Prayer.

I don't pray.

I dream, I hope, I wonder, I have conversations with small children who can't reply, books, animals, television commentators, pieces of furniture that get in my way, imaginary friends and, of course, wrestle with my conscience. Some of these things may be more analogous to praying than others might have you believe. I'd like to think so. But I don't know for certain.

But whether you do or do not pray yourself, I ask tonight that you please put one out there for Baby Kate, my friend A.'s daughter. Kate was born on 12/17/07. A few weeks later, she just stopped breathing. When she was admitted to the hospital, doctors discovered that she had suffered severe brain damage from a series of idiopathic seizures. As of yesterday, Kate was stable enough to leave the NICU. But the doctors believe that the brain damage is permanent and it has left Kate without any of her basic reflexes. Among other things, that means that she cannot swallow. Even with round the clock care, the prognosis for Kate is not good.

I can't even imagine what my friend is going through. I don't ever want to be able to imagine it either.

Now usually, after getting an email update as sad as this one, I might talk to friends over the unfairness of the situation. I might hug my kid a little extra hard. I almost always find some alcohol. And, you know, sometimes I might even tell the Universe that I am royally pissed off. I don't generally ask people to pray. It just ain't my bag.

But, A., a devout Christian, has asked for just that. She has asked not only for those of us who know her and Kate to pray but to ask everyone we know to do the same. She wants to, as she put it, overwhelm the heavens with good feeling for her daughter.

So tonight, I will get down on my knees, putting aside any feelings of hypocrisy or silliness because I have no idea what I'm doing, and talk to the God that A. believes in for a miracle for Kate. I will ask for Kate's recovery. And if that is too much, I will ask that she is comfortable, not in pain and knows how much she is loved. I will also ask that A. continue to receive the composure and grace that she has shown through this ordeal no matter what the outcome. And just this once, I am going to do my best to believe that my doing this will make a difference for my friend and her tiny daughter.

I ask that you please do the same.

The countdown.

Once CPT Dick returns from the field, we'll be heading stateside for Christmas. We are only flying back for a few days -- which, of course, will be so much fun with a toddler! -- but since he is due to deploy early next year, the family wants to see him. I don't blame them. But I have dubbed this sojourn the "guilt trip" since that is pretty much what is motivating it.

So yeah, I'm not looking forward to it. And it's not that I don't want to see his family (though his mother is crazy in a way that is totally annoying and usually directed at me). But really, it's that I don't want to be asked by every single individual family member when I'm going to have a little brother or sister for Munchkin.

You know how you start dating someone for a while and the family starts to ask when you are going to get engaged? And then you get engaged and they ask when the wedding will be? And then pretty much as soon as your new spouse smooshes cake in your face they start in about babies? The baby thing continues, apparently, ad nauseum, until you have 2-3.

(And I guess, after that, if you keep popping 'em out, after the fourth or fifth the family will ask when you plan to start using birth control).

I hate this question. One, I just think it's nobody's business. What if I couldn't have another? Doesn't that ever occur to anyone before they ask? But two, when was it decided that I'm failing my child if I don't pop him out a playmate? I just hate the assumption that if my reaction is not "we're working on it" -- maybe even emphasizing it by throwing my husband down on the floor right there and then -- that I'm somehow cheating my kid.

It's not like they don't know our situation and that I'm effectively a single parent. It's not like they don't know (and give me all sorts of useless advice) about Munchkin's speech issues. And it's not like they haven't heard us say, time and time again, that we're not ready and don't think we will be for some time. They keep asking, thinking that if they do, they'll get a different answer.

And when our answers become terse? They skip the questions altogether and just start saying crap to my kid like, "Just wait until you get a little sister, buddy! You won't be so spoiled then!" or "Tell your Mama that you need a little brother to play with!"

It's exhausting, really. I think this year, maybe I'll just start fucking back with them. When they ask when Munchkin gets a sibling, I'll just say that we're still working out the details with the Russian ex-crack whore who agreed to be our surrogate for $15,000 and a Volkswagon.

