Time flies ...

TheBoy hit two milestones over the past week, both of which made me a little weepy (It's the hormones! The hormones!).

First, he graduated from preschool. OK, no, he didn't. He's still got another two years before we shuffle him off to kindergarten. But at his school, every kid gets a diploma and a minute on stage for their parents to beam and cry and take bad pictures. The "graduation ceremony" included a concert by some 5-year-old violinists (In case you don't have children: "Song" in this case means the same note, played over and over again), some presumably nice things said in Spanish by the teachers, and a mad scramble by the students for the balloons tied to the sides of the stage.

TheBoy managed to stay relatively still while he received his diploma. Then he toddled off stage, came over to where were sitting, and proceeded to rip the diploma into about three dozen pieces. That's $5,000, in the trash.

Again, I wept.

This weekend, we took the kid to his first real, big-screen movie, "Cars." I was worried he'd be freaked out by the size of the screen or the volume. Judybat was concerned that he would spend the entire movie asking questions in his not-in-public voice. He proved us both wrong. He sat there rapt most of the time, except when he was eating his bag of popcorn, box of raisins, cheese stick, bowl of nuts and bowl of crackers. The only questions he asked were very reasonable ones. The movie moves a little slowly for a Pixar flick, and every now and then at the end of a scene, TheBoy would turn to me and whisper, "Is that the end?"

Cue my tear ducts. It's not every 3-year-old, after all, that has that kind of grasp of narrative flow.

Too much information, perhaps

I felt a little differently about this test during our first pregnancy. Back then, I wasn't interested in taking it at all, because a positive result would not have made a difference in terms of how we would proceed with the pregnancy. AR said she would probably like to know if we were likely to have a kid with a disability, so she could prepare herself for it, but I thought it would just make me anxious for the rest of the pregnancy, and we were not going to abort, regardless.

Almost four years later, I'm not so sure what we would do if we knew we were going to have a kid with downs. I think we both lean toward abortion in that case, though the degree to which we lean varies from day to day. I'd like to say I'm thinking of The Boy's best interests - it would certainly be harder on him to have a sibling that demanded so much of their parents' attention. That is a concern, but if I'm being perfectly honest, I'd have to admit I'm thinking mostly of myself.

I am sure that I would love the child beyond measure, and I'm sure that the child's life would be no less valuable and joyful than his or her big brother's, but I'm not so sure I'm up to the added challenge of caring for a disabled child. Actually, I'm sure that if we were to find out once the kid was born that he or she had a severe disability, we would just deal with it, because that's what you do. I believe we humans can handle anything, really, when we have no choice but to move forward with whatever bad luck has befallen us. But when there is a choice ...

Stating it so plainly makes me wish we hadn't agreed to the test; I'd rather just let things happen and deal with the consequences. Is that putting my head in the sand? Perhaps, but let's hope the point is moot.

The choices we make

You learn a lot about yourself when you have a kid. Are you the kind of person who cares if your little boy wears dresses and prefers pink? Do you silently, or not so silently, judge other people? Will you spend a day rocking back and forth in the corner the first time you hear yours parents come out of your mouth?

Some of these little insights aren't so pleasant. We are, for example, in a weird waiting mode this week, hoping against hope that we don't get a call from our maternity clinic.

Last week, we decided to undergo what's known as a quad mark screen -- essentially a blood test that tells you whether your own blood suggests that your fetus has a better chance than most of developing Down Syndrome, spina bifida or other problems.

Note how twisted the language is there: This is a test that tells you whether Mom has genetic markers suggesting some kind of risk for her child. It doesn't tell you whether there's something wrong with the sprout. It just tells you whether you should maybe consider having a more intensive test on the actual fetus. And, as our midwife warned us, there are reliability problems: According to one of those doctor-run websites, 90 out of 1,000 women will show a problem. Just five of those will actually prove true. And even if the fetus does have some sort of major issue, there's not much doctors can do to fix him/her/it.

So, um, why the hell would anybody under 35 take this test? First, it seems like a chance to prepare yourself for the difficult and unique parenting challenges ahead. Second, it's a chance to make some very nasty and emotionally wrenching decisions. Like ... if the fetus is less-than perfect, is it worth proceeding with the pregnancy?

See how much fun we're having? See how beautiful and joyous pregnancy is? See what fascinating and slightly troubling things we're learning about ourselves?

Being an adult sucks.

Why I love Portland, reason #168

FREE STUFF!

A few weeks ago, while walking by a neighbor's house, I found they had left a dug-up bush on their parking strip with a sign that read: "royal blue hebe - free!" It was a good-sized bush - about two feet high and two feet around - and I though it would go perfectly in a spot in the back garden I had been trying to fill since the dogs had trampled the flowers that once grew there. I took it home and planted it, then replanted it when the dogs dug it up, and I scattered some of their poop around it to keep them from digging it up again. When we came back from vacation, I was delighted to find that not only had my little bush survived the onslaught of two lonely dogs for two weeks, but it was also sporting some lovely purple flowers.


