Howdy from the Land of the Lost

Nothing like updating once every two years! To be fair, I kind of called it in the inaugural/lonely solo post.

Reading over that post, however, was a sweet window into our past. What has changed in three years:

Hello, sweet baby. You were a ton of work.

Hello, sweet baby. You are a ton of work.

And what, clearly, has not.

J. is -- and I really despise this sort of genderizing because girls are also rough and tumble, but it's apt -- the definition of "all boy." He runs. All. Day. Long. Obsession is putting it mild for his feelings about trains and cars. We're starting to get a few scribbles out of him and a little Play-Doh play, but his creativity is not project inclined. It's unleashed fury-like in the stories, games and songs he invents, the constant stream running through his head and (finally) now expressed in ever-more-clear words so we can play along.

He is still exceptionally stubborn. Quick with his temper and easily frustrated. Perfectly happy to do his own thing, but also increasingly adoring of select friends and grown-ups. He has a natural knack for uncovering who is worth his time. He's a tough kid who is slow to snuggle ("I'm not a lovebug! I'm a big boy!"), but also really needs his Mama and Daddy -- a lot -- for validation and to not feel alone.

It's all way too familiar and ever-so close to home. I can only hope to help him temper that temper; to understand that big feelings can be scary, but they are also his best asset in this big world. And that he will never, ever be alone.

Since the last update, I'm still making it up. I fail as much as I succeed -- in fact, the past year has been dubbed The Year I Quit on so many fronts that I've lost count. But the lessons learned, though bittersweet, hold immense promise for us. And for me, who finally accepted I'm old enough to know what I need, without apologies.

As a family, we still roll around on dirty, dog-hair covered floors. Preschool is our godsend. TV limits have evolved to what J. can watch (bless you PBS Kids and train videos on YouTube -- who knew, but see obsession noted above), but happily he uses TV more as background noise than goggle-eyed zombie zone. The Binky Fairy visited last Saturday and took J.'s precious "pink binkers" to Princess Charlotte in Een-gah-land (she lives next to his Nana and Papa, don't you know), leaving behind a (ahem, Target dollar bin glow stick) magic wand. And in an amazing breakthrough, J. is starting to branch out from mac and cheese, quesadillas, grilled cheese (note a theme?), etc. to try real food. Even if we have to call meat "carrion" -- thanks, Dinosaur Train -- for it to have almost-three-year-old appeal.

But above all, we are lucky to have three years running of Full, Warm, Dry and Safe. Every day involves tears and shouting. But it also involves so much love I can hardly bear it -- a burden I accept gladly, today and hopefully forever.

Here we go. AGAIN!

"Oh, Stacey. Seriously, another blog?"

I know, I know. And chances are this one will last half as long as the other ones. But one of my...urmmm...charms is my inability to know when to say no. For better or worse.

For those not keeping score, this past year has been a doozy. I'll get into specifics down the road (or not, depending on this blog's lifespan), but suffice to say: Parenthood breaks you down and builds you back up. My husband (a.k.a. The Brit) and I are parents of our kooky, almost 11-month-old little boy, J. This kid. He's goofy and emotional and demanding and sweet and irritating and totes adorbs, all within the space of 15 seconds*. Repeat. For the rest of our lives.

Part of the learning curve this past year has been connecting with other parents. Unless you've been living under a rock, you know that every parent has opinions. And a frighteningly large percentage think they're the ultimate expert -- not just on their kid, but everyone else's as well. Me? I finally gave in somewhere around the six month mark and realized: I'm making it up as I go. And that, quite frankly, is as good a plan as any.

The fact of the matter is: If your kid is fed, clothed, gets diaper changes on a (semi) regular basis, is in a safe-enough space and feels loved, you're doing a great job. The rest is total gravy. Somewhere in the American competitive race for Status and Things, I feel we've lost track of what it is to be a kid. That childhood is precious, and self-initiated but parent-supported exploration is usually the best teacher. There is no one-size-fits-all answer because humans have free agency. Literally from Day One. What works for my family may or may not work for yours. And that, my friends, is pretty cool.

There are few things that we're sticklers about over here. We are supporters of science (big nerdy supporters, to be honest), but also of thought-out gut reactions. We believe unstructured time should go hand-in-hand with comforting routine. We vaccinate, cry it out, breastfeed AND formula feed, use daycare, give our baby eggs and seafood and nuts, and allow him to get licked by our dog, sit on dirty floors and uncovered shopping cart seats, AND eat off restaurant table tops. We also snuggle, blow raspberries (a lot), dry frustration tears, throw dance parties, fetch binkies on demand, and avoid TV (unless it's football season because, you know, FOOTBALL).

Is parenthood anything like I thought it would be? Hell, no. Is it harder than I could imagine? Oh yes. But is it also 158 types of amazing? You betcha. And the Macgyvering of it on a daily basis is more than half the fun.

So come along as I make it up. Hopefully, we'll all learn something along the way.


* = Put simply: He's a Mini-Me. Sometimes, I love what that mirror reflects. Other times, whoa. That reflection has taught me one big bit of gratefulness: those of you who care about me regardless of my shenanigans? THANK YOU.