Things I never thought I'd say as a mother.

• "Stop! That table is glass. If you are going to jump, go jump on the couch."
• "Try to throw up on Mommy, honey."
• "What? You want Mommy to tickle your balls?" [We were tickling his stuffed animals and then he came over with two soccer balls for me to tickle next. I didn't realize what I had said until CPT Dick doubled over with laughter].
• "We do not flush diapers down the toilet."
• "Do you want to sit on the potty? No? Okay. I'm going to go potty. Do you want to see Mommy go potty?"
• "Dog poop is not a toy!" [And for the record, neither is horse or goose poop].
• "Wow! You can walk fast in high heels!"

What goes around, comes around.

My son never really said, "Mama" or "Mommy." We tried to coax it out of him, we did. But it never happened. And honestly, with his speech delays, I would have settled for any uttered sound that he consistently used to call for me. Ma. La. I'd even have taken Moo, though I would secretly wonder if my large post-baby ass had inspired it. But alas, it seemed not in the cards and I didn't want to press the matter so hard that he'd always associate hatred with the word, "mother." After all, we have his teenage years for that.

But as he's started to make more sounds and, now, words, I've once again been trying to get him to say, "Mama."

And do you know what that little devil does when I ask him to do so? He smiles widely and says, "Daddy, daddy!" Because, you know, he's been able to say Daddy practically since birth.

(As a side note, what is with this paternal conspiracy? I carry the boy inside me for nearly a year, breastfeed him for more than that and spend every waking moment catering to his needs and all I ever hear from other people is, "Oh, my, isn't he the spitting image of CPT Dick!" and "He's a Daddy's boy, all right." And then with the boy himself only saying, "Daddy." It's just so wrong).

But yesterday, CPT Dick called home from the field. Munchkin spent most of the day asking for the man -- pointing at pictures of CPT Dick and saying, "Daddy," and then saying "Daddy?" every time I used the phone. I know CPT Dick is missing his son and missing so much of what Munchkin is doing these days so I put the speaker phone on and called Munchkin over.

"Munchkin, it's Daddy! Say, 'Hi, Daddy!'"

*silence*

"Munchkin, don't you want to say hi to Daddy? Daddy misses you! Say, 'Hi, Daddy!'"

*silence*

"I don't understand it. He's been saying Daddy all day. Let me try one more time. Munchkin, say, 'Hi, Daddy!' C'mon now, say, 'Hi, Daddy!'"

And then Munchkin smiles widely and says, "Mommy, Mommy! Hi, Mommy!"

CPT Dick thinks I paid the kid off. If I had known that I could have done so to set up such a situation, the kid would have been rolling in greenbacks and Elmo-themed paraphernalia months ago.

Who knew that I'm such a big wuss?

Since I can't get a regular speech therapist for my son right now, I've been reading up all I can on methods and strategies for speech production and incorporating them into our every day use.

This week, we've been working on environmental sounds -- the noises that animals make, cars and trucks make, etc. What that means is that I make those sounds, a lot and often in public while people look at me strangely, in hopes that Munchkin will mimic me. He usually doesn't but at least he's amused at the lengths I go to in trying to engage him.

But we've had a breakthrough.

Yesterday, when I asked Munchkin, "How does a cow go?" I took a breath and fully expected to be the one to answer with "Moo." After all, that's how it usually works. But this time, he answered. He looked at me, smiled and gave me a big ol' "Moooooooooo." And then, I went on to ask about ducks, cats, dogs, sheep, and horses and he could tell me all of the noises they make. Just like that.

I don't know what I did this time or didn't do before but finally he's gotten it. And we've been working so hard for so long that I'll be honest -- I started to cry while I continued to drill him on animal sounds.

I can only imagine what I'll be like when he starts using real words.

Just call me "Mother of the Year."

