I’ve been ruminating frequently on the fact that I don’t remember things from when I was 2. Or 3. Or even 4. My earliest memories are very very small and fragmented, and I don’t know what age I am. I remember sitting between my parents on a bench seat of the family car while my dad drove, and I remember singing along with the radio. No car seat. Not even a seat belt, I think. Had to be the 70’s so I was probably under 5 years old. I don’t remember what song, but I do know that one of my childhood favorites was “Forever in Blue Jeans,” by Neil Diamond.

Yes, I was always that cool. Still am.

But I don’t remember things from when I was 2. So it absolutely blows me away that I have whole conversations with Freebird, absolutely hysterical discussions about things, and he won’t remember them. I’m amazed, just drop-my-jaw stunned that I will be the one to remember how much he loves his orange crazy shirt (which is so orange and so loud that I had to find a pair of cobalt blue shorts to pair it with, because if one’s shirt can be seen from space, one’s shorts should be equally as visually startling) and he sat on the bed with me this morning watching “Super Why” telling me that he’s Alpha Pig (with alphabet power, if you’re curious). I’m going to remember so much more of this time than he will, and that responsibility is overwhelming to me more than a little bit. It’s no secret that my memory is horrible. I don’t remember what I was wearing yesterday unless I think really, really hard about it.

I might not remember the specifics, but I do know that I won’t ever forget how fun Freebird is, how funny and happy and quietly thoughtful, how he has my concentration so when he’s focused on something, he won’t see or hear anything else. Drives Hubby nuts - now there are TWO of us in the house like that. I might not recall the specific little bits, but I absolutely adore without limits the pleasure of getting to know my son as he grows up. He might not remember the specifics of this time, but I hope he remembers that we’re having fun. 

For a small taste of what my Friday night was like, check this image out.

Freebird would like Canada to stand on guard for him. Please.

Our health insurance has a deductible. We’re in the deductible range, meaning that if we go to the doctor, we’re paying for it. It’s a discounted rate, but it’s still billed to us. I just realized I have been putting off going because I don’t want to spend the money if my immune system can do the job for me - when clearly, my immune system, as usual, needs a boost of help. I can’t even imagine how difficult it must be for a parent who has to put aside grocery money to buy antibiotics for a kid’s ear infection, or medicine for strep, because they are also paying their deductible. I’m not even going to pretend I have a solution for this problem on a national level.

My own personal problem is that I’m a foolish person who should go to the doctor already and get some medicine and get better, followed immediately by getting over myself. 

I’m shopping for clothing on sale for Baba and Freebird, and one of the
descriptions just cracked me up: “babies are all about kicking back and
relaxing.”

??!!?!!

I’m sick, and my tonsils are huge. They’re normally big so when I’m ill and they swell, it’s like I’m carrying hot ping pong balls in my throat. Ow. Uncomfortable.

I think it’s time I saw an ENT doctor about having them removed, though I hear that the recovery for adults is awful. Of course, I had a c-section and am allergic to most painkillers but I weathered that one ok. What I really worry about is that having them removed will alter or harm my voice, which would make me sad. I rather like my voice. I know, vain of me, but I do. I don’t do anything with it except talk and sing with the radio, but I would be sad if it was altered in a bad way.

But whoa am I tired of swollen tonsils. This just blows. I can barely swallow. Yuck.

I know one mom whose scrapbook page for her daughter’s first haircut is a technicolor wonderment that honors the first trip to the salon. I am not that mom. Not that she’s wrong, but that’s not me.

I picked up Baba O’Riley, who has long curly hair now that he’s nearly a year old, and was asked very kindly by the assistant director of his school if I wouldn’t mind trimming his hair out of his eyes, because he’s trying to walk and it obstructs his vision. No problem. Just don’t tell my mother in law, I said.

My MIL didn’t cut Hubby’s hair until he was 3 years old. It’s a Jewish tradition, and Orthodox families still do so, because the first haircut produces the long temple forelocks that you see on observant Jewish boys. While Hubby didn’t have the curly forelocks, he had a lotta hair at age 3. For a more contemporary version of what this looks like, look for an older picture of Ryder, Kate Hudson’s son. Hudson didn’t cut his hair until he was past 3, in deference to her Jewish heritage.

We were going to wait with Freebird, but when he started being mistaken for a girl shortly after he turned 1, we got his hair cut. It wasn’t worth it for people to wonder if he was a girl, especially because we weren’t going to cut the forelocks (aka peyes).

I was going to wait until after a year to cut Baba’s hair, but since the school asked me and had a valid reason, I grabbed the kitchen shears and trimmed his curly bangs so they’re out of his eyes. I think we’re going to take Baba to get a formal haircut this weekend, because with the short bangs and long curly back, he’s rocking quite a mullet.

(Yes, I saved the trimmings. In a Ziploc with his name and the date in Sharpie. SCRAPBOOK THIS!)