We also found upon our return, in the mailbox among the many bills and friendly letters letting us know that now is a great time for refinancing, a postcard from the City of Portland Office of Transportation, directing us to their web site, where we might find the Northeast Hub Transportation Options Order Form. On the form, they ask you for your name and address and which goodie packets you want to receive for - get this - NO CHARGE! It was hard for me to wrap my brain around that concept, and I tried at first to figure out which packet I wanted most. Then it occurred to me that it wouldn't hurt anyone of I ordered ALL of them. They were, after all, being offered FOR FREE. Wow. It still seems to weird to be true. Anyway, a few clicks and a couple days later, a nice lady on a bike delivered to my door a tote bag filled with, among other things, bike maps, a pedometer, a cylcometer, a kitchen faucet aerator and an outdoor hose spray nozzle. Nice!

Did I mention it was free?

Oscar the Evil, Evil Grouch

Growing up, Oscar was always one of my favorite Sesame Street characters. Maybe it's the fact that we share a few common traits: He's a slob, I'm a slob; he'd rather spend his time tucked away in a messy little can, I'm not so big on people myself. For me, Oscar was always the safe choice. Big Bird reminds me of Ronald McDonald -- in other words, creeptastic -- and Kermit is just too much of a camera hog.

Recently, TheBoy has discovered the Sesame Street universe. He's an Elmo fiend, and he's got several Sesame-related books, and despite rarely seeing an episode, he knows all the characters. Yet his outlook on Oscar has me puzzled.

In his world, you see, the Grouch isn't just a grumpy gus with a heart of gold. No, no. He's a bad guy, a menace, something of a maniac who spirits away small children and turns them into garbage. How do I know? First, he objected when I tried to give him an Oscar-centric book. Then Judybat and I caught him playing this unpleasant little game with his friend on the way to school today.

TheBoy: "Oscar is coming to get you!"
Friend: "No!"
TheBoy, growling and showing his claws: "Oscar is going to put you in the trash!"
Friend: Unintelligible whimpering.
TheBoy: "Oscar is coming. You are trash! You are trash!"
Friend: Unintelligible screaming/crying/thrashing to get out of the car.

I know where this is headed. Coming next: Snuffy finally convinces Big Bird to take a rifle up to that cute little neighborhood clocktower. That nice Latino couple gets arrested for child porn. Today's episode "sponsored by the number 666 and the letter M -- for murder!"

We're back!

Six states, 1005 miles, nine beds (and 1 couch) later, we have returned to the little green house in our Pacific Northwest corner of the country, and I have this to say:

Ahhhhhhhh.

It was great to see so many friends and family, even for the briefest of visits, and even though there were many more friends and family we didn't have time to see. But gee, it's great to be back home. I had forgotten the feel of 85 percent humidity - like a large, sweaty man riding on your back. I had also forgotten the intense pleasure of stepping out of that humidity into an air-conditioned sandwich shop, but that feeling is still beat by being able to ride home from the airport with the windows down and letting the cool, dry air of Portland in June play on your skin. Also, I have this to say about the state of North Carolina: there is nothing there that I want to eat.

The Boy had a few first while we were away. They are as follows:
-First chewing gum (on the plane)
-First solo swim (doggie paddle, with the aid of a styrofoam noodle)
-First time peeing into a lake off the side of a boat (for those of you who worry that a boy growing up with two mommies will miss out on manly rites of passage)

Those are the highlights. For complete coverage, check back with me after a few more nights in my own bed has cleared the fuzzies from my brain.

The trip so far

It seemed like a good idea at the time - fly into Boston to attend my 15th (!) college reunion, then drive down I95 visiting friends and family until we reached North Carolina, where we would attend a wedding and visit more friends and family. But after four different beds in six nights, I started having second thoughts about our itinerary.

The Boy has been a trooper. Falling asleep in foreigh places doesn't seem to phase him, nor does a few hours in the car every couple of days. We only ran into a real problem when a severe ear infection had him up and screaming "Owie! Owie! Owie!" through the night on Wednesday. That was hell, but 24 hours and a few teaspoons of industrial strength antibiotics later, he's back to his old, delightful self.

I, on the other hand, am ready to call it quits. As good as it is to see so many of our far-flung people, and as painful as it is to leave them after such short visits, all I really want to do is curl up on the couch with my AnnaRay and watch the first five seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on DVD. It seems that after 12 years of living with AR, her introvert tendencies are rubbing off on me. So now I'm wondering when my tendency toward neatness bordering on obsessive-compulsion will rub off on her.