The storage room in our house connects the laundry room to the garage. Usually, the door from the laundry room to the storage room is locked. You know, because nothing is more exciting to a two-year-old than lots of camoflauge-colored junk. And given that it is never actually organized or tidied up, nothing is more dangerous.

But I digress. The door is usually locked. But even when that door is open, it's okay because the door to the garage is usually also locked. And seriously, even if they weren't, my son isn't tall enough to reach the door handle anyway.

Until today.

In fighting our moth problem (thanks, CaliValleyGirl for the trap suggestion -- they seem to be working!), I was in the kitchen setting up more traps. All of a sudden, when I look out the window, I see a small white blur moving past at mach 10. Looking more closely, I see it is my son. Wearing only one sock. And no pants (and when I say no pants, I mean he's blowing free in the damn wind). And running towards the street.

Last I saw him, he was in his bedroom for naptime.

CPT Dick, in packing up for the field last week, must have left the door to the storage room unlocked. Munchkin, apparently, is now tall enough to not only open that door but the one leading outside as well. Not to mention tall enough to scale the gate that keeps him in his room.

The boy has tasted freedom and it would seem that he is reluctant to give it up. As soon as I saw him, I opened the window and yelled, "Freeze!" But he just looked up at me, smiled a big ol' shit-eating-grin and said, "Bye-bye" and kept on running. I finally caught up to him about a block and a half away.

Given that every old lady on my street is always telling me that Munchkin needs a hat or a thicker jacket, I can only imagine what they thought as I carried him home, kicking and screaming, with his bare bottom displayed for the world to see.

Call me SuperMom. I'm off to the hardware store to buy a few extra locks. And maybe some duct tape.

Just when I was beginning to feel bad about referring to them as "developmental nazis."

Apparently, Munchkin is an enigma. Since he lagged behind his peers speechwise, he's been incorrectly diagnosed as the following:

• Motor and muscle-control impaired.
• Autistic.
• Brain-damaged.
• Autistic again.
• Hearing impaired.
• Attention deficit hyperactivity disorder.
• And, maybe the third time is the charm -- autistic!

And today, the itinerant consultant who can only visit my son once a month has decided instead that he suffers from sensory processing disorder. This, of course, after a first visit of only 20 minutes.

Only one problem -- I keep looking at this checklist and he doesn't have a cluster of any of these symptoms. She based this on his love of climbing. But he hates to be upside-down and gets dizzy when he spins while dancing. And frankly, looking at some of the other items on the "hyposensitivity to movement" list, I have to wonder if it isn't just a list of descriptions for toddler boys in general. I mean, have you seen the kind of physical feats a three-year-old can master when he thinks his Mom ain't looking? I've experienced it firsthand and let me tell you, it is not for the faint of heart.

I don't want to be the Mom whose kid's diagnosis has been staring her in the face all along but she refused to see it -- whether out of vanity or fear of the long-term consequences for her child. I really don't. But I see nothing that indicates that he is autistic or has attention problems. We've had the medical tests to rule out hearing impairment and brain damage. So that really just leaves the language delay. Why can't get I get a diagnosis for that? I mean, apraxia, articulation disorders, auditory processing disorder, dysfluency -- it isn't as if there aren't a whole host to choose from. I keep being told that early intervention is key. But how can I know the best way to intervene if I don't know the problem? What am I missing here?

(I could go on about how fucking difficult it is to actually find a qualified speech-language pathologist to evaluate him. The Army has commandeered all area SLPs to help soldiers with brain injuries. And while I certainly don't begrudge the soldiers all the help they can get, I find it hard to believe that one -- just one! -- can't schedule us in for an hour to help make some sense of all of this).

When Daddies Dress Babies.

Today, as I was dropping Munchkin off at CDC for a few hours, I overheard some drama at the front desk.

A father was arguing with the Director about why he could not drop off his approximately 6-month-old daughter in her current outfit. All it took was hearing the words, "But why would she need shoes or socks? She can't even walk!" and I had to take a look.

