I told you my friend Anna was good.  What I forgot to mention was that she’s a.mah.zing.  Need proof?  Here are the pictures!

Simply stated: It’s a freaking disaster.  There is stuff hiding under the couch, in the drawers, under tables, sticking out of closets.  Boxes line our entry way.  OK.  There are only three.  But it’s a small entry.  Clothes and towels litter the stair case railing – you know, the one that’s in the living room.  Shoes are scattered across the floor.

The laundry hasn’t been put away in two weeks – and now needs to be done again but there are no available laundry baskets.  The bed is so unmade that I don’t even know where to start to get it actually made.  The dresser drawers, usually each delegated to some category of item, have a jumble of summer and winter clothes, pants and shirts and dresses stuffed in willy nilly.  There may or may not be three towels thrown across the back of the chair in our bedroom.  And the flowers on Justin’s dresser are most definitely dead.

The cabinets?  Well, they aren’t that bad.  I mean, not as bad as they usually are.  Nothing’s falling out on top of me, but I have been graciously allowing Justin the privilege of unloading the dishwasher.  Amazingly, after living in this house for almost five years, he still has no idea where anything goes.  Actually, in general, the kitchen isn’t too bad.  Except for the dishes in the sink and the fruit flies swarming the place.  Don’t worry – I have bowls of apple cider vinegar set to trap them and, hopefully, reclaim my kitchen.

Half-deflated balloons haunt the corners of my living room and bathroom.  Junk mail is scattered on any flat surface, desperate to be shredded.  Hair brushes can be found in nearly ever room, as Robbie is constantly concerned about his hair.  And, yes.  That’s a hair dryer poking out from under my couch.  And beach toys?  At the top of the stairs, just outside of the living room.

OK.  Maybe it’s not as terrible as it could be.  After all, I’ve seen Hoarders.  We’re not there.  Yet.  And I know I should clean up.  Organize.  Not throw everything into a closet or, better yet, the basement.  Mostly because I think my neighbors are ready to murder me over the state of our basement.  Not that you’d ever be able to find me down there with all the stuff…

But I’m not going to.  Not tonight anyway.  Tonight I am going to eat coffee ice cream and watch a movie.  I may stalk people on Facebook.  I may do a little needlepoint.  I may ready a trashy book.  After all, someone is going to trash my house again tomorrow…

There’s a picture that hangs in our bedroom of me sitting on our dog in front of my mom’s garden when I was 18 months old.  I love that picture.  It’s absolutely perfect.  So, of course, I would want nothing more than a picture of my son sitting on Barkley in front of a garden.  Not mine, obviously, because, well, I don’t have one.  But someone’s garden.

So, we set out to do that today.  A good friend of mine, Anna Elton, is a photographer, and I’ve loved her work since I started stalking it on Facebook.  Seriously.  She’s good. (And I can give you her number if you want it.)  A few weeks ago, I sent her a picture of the one hanging on my wall and asked if she thought she could help us get something similar.  Add to it that Robbie has recently started sitting on Barkley (and, yes, the dog has patiently and dutifully allowed it).  I figured it was a recipe for success.

So you know how it went, right?  Robbie wanted nothing to do with any of the props Anna brought.  Or the dog.  Or his father.  Really, he just wanted to cling to me.  I thought he was never going to let go and explore.  Finally, he decided the balloons Anna had were a little interesting and worth some attention.  Then he found her grapes.  And we were pretty well set.  An hour in.

Except for the part where I wanted to duplicate the picture of Calihan and me.  Barkley didn’t want to lie down.  Robbie didn’t want to sit on him or hug him or kiss him.  Things they do every day.  Sure, there are shots of Robbie walking Barkley.  And probably of Barkley running away from Robbie, leash flopping on the ground as he made his escape.  But none of the two of them sitting in front of the elusive garden.

