. As mothers of boys, our sensitivity is heightened. We don't want our kids pigeon-holed.

We talked about how many times, at the sandbox or some kiddie party, other parents have spouted off about how boys don't have the verbal skills/emotional intelligence/relationships/sensitivity/whatever that girls have. Could there be big, sweeping truth to those statements? Sure. Sometimes. But not every time.

And even if it is, we agreed we don't want our boys to hear that, to fulfill that pigeon-holed prophecy of who they are or should be or could be.

It makes me anxious because it always feels like to me that there are only so many words to be doled out among preschoolers, so many kids who walk early or sleep through the night first, only a few open slots for nurturing children in the playgroup. That is, of course, not the reality, but the air is thick with that competitive spirit. Or at least with the need to snatch it up for your own kid to have or live up to in this time of their life.

As I read this wonderful and affirming article about all that feminism has brought for girls and women and how that has not, studies are showing, detracting or subtracting anything from boys, I felt like my worlds of empowering women and raising a boy were coming together.

I am all about working for a world of equity, for lifting up girls in the areas where they have been ignored and neglected. I am a feminist and always have been and always will be, long before the combat boot grad school days and long after my son is out in the world on his own. But I also don't think we have to scramble for space as we dissect and redivide what is doled out to the genders.

We are still incredibly male-centered in many aspects of our culture and collective conversation. We have an opportunity to change that (with Women Studies among many other radical and liberal activisms) as we sit around the sandbox, comparing notes and creating space for our kids to be who our kids are. That, to me, means not assigning what is male or female or inside the little box someone else decided long ago they need to be in because of the way they were born. I'm also not going to teach my boy that by being pro-grrrl power, there is somehow less for him or that he isn't as this or as that because he's a boy or who he inherently is.

My boy happens to be verbal and sensitive and nurturing. He also loves cars and trucks and dinosaurs and t-ball. He often wears my necklaces and he inevitably has a scrape on his knee and bruise on his shin. Where he falls among the girl and boy characteristics, I could care less.

That conversation is for the rest of the preschool. 

Or college. Or other part of the park. Over here, we're listening to Ani DiFranco, talking about stegosaurus scales and making some sweet protest signs with our friends.

This is what happens when you take an extra three minutes in the shower

The dinosaurs invade! Ohhhhh noooooo. And the worst thing is, they follow seem to follow the cult-like commands of a 36-inch tall leader wearing only a pajama top and Lightning McQueen socks, who has somehow lost his pants in the re-dinosaurification of "our woohhhhhhld."

And to think, I thought the Grey's Anatomy spin-off was scary or that there were too many Jonas Brothers on the planet. Things can get a whole lot worse than we ever imagined, my friends.

Hide your fancy shoes and the fish. Oh, and apparently, your pants. Definitely hide your jammie pants.

[photo credit: Jessica Ashley]

Postcards from the past few days

We're taking this weekend to settle in. While Lil E plays at "Daddy's park," I'll be hitting the blocks-long garage sales in the new neighborhood, making a Target run and spending time with people who don't (normally) engage in bathroom talk 80% of the conversation. Here are a few photos to catch you up on a wonderful and very full week of transition and adventures.

The potted flowering plant Lil E was so thrilled to give me bright and early on Mother's Day morning. He picked it out, he said, because it is "our favorite color!" You've got to adore a boy who can embrace pink so vivaciously.

Walking with Grandma and Grandma Alice through the halls of her nursing home to check in on some baby chicks who hatched a few weeks ago. Grandma Alice will be 100 this summer and although Lil E has never known the feisty, smart lady she is under the veil of Alzheimer's, they have always had an unspeakable, powerful, instinctual connection. You can feel it emanating between them as they hold hands, sing and smile at each other. 

(More pics after the jump)

How he spent the first day in our new place

There are new creaks and noises to get used to and many things to learn about our new place (note to self: do not run the dishwasher a) at night and #2) immediately before entering the shower). But the good news is, we woke up here in (relatively) good spirits after a (short but) good night's sleep.

Lil E is on the fence about whether this place is better than Grandma and Grandpa's house. OK, who am I kidding? He flat-out said, "Grandma and Grandpa's house is just so. much. more. fun." This was after asking how long we have to live here. And he was so deadpan, I knew he was as serious as naptime. Preschoolers -- they're a tough crowd, man. And the only response is laughter. It is seriously the only consistent thing that gets us through.