The CDC policy is that all kids need to wear at least socks for their own protection. It's written on all of the stuff they give you. But as the father decried, "This is my first time dropping her off!" they wouldn't budge. And after a few more minutes of futilely arguing, he begrudgingly admitted, "This is my first time watching her without my wife!"

Then I really had to take a look. The poor girl not only was barefoot but she was wearing a pair of lime green shorts with yellow daisies and a brown and red Redskins cheerleader one-sie type top with built-in pom-poms. It was 56 degrees outside. He really didn't have a clue.

He was going to be late to report if he had to run home and get her socks so I took pity and grabbed a pair out of Munchkin's bag. They were Steelers socks, of all things, but the soldier seemed too grateful to care.

But it got me remembering the first time that CPT Dick got Munchkin dressed all by himself. He also went with the sports motif, although in his case, he grabbed a size 4T Patriots football jersey. He then paired it with a pair of Snoopy pajama shorts in a totally clashing shade of blue.

And despite the fact it was February, also no socks. I walked in the house and changed Munchkin before you could say, "Tom Brady." CPT Dick still maintains the outfit was fine.

I can only hope that the little girl's Mom is out of town and didn't come in to the CDC to the sight of her daughter all dolled up like that. If so, I'm totally willing to apologize for my part in the horror.

My son, the magician.

For a two-year-old, my kid has quite the movie collection. Since we don't have television, the kid gets to occasionally (and sometimes more than occasionally) watch DVDs, usually of the Disney or Sesame Street variety.

Lately, some of the DVDs have gone missing. Munchkin likes to play DJ, putting in one disc and then catching sight of another and switching them out. Not all discs get put back in the cases. And so, right now, we have about three DVDs that have disappeared into the land of unmatched dryer socks and extra extension cords.

Today, Munchkin started doing the switcheroo game again. But this time, I was damned if he was going to lose another DVD. I watched him carefully and as he put down one DVD, I made him help me put it back on its case and then back on the shelf.

But, somehow, someway, one of the DVDs once again went missing. I searched high, I searched low. I opened every DVD case to make sure that we didn't put it in the wrong one. I went to his room to make sure he didn't take it there accidentally. And I was about to start pulling apart the adult DVD case (no, not that kind of adult -- we keep our porn in the bedroom because we're classy), the kid walks right up to the DVD player with the missing disc and pops it in.

I have no idea where he got it from since I was so busy looking for it. I'm imagining that every possible lost item is stashed there just waiting for him to take out at his leisure. I tell you, either my kid is a magician or he is much, much smarter than me.

I wonder how long it would take him to learn how to run his own shell game scam.

A lazy Sunday.

One of the best things about living in Germany is fest season. From June until September, there is generally some kind of little town party somewhere within driving distance. There are a few shops, a lot of people and even more beers to be consumed.

Our little town had such a fest today. It was a horse-shoeing party, of all things, with local blacksmiths showing the world the old-fashioned way to shoe a horse. There were all kinds of wares, foods, animals and, yes, beer.

Munchkin was in heaven. It was so much fun watching him take it all in.

Can you hear me?

The boy can hear. He handled the test like a pro and has hearing well within the range of normal. Apparently, when we think he is not hearing us, he's just choosing not to do so. Oh yeah. My kid, right there.

And so, back to the Developmental Nazis for another evaluation.

Dog bites boy.

There was a coffee the other night. I didn't really want to go but figured that I might as well for appearance's sake. I can always start getting lazy later in the year. But I'm not stupid. I also opted to take Munchkin with me so that I could use him as an excuse to make an early getaway if needed.

But maybe I shouldn't have briefed him on that plan.

The hostess has the sweetest dog ever. A mutt of such wondrous temperament that my kid was all over him and he didn't say boo. I'm guessing he decided that he was willing to exchange his patience for the Fritos my son so magnaminously continued to feed him.

And all was well, and very, very cute, until we got down to the last Frito on Munchkin's plate.