But that’s not Robbie.  He’s not a sit-in-front-of-the-garden kid.  Actually, he’s not really a sit-anywhere type of kid.  Just ask Anna.  She chased him all over Minute Man Park – in Lexington and in Concord.  He’s into finding adventures and running down paths barefoot just to see where they go.  He’s into playing hide-and-seek behind old iron gates and smelling flowers so quickly that you can’t possibly get a picture of it.  He’s into finding planes and the moon in the sky and making sure everyone else around him sees them, too.

I can’t wait to get the perfect picture from tonight, even if it’s not what I expected it to be, and hang it right next to my own.  And I hope that when he’s a parent, Robbie strives to get the perfect picture of his own child and has the opportunity to relish the realization that his child is his or her own person.

Robbie's Jacket

For Robbie’s birthday, my sister sent him an assortment of clothes, including a red windbreaker.  He didn’t think much of it when the package arrived.  After all, he’s a two-year-old.  Toys and Elmo videos are at the forefront of his very existence.  However, young Robert discovered the jacket this afternoon and brought it to me.

At first, Robbie just informed me that he had a jacket.  Then there was the struggle of trying to put it on because this was a very special jacket: it has a “hat” (a hood to the rest of the population).  Robbie was desperate to get his little body into the jacket and squirmed around until I finally had a second to get his arms through the sleeves.  And, of course, we had to zip the jacket and make sure the velcro was all fastened.  And, you guessed it, make sure the hood was on.

Robbie then ran around our bedroom shouting, “Oh, boy!  Jacket!” with more enthusiasm than I’ve ever heard anyone give an article of clothing.  After a few moments, he grabbed onto my leg and said, “Ready, Mama.  I want rain.”  Well, of course you do, sweetie.  After all, you’re barefoot, in mismatched pajamas, and wearing a red windbreaker zipped up to your chin.  Everything about you screams that you’re ready for the rain.

Robbie spent the rest of the night in his windbreaker.  He ate dinner in it, managing to keep the mess strictly on his face.  He brushed his teeth and washed his hands with it on.  He listened to a story and said his prayers in the jacket.  And, afraid that he might get hot, I tried to take the jacket off before putting him in bed.  Robbie wanted none of it.  He had me zip the jacket back up and fasten the hood over his head.  And then he fell into a deep sleep.  One I hope he stays in as I go up to unzip the jacket in hopes that he doesn’t wake up in the middle of the night, burning up.

Last night, as Justin and I were getting ready for bed, I asked about his evening with Robbie.  He gave me a series of vague answers, leading me to believe that Robbie had actually been in charge for the evening and Justin was just along for the ride.  Then, I asked the pivotal question, the one every mother asks when leaving her husband and child(ren) at home alone.  The one she never really wants to know the answer to.  “What did Robbie have for dinner?” I asked as I adjusted my pillows.

There was silence at the other end of the bed.  I could feel Justin shift uncomfortably next to me.  “I’m not really sure.  I’ll have to think about it.”  And then, a few moments later, “OK.  He had cake.”

“What?”  I asked incredulously, reminding myself that yelling at Justin was not going to solve this situation.  After all, Robbie had already eaten the cake.  “Why in the world would you think it was OK to give our son cake for dinner?”

The fidgeting got worse.  “Because he asked for it.  It’s what he wanted for dinner.”  Of course he asked for it!  He’s two!

“Did he have anything else?” I pressed.

“Maybe.  I think he had a hamburger bun.  And maybe part of an orange.  But I think he threw most of that on the floor.”

I suppose the important part is that everyone was still alive when I got home.  Justin is never going to do things right – or at least my way.  But he will stay home with Robbie and let me grab dinner with friends.  So, I guess when it’s all said and done, that’s the important part.  After all, haven’t we all had a little cake for dinner?  I know I had some for breakfast just the other day…

Justin and I put a great deal of thought and effort into picking out Robbie’s name.  It’s actually something we hammered out pretty early in our relationship.  After all, I had to be sure he wasn’t going to throw anything strange at me once I was pregnant.  So, for seven years we had known that we would name our son Robert Gaetano Manna.  Or Gaetano Robert Manna.  The debate continued until the day we found out we were actually having a boy.