Lil E must think Grandma and Grandpa's house is a big party because there, he does a lot of cable TV watching and elbow pinching (shhht, it's his quirky thing) while sitting in the big leather armchair. Here, he apparently thinks he's living in some sort of sweatshop work camp. God help me if the underage permit people come around before all these boxes are unpacked.

It was like there was a list in his ever-cranking brain of things that must be done. I am pretty sure it was scrawled out in his mind like this:

(Lil E's list after the jump)

This is where we live now. And this is how we got here

And so, we have made the leap.

Seven months ago, I left my therapist's office, picked up Lil E from co-op, took him home for a nap and packed a big bag of clothes while he slept.

I'm not sure what was in that bag. Basics, I suppose. Undies, Pull-Ups, toothbrushes, jeans, sneakers, long-sleeved t-shirts, his favorite jammies, his babies. I packed a few things of my own, more random things like bras and yoga pants and hair clips. I focused on the boy but couldn't center when it came to myself.

My mom came by with her car and support and brave smile over her own heartache and worry and anger. When Lil E woke up we put on even happier faces and went to a birthday party. We tossed our overnight bags in and presents on top. We talked up the party and how his good friend would be so excited to be three too, so thrilled to see him there.

And then we never went home.

A new word in the boy's vocabulary: Commando

As if all this and this talk wasn't enough, this weekend I introduced Lil E to a very important component of, if not healthy, then happy living.

Yes, it was about the joys of being undie-free. Of course, he is a kid and a boy and he has long known the joys of running through the house nakey, waving some parts and jiggling others and planting others on my parents' leather couch. Of course.

And of course, I've pulled off a sweaty overnight Pull-Up and replaced jammies bottoms or comfy pants without Lightning McQueen or Elmo or blue dinosaurs or red cement trucks plastered across the cotton plastered across his nether-regions.

But this weekend, as I slid the purple fleece pants over his little nakey bum before breakfast and morning shows and making soy butter and jelly sandwiches, I whispered a secret of undie-defiance to him.

"Do you know what it's called when you don't wear underwear?" I asked quietly.

Three. Six.

Today, as my friends on Facebook know due to the strange genius and assumed intimacies of auto-alerts and as my so-not-accepting applications real friends know because they are my real friends who have stuck around and stood beside me through many years or even just these last transforming months, it is my birthday.

I'm like a six-year old when it comes to my birthday. I want balloons and cakes and of course, tiaras. I want a party, even if it is a drink or two at a bar with my grrrls, and I want to spend the day lounging and singing and doing whatever I want to do just because it's my birthday.

I clearly remember feeling this way when I turned six, leaping from my bed in an excited re-enactment of the cartoon girl on Sesame Street I'd wistfully seen a thousand times, singing, "I'm six! I'm six! I'm six years old today!" I was so happy it was finally my turn to sing that song.  Silly and sweet as it was, every year I think of that, feel that birthday bliss, and every year I find myself singing it in a quiet whisper to myself or through smiles with my mom who also remembers, no matter what number my age actually registers.

This year, I am thirty years beyond that bed-leaping morning. I am officially on the other side of mid-thirties and am not, as I have not for several years now, happy about the number I see before me. But here I am.

We've been talking about this number around the house a lot lately, not just because I am giddy at the celebration part of the day but because my boy is too. Last night, he said I was lucky because I'd get to spend my day playing with balloons and he couldn't wait to wake up early to start celebrating with me. I sighed at the sweetness and simplicity of it all. Homemade cake and candles and embracing that number like it's...well, six.

He asked me how old I was, or rather, what my number is and I threw the question back at him like all mommies say they will not but eventually do to avoid the age answer.

"88?" he asked seriously, looking into my eyes from only inches away.
   

Wedding Weekend: Smitten

The wedding was eons ago. Or at least, last last weekend. It feels like forever. And yet, not long enough for the truly madly deeply that is a ring bearer-flower grrrl preschooler love to fade.

Note the attempt to impress. Note that at least it worked on me.

Oh how Lil E fell for the flower grrrl, Claire. And how could he not? The first time I met her, she fluffed her wavy blond bob and ask me if she could show me how she poses when she vacuums for her mommy. I adored her immediately. 