Munchkin was going to feed it, just like most of the others, to the dog. But then the boy realized that it was the last and final Frito. So at the last minute, just at the moment that he would have let go of the Frito for the dog to swallow, my son changed his mind. He held on to the Frito. He was still holding it when the other kids yelled for me to come running because he was bleeding.

The dog didn't mean to bite him. He meant to partake of the Frito-y goodness. A boy's small finger just happened to get in the way.

So, to the ER we went. And though I got to leave the party early, we didn't get out of the ER before midnight. And so it goes.

Munchkin is fine. He was fine by the time we got to the hospital. Sure, he'll lose the fingernail, most likely, and have to drink copious amounts of Augmentin for the next few days, but he's back to his wild man self.

The worst part, seriously, is all of the phone calls I'm getting today from concerned ladies. You'd have thought that my son was dragged off by a wild bear. I just want to get the boy down for a nap, you know, because he's exhausted from the poking and prodding, and the phone won't stop ringing.

Dog bites boy. Guess we all need some excitement now and again.

A little down.

Munchkin had another visit with the Developmental Nazis today. And the speech-language pathologist said that he presented just like a kid with significant hearing loss. So we're going to have his hearing checked with an audiologist next week.

I'm both relieved and annoyed. Relieved because it's probably not something neurological, not something that we can't pinpoint and help.

But, dear readers, I have wondered about his hearing since he was about 6 months old. I have stated my concerns to friends, family, pediatricians and specialists. They all told me I was crazy and would not schedule a hearing test. During the first visit from the developmental nazis at our last duty station, they didn't even bother to send a speech-language pathologist to evaluate him. They sent a physical therapist and developmental psychologist intead. They also kept suggesting it could be autism. Don't get me started.

Only once he turned two did someone finally listen and send us to an ENT. Hence the adenoid removal.

But now the adenoids are gone and he's still having some trouble hearing.

I feel guilty. I feel like I should have pushed harder. I know hindsight is always 20/20 but maybe if I had stamped my feet a little louder, intervention could have happened earlier. Maybe we wouldn't be at this point. I don't know.

But I'll tell you one thing, next week can't happen fast enough.

Another study to make Mommies feel bad.

Baby Einstein not so smart after all.

And, of course, my kid loves those damn videos. He will talk back to them where he won't to me. *sigh* It's not that I thought they were the brain boosters that some people have claimed but they weren't violent cartoons, they don't have questionable advertising and they at least introduce classical music and art.

Is there anything I'm doing that won't totally fuck my kid up? Sometimes I seriously wonder.

What does ready really mean?

This is a bit of a shameless trawl, but I'm writing an article for a national parenting magazine about being "ready" to have kids. For it, I'm looking for some sage tips from all the Mamas (Daddies, too!) out there on how to best get ready.

Anyone interested in sharing their own advice?

I jinxed myself.

CPT Dick is one of God's most pathetic creatures -- a Red Sox fan. And though I joked that I would be decorating Munchkin's room in Yankees gear, when I found this Red Sox comforter set on sale, I clicked order before you could say, "The Green Monstah." We have an old twin bed just waiting for Munchkin for when he's older enough and I figured it would be cute to continue the team tradition.

Apparently, on some unconscious level, Munchkin understood this. Today, he decided it would be funny to start climbing out of his crib.

It was nap time -- not even two hours after I ordered the comforter set -- and we did our normal nap routine. Juice, story, kisses, the works. Five minutes after I sit down to work, who do I see peering over the side of the couch with a shit-eating grin on his face? Oh yes. My son.

We repeated this silliness about 8 more times before I realized that the thrill of the game would make it pretty much impossible for him to go down for a nap today. And this was hard for me to admit, because my son is a serious crank when he is overtired.

I knew this day was coming. He's climbed out of his crib before but only to retrieve his cup. We knew he was capable but, until today, he was perfectly happy to stay in it. And it is at this moment -- and of course when CPT Dick is away -- he's decided that he's done before confined.