Both names are family names.  Robert was my maternal grandfather, a man I never met but greatly admire.  After all, how many men do you know who could survive in a house with a wife and seven daughters?  I actually changed my last name in high school to Dreidame, my mom’s maiden name.  Gaetano is Justin’s paternal great-grandfather and the first member of his family to immigrate to the US from Italy.  We figured a name with that much history would set Robbie off with a solid foundation.

Except Robbie doesn’t identify himself as Robbie.  He is QiQi.  Every time.  He is never Robbie.  Ever.  When he sees pictures of himself, he says, “TchiTchi, Mama!”  When asked what his name is, he proudly points to his chest when he gets to himself and says one of two things.  Sometimes, he points to Justin, myself, and then himself, saying, “Mama, Daddy, baby.”  Other times, he is just QiQi.  But always with a great deal of pride, as if this moniker has great meaning and history.  It does not.

QiQi is his Chinese name, given to him by his daycare provider after knowing him for two weeks.  Now, I know a great deal of thought went into giving Robbie this name.  But not like Robert Gaetano.  I just hope he’s man enough to pull off a name like QiQi.  It looks awesome in print, but “Chi Chi” doesn’t sound quite so tough.

After months of begging, Robbie is finally into giving kisses.  He started off slowly, just giving us hugs.  Then, he started asking for hugs all the time.  Then he started offering kisses.  And I found myself slightly disturbed.

There are few things more frightening than a two-year-old grabbing your face with both hands, snot pouring down his nose, leaning toward you, open-mouthed.  That’s right, ladies and gentlemen.  Robbie has been watching Justin kiss me and is doing his best to mimic his father.  In all fairness, however, Justin usually doesn’t have a runny nose when he tries to kiss me.

We’re working on it, this open-mouth kissing problem.  When I see him coming, I try to turn my head.  But, Robbie usually has my face pretty well in the grasp of his sticky little hands, making it tricky to avoid him.  It’s terribly difficult not to laugh because the sight of it is pretty funny.  His head is tilted, eyes wide as he studies exactly where it is that he should kiss.  And then he slowly comes straight for my mouth.

I feel like a broken record, always telling Robbie that he has to kiss me on the cheek because only Daddy can kiss me on the lips.  He just doesn’t understand.  So, we’ve taken a new approach.  No one gets to kiss me on the lips when Robbie is around.  Not Justin.  Not the dog.  And certainly not my kid.  So far, it’s working well for everyone but Justin.

I forgot about the side effects.  You know, from antibiotics?  Remember that horrible diaper from the beach?  Well,  it hadn’t occurred to me that it was really anything.  And then we got home.

We got Robbie home and into the bathroom to take a bath.  I pulled down his pants and revealed a leg full of poop.  And his diaper was still full.  Then it hit me.  Antibiotics.  Diarrhea.  Duh.  Hopefully we don’t have this for the duration of the medication.

And another note about medication…  I spent ten minutes this morning battling Robbie, bullying him into taking his medicine.  You know the trick?  I had to give it to him to take himself.  Then it wasn’t any big deal.  I guess I just have to acknowledge that he’s not a baby anymore, and he doesn’t want to be treated like one…  Unless he has major chaffing on his inner thighs.

I’m always telling Robbie to share.  It seems he’s learned the lesson, although I’m not sure how I feel about his application.  Tonight, we went to Markey’s for dinner after leaving the beach.  On our way into the parking lot, Robbie reminded us that we usually go for “cream” – as if we’d ever forget.

Robbie lost interest in his baby cone as soon as it got messy and, on the way back to the car, turned his interest to my cone.  I gave him a lick and then turned my attention back to eating my own ice cream.  Robbie then grabbed my hand, looked me in the eye, and made a move for my cone.  And then he said it.  Words that will haunt me every time I try to eat my own food.  “Share, Mama.  Share.”

I’m almost embarrassed to admit where it went from here.  We nicely shared the cone for about 100 yards.  And then, as we crossed the street, I tried to take it from him.  Keep in mind, there were cars stopped in both directions with crowds along the street as I wrestled my son for my ice cream cone.  I didn’t want there to be a disaster all over the back of the car.  And, more importantly, I really like the cone part and didn’t want to not be able to enjoy it.