Wedding Weekend: The ring bearer bares it all

This weekend, Molls got married. It was one of those weddings that you leave happy -- teary from the grace and bliss of it all, exhausted from singing into thumb microphones with your grrrlfriends and dancing with your boy to Motown all night and so full of hope that there is love like that and it can last. Happy.

I was a bridesmaid, Lil E was a ring bearer and we proudly stood beside Molls, one of our favorite people in the world and one of the strongest people in  our now very definitive circle of loved ones. Lil E was ecstatic in his tiny tux and told Molls earlier in the week, "I know you will look amazing!"  And she did.

Rewinding a bit before that, though, to the rehearsal dinner and the toasts and giggles and all the pretend pomp and circumstance, Lil E was far more serious. He took his little bow to Baby Jesus that the Catholics like you to take as you greet the priest, and he stood silent and with eyebrows knit in concentration as the bride and groom lit an imaginary unity candle and exchanged air rings and mouthed their vows.

He explained the complexities of Lightning McQueen to adult members of the bridal party at dinner and raised his juice box to toast the happy couple. He was a good boy, a sweet boy and he seemed to soak up all the loving energy in the room. I held him tightly against me as he grew tired and requested his paci and babydoll Tiger and time crept far beyond his bedtime.

He was asleep by the time we got home and I carried his limp body inside, peeled off his coat and hat and shoes and dress shirt. He woke up then and smiled up at me wearily.

"Mommy, is the rehearsal over?" he asked.

I nodded. "Shhhh. Close your eyes."

And I laid him back down on the bed, ran a finger down his nose and went to find a Pull-Up and clean pajamas.

When I turned back to put them on, though, he was still reclining but with his arms back, hands behind his head, bare chest thrust out. He looked, dare I say, playboy-in-practice-ish.

"What are you doing?!" I laughed quietly and he answered me like it was completely obvious.

"Pushing out my boobies!"

"What?!" I laughed, this time louder. And then we got to the heart of the matter.

"Mommy, what are boobies?"

It was a good question, I guess, but it threw me off since the kid spent a good 18 months so attached to them. I pointed to my chest.

"These," I said matter-of-factly.

"Ohhhh."

"You don't really have boobies," I clarified. And honestly, yes, I would normally say breasts but nearly two hours after regular night time, in the nightlight-lit room of your parents' house where you are transitioning from marriage into single momdom, these formalities cease to hold such importance.

"But I like boobies," he said completely convincingly, "So why can't I have them?!"

I smiled and slid his camouflage pajama top over his head, but I was thinking as I undressed and redressed him, covering the boobies he wished he could thrust forward into the world, or at least the quiet safety of his room, that he'd tiredly tapped into a question of the ages.

Or at least of much of mankind.  Ahhh yes, small boy, if you only knew how many grown men still wonder why, if they love boobies so much, they can't have access to them all the time. And so another lesson is learned for this 3-year-old, I suppose: Sometimes we thrust out what we don't have just because we so wish we had it. Sometimes, that's adorable and optimistic and full of hope.

And other times, it's just a reality check of who we really are, what time it is and that we need some sleep before a big day of putting forward who we really are.

What S-T-O-and P really spells

The whole world halted yesterday afternoon.

This, in the midst of a crazy work schedule and preparations for Molls' wedding and a to-do list that rattles in the back of my thoughts constantly and all good intentions to recount every adorable detail of Easter egg hunting in the snow.

None of that mattered when the late sun was settling in through the half-closed living room blinds and Lil E and my mom and I were stretched out on the floor setting up Candy Land. They'd just returned from daycare pick-up and some time in the cold wind at the park by our old apartment. Lil E referred to it as "the playground by daddy's house" and it was this peaceful acknowledgment of these months and more changes. They buzzed proudly about how much more he can do there now that he is bigger and taller and more confident and agile-- swing from the handlebars, climb the tall ladders, breeze through the swinging bridges.

And then my mom gasped.

Serenade in the sunroom

Taken this morning while Lil E jammed acoustic-like, keeping the beat to the whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of my mom working out on the exercise bike. Note the increasing intensity and coordinated (and clearly necessary) construction worker safety goggles.

What can I say? The kid's already the master of the schtick. Prepare yourselves, people of Austin, Texas and faithful viewers of American Idol outtakes. No, really, I am sure he is incredibly talented. If a three-year old can rock an impromptu Lightning McQueen song so passionately to an audience of one workout grandma, he is clearly well on his way to musical greatness.

Photos (irritatingly but enticingly) after the jump.