Oh well. Onward and upward, as they say. Tomorrow I will drag the twin bed out of the storage room. For tonight, I just took the mattress out of the crib and set him up a little comfy spot on the floor. After gating him in the room (which he can also climb) and laying him down back three times after escapes, he seems to have figured out that he will not get another reprieve today. At least I hope not.

Thank goodness I have wine in the house.

One More Saturday Night

I read in a potty training book that as you get ready to start training, it helps to leave your kid in a wet diaper (provided they don't suffer from horrible diaper rash or something like that) for longer than you normally would so they can start to feel uncomfortable. I can't say I totally buy that one but I have started letting Munchkin go a little longer in the evenings between changes.

Tonight, just before bed, my son was rockin' a pretty wet diaper. It wasn't hanging down to his knees or anything, but it showed definite heft. But since we were literally minutes away from bath time, I thought, well, we'll just leave it for now. And then, when I saw him hiding behind the couch and grunting, I decided that I'd let him finish up and then we'd do his bath and bedtime routine.

After all, it's never fun to realize that the bath toy your son is getting so much enjoyment out of is actually his own fecal matter. Trust me on this one.

So as he's pooping, the phone rings. It's one of those friends that you can't quite ever get off the phone. And as she gabs and gabs, my son has obviously finished business and is now running amok around the house.

Once I finally manage to hang up, I scoop up Munchkin and head to the changing table. The smell is overwhelming and it is so full that the sides of the diaper are drooping a little bit. I'm figuring I'm in for quite a nasty present.

But, oh no. When I open the diaper, I find nothing. Well, not nothing. There are marks on the diaper showing where the poop was at one point. And certain marks on my son's behind where that poop rubbed against. But the offending party? Not there. The poop has left the diaper.

You know it's going to be a fabulous Saturday night when it starts by a singles game of find the turd.

Rant.

I signed Munchkin up for a toddler preschool program about 10 days ago. He has always loved going to group daycare for the couple hours that I hit the gym and run errands and this preschool deal sounded perfect -- 3 hours a day, 3 times a week. I could get my stuff done and he could participate in daycare with a curriculum.

And I have to say, even an education snob like me was impressed with that curriculum. They go over colors, letters, shapes, days of the week, etc. Plus, they give the kids a ton of play time and schedule bi-weekly field trips to local attractions. Very impressive and just what you should do for pre-school kids -- make learning fun.

Last Friday's trip was to a wild animal preserve about half an hour away from here. All week, the teachers talked about the field trip and how the kids would see ostriches, camels and tigers. And caught up in the excitement, I started telling him all last week about how he was going to the preserve and would see all kinds of great animals. A book he loves features a bunch of farm animals, I wondered aloud if he'd see pigs and sheep at the petting zoo portion of the preserve. I talked up how he needed to behave and use his listening ears while he was there. I was just so psyched for the little guy.

Until I go to drop him off on Friday morning.

Apparently, yes, the program schedules the trips. But a parent has to accompany each child in order for them to go. No exceptions.

So I get there and am told, for the first time ever of this rule. Okay, I get it. It makes sense. I probably should have asked. I mean, you'd have to be off your nut to take 10 two-year-olds off post for any extended period of time. But I was super-annoyed at this discovery.

One, because they should have spelled it out to a new parent. That's their job. I had to sit through an hour long orientation where they repeated themselves again and again about the need for sufficient diapers and emergency back-up numbers. They could have been more explicit about how field trips work. I looked over all of the paperwork they gave me after I got home that afternoon and not one piece of it explained that parents had to accompany children on trips. Not one.

Two, because when I said I could not go -- I had scheduled an FRG-related meeting for that morning and could not reschedule -- they looked at me like I was the meanest Mommy in the world. The director had the audacity to say, "But the kids have been so looking forward to it! Munchkin loves animals so much I know he'd love it!" Well, guess what? You're right. He would have loved it. And if you had done your job and made sure I knew the rules, I could have rearranged my day and my kid wouldn't have to be disappointed.