All of a sudden, before I even knew what was happening, the cone was out of my hand and flying through the air, only to land in the middle of the road.  Completely destroyed.  And Robbie looked me in the eye and very sternly said, “Share, Mama.”  Lesson learned.

Justin, Robbie, and I packed up the car this morning and headed up to the New Hampshire coast with the CaCa, Allie, and Didi (or DeeDee – have to check – Allie’s mom).  We drove.  And drove.  And drove.  And then we stopped by the side of the road when we just couldn’t go anymore.  We were supposed to go to Rye Beach.  We wound up at Dead Otter Beach.

After pulling off by the side of a road at a random beach, we climbed up the rock wall and looked over to see if the beach would work for us.  And there it was.  A dead otter, floating in the water, being tossed in and out with the waves.  OK.  You’re right.  It was actually a seal.  But Dead Seal Beach just doesn’t have the same ring to it.

And, no.  We didn’t set up camp right next to the dead seal.  We walked probably a quarter of a mile down the beach, figuring the water there would be a little cleaner – and hoping we wouldn’t smell (or see) the dead seal.  And we didn’t.  The beach was gorgeous, if rocky.  The water was cold but bearable.  And Robbie had a blast.

That kid was all over the place.  He ran from the towels to the water.  He let the water chase him.  He jumped over waves.  He destroyed Justin’s sand castle.  He threw rocks and sand (and occasionally hit himself in the head).  He chased seagulls.  He hopped on everyone.  He conned popcorn out of DiDi.  He doled out oranges for everyone.  He walked down the beach, begging to be swung in the air.  In short, the kid lived it up.  And didn’t stop.

Until right before we left.  Micah, Allie, Darlene, Robbie, and I had walked down the beach in search of the dead seal.  After all, there had to be a picture.  Otherwise, it’s just any beach.  Right?  As we got closer to our towels, Robbie started walking funny and grabbing himself.  I could smell the poop and figured it was just an uncomfortable diaper.

As we started packing, I got Robbie undressed – floored by the disaster that was his diaper.  It was perhaps the most offensive thing I’d experienced in quite a while.  Honestly, I thought he had part of the dead seal in his pants.  It was that bad.  In an effort to have a moderately clean child before going to dinner, I took a naked toddler to the beach.  Despite his screams, I rinsed him off in the cool water, trying to convince him that he would indeed survive.

It wasn’t until I got my screaming, thrashing child back to the towel that I saw the reason for his distress.  Both of his thighs were bright red, chaffed so badly that it actually hurt to look at them.  And here I had been splashing salt water on them.  Worst.  Mother.  Ever.

The drama of the chaffed thighs continued until 10:45 tonight.  There was bath time, which involved blood curdling screams while I tried to rinse the sand out of Robbie’s hair and off his body.  There was getting pajamas on, where I had to sneakily put on a diaper and apply Desatin.  Actually, it didn’t involve being sneaky at all.  Justin held his arms down while I went in for the kill.  And it’s hard to be gentle with thrashing limbs close to your face.

An hour later, my poor child was still not asleep.  I went up, concerned that I kept hearing, “Dopper!  Dopper!”  (Translation: “Diaper!  Diaper!”)  I found Robbie holding the front of his diaper up, sobbing.  I grabbed him from his crib and took him to the changing table.  Originally, we hadn’t put pants on him to try to make him comfortable, but it occurred to me that would actually make it worse.

I tried explaining everything that I was going to do and told Robbie that it would hurt.  “Hurt” is definitely his new word.  The entire time I  was fixing his diaper, applying more Desatin, and dressing him, he screamed that it “hurt” and “burn”ed.  And it broke my heart.  We were both crying by the time I finished, only consolable by cuddling, which seemed to work well for the both of us.

Now I’m just hoping Robbie will sleep long enough for me to regroup in order to be able to apply the Desatin to his legs again tomorrow…