Cherish.

Tonight, I got to do something I haven't done in a long time—rocked my Finny Bo Binny Binny Boo Boo until he fell asleep. I soaked up every sweet, warm, snuggly breath of it.

Finny LOVES his sleep (I never thought I would utter that statement about this little guy!). He plays hard, and then sleeps even harder to recharge his batteries. I used to nurse him, then snuggle and sing him to sleep. Now, he wants nothing to do with me at bedtime. He is very serious about his routine: Pjs, a quick kiss, and then PUTMEINBED. He will practically jump out of my arms into his crib if I don't move fast enough. There are no bedtime stories. No sweet snuggles. No extra kisses on his chubby little hands. He is usually face down, buried into his blankie, and snoring before I even close his bedroom door.

But not tonight. Tonight, we did our routine, and he started sobbing when I walked out of the room. I listened for a few minutes, and he didn't stop crying, so I decided to go in to check on him. The Finny Bo looked up at me with his big blue eyes and just sighed...so I picked him up, and we snuggled in a rocking chair until his full weight was resting on my chest, and his long soft breaths were in tune with mine. Pure Bliss. I would have held him all night if I could have. I know these moments are fleeting, and I know that in no time, my sweet baby boy is going to be a quirky little toddler...and on and on and on.

But I will hold on to tonight, and the smell of his sweaty little head, and his pudgy little fingers, and the sound of his balmy little breaths forever.

This is where I draw the line.

The Tatiman has a Star Wars obsession. He sits for hours every day pouring over the six Star Wars books we checked out of the library. He can pick Star Wars books out of of his daddy's book shelves. He hasn't seen the movies (but for a few bits and pieces), yet he just knows, deep inside his being, that he is a Jedi in training. Well, he was a young Jedi until this past weekend...he announced that he wants to be Darth Maul when he grows up.

I found this development quite shocking, especially since the Tatiman lives in a world of rainbows and unicorns. He doesn't like bad guys. In fact, he finds the mere hint of a bad guy to be terrifying. Since he only knows about Mr. Maul from looking at pictures in books, he doesn't have any clue that the red and black face staring at him is that of a bad guy. Today he asked if we could “do a project to make a red and black Darth Maul face and a light saber with two red blades.” So, we did. I was sure that the sight of himself with a scary red and black mask would end his Darth Maul obsession. I was wrong.

But here is where I draw the line...along with declaring himself a young Darth Maul, the Tatiman would like me to respond to “Jango”...or when he is really trying to butter me up “Jango Mommy.” I refuse. I can only indulge him so far, and Jango is just a few small steps over the line for this mommy. I hope he never brings this up in therapy.

Clothing Wars

Today, the Tatiman wore a brown shirt with a pug on it. This was a momentous occasion. “Why?” You ask. Well, because we're coming off a bender where the Tatiman wore his R2D2 shirt for 6 days straight. In the spirit of the upcoming Passover holiday, I'll go ahead and clarify. By “6 days straight” I mean the night times, too.

To be fair. Tati's grandmother was able to pry the shirt off of him once during the
6-day standoff. I'm told he sat shirtless, in protest and solidarity, waiting 45 minutes for the ding of he dryer.

This is one of those places where I have to walk the fine line between letting the Tatiman choose his uniform (after all, one shirt doesn't really count as a 'wardrobe'), and teaching lessons in hygiene and socially acceptable clothing traditions. And, I suppose, I'll just plan our weeks so we don't visit the same place twice.

Channeling my Inner Michelle Duggar

...and I'm not talking about her uterus.

Seriously. I don't know how she does it. She has 19 kids, most of them boys, and she never yells. NEVER. Like, not even at all. I'd like to know what she's smoking.

I don't believe in yelling. I don't like it when somebody yells at me, and I don't want to raise my boys to think that yelling is a proper way to speak to people.

Yet, every now and then I loose it. I'm not proud of it, but I'd be lying if I said it didn't happen. And it always over something ridiculous, like this exchange, which may or may not have happened today:

**kick, kick, kick**
“Tati, please stop kicking the back of my seat” (Said completely calmly, in my sweetest Mommy voice).
**kick, kick, kick**
“Tati, please stop kicking Mommy's seat” (Repeated, in my sweetest Mommy voice)
**kick, kick, kick**
“Tati, please stop kicking Mommy” (Repeated in my terse whispering voice. This is where I channel my inner Michelle Duggar...)
**kick, kick, kick**
“PLEASE STOP” (YELLING)

...and then I'm upset because I lost my cool. And because who YELLS “please”--it kinda loses it's polite-ness, doesn't it?!?!

So...wise readers...what do you do to keep your cool in times like these?

College Preparatory School.

The Tatiman will be three in August, which means I have spent the past few months touring preschools.

Yes. Touring. Yes. Preschools.

If you had asked me a few years ago if I would foresee myself touring a single preschool, much less multiple preschools over a 3 month period, my answer would have been a resounding NOPE. Heck, I only toured college campuses for an excuse to visit Boston and see cute college boys.

Yet, here we are. I find my actions shocking, yet shockingly necessary.

It's not that I feel like one school is going to give the Tatiman a better shot at being a world famous finger painter. I'm pretty sure that he will learn sandbox etiquette wherever he goes. And I know he already has snack time down pat, so I've got no concerns in that area.

It's just that becoming a parent changed me. Suddenly every decision seems so big, so important. When I see that driving past a water tower can spark a discussion about gravity—I feel like these years are so precious, and they play a huge role in forming the person that my Tatiman is growing into.

I know he has to leave the cocoon of my protection, but I want it to be in the environment where he will blossom. I want his love of learning to be nurtured. I want him to believe he can do anything. I want him to be encouraged to try things far outside his comfort zone. I want him to make friends. I want him to sing and dance and learn to make all the rocket ship noises that little boys learn to make.

And more than preparing the Tatiman for the outside world, preschool must prepare me—for all of those bigger decisions that I know are coming way too fast.

Grow down, little Tatiman. Grow down.