That was the worst part. Munchkin was disappointed. He watched his new friends file out the door on their way to the park while I had to usher him into the hourly care room with all the babies (I won't even mention how mad I am that I had to pay for the hourly care, too). I was heartbroken for him. And as I heard the teacher start singing "Oh, MacDonald" in that perfect, Mary Poppins voice that all pre-school teachers seem to have, I felt about about an inch tall.

Mental note: mark all future field trips on calendar and schedule around them.

Yeah, so I'm not really that cool anymore.

My son had a playdate with a very nice little girl the other day. After the playdate, we had dinner with the family and Nice Little Girl's Daddy asked me, "So what are you into?"

Sadly, it's been so long that anyone has actually asked me that, it took quite a while for my mind not to be a complete blank. And then? Well, the images that flew in front of my eyes were really, really pathetic. They included:

• Curious George.
• Bath time.
• Grover Monster.
• The fish in our fish pond.
• The Great Muppet Caper.
• Playgrounds with really long slides.

And I had to stop myself, because, dammit, that's what my kid is into. Not me! My kid! And my inner feminist started raring, "You are more than the mother of your child! Think, think hard, woman, about what you -- YOU! -- are into! Certain there is something!"

And I came up with:

• My son (obviously).
• The new Harry Potter book.
• My newly fixed washing machine.
• My brand new Dirt Devil Centrino sweeper which has me totally hypnotized with its cool cyclone-like suction power that is surely able to, pardon the expression, suck a golf ball through a 60 foot garden hose.
• Bed time.
• Chianti.

I was too embarrassed to utter any of those things aloud. Because all of them (save bed time and Chianti which will retain their sheen through the rest of my life while my son lives at home) will lose their lustre along with their newness. So I couldn't actually say one of them without totally feeling like a hoser. Instead, you know, to make myself seem even more fabulous, I asked for clarification. "What do you mean, what am I into?"

"Like, how about what kind of music you are into?"

The choices once again were not all that exciting. The Sesame Street Platinum Collection, anyone? That "Umbrella, ella, ella, eh, eh" song that I only heard for the first time AFTER it fell off the #1 spot on the pop charts? All the Phish that my husband, the dirty hippie, subjects me to? Or the songs of my youth that I play to remind myself of when I was all cool and cutting edge? When I knew all the new underground music? When I had the super-fabulous haircut? When I remembered to put on eye make-up in the morning? When I went to plays and independent movies and read things like "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" for kicks? You know, YEARS before now.

It seemed most prudent to remain silent.

What can I say? I'm a Mom now. Maybe I'm not so cool anymore. But you know what? Munchkin loves my frumpy self anyway. Perhaps even more so since I can rock out so convincingly to the "Lambaa-baa."

Countdown.

So the movers will be here at the crack of dawn (or two hours late, whatever will be most inconvenient for me -- If I were a betting woman, my guess is that they'll show up just as I'm dropping Munchkin off at daycare) and I'm trying to get as many things on the move checklist done.

But with each I manage to cross off the list, I think of two more that I should do. And those two things I can't do with my two-year-old wanting to "help" me. As I started putting all of our cleaning supplies in a box to put in the bathroom, Munchkin picked up a small bottle of bleach and started shaking it like a maraca. As I counted DVDs by putting them into piles of 10, he decided to rearrange my piles when I was about halfway through, totally messing up my count. When I started taking pictures down from the walls, he climbed up right behind me on the step stool and tried to demand the nail once I had it free of the wall. And I cannot even fathom the reaction if I started trying to pack up a box of toys for the week or two we will be without stuff or started disassembling the octopus of wires and cords from the DVD/TV set up. My poor heart couldn't take it.

So instead, I'm making a list of things I can do once Munchkin goes to bed tonight. 'Cause, as someone once said, there is nothing worth doing that can't be put off until the last moment.