Your Eyes Have Seen Me.
Mood:  incredulous
Topic: Matt
Today I spent the day with my three-year-old son Matt. It was an amazing day in several respects, but I'll save most of them for later.

We ran errands in the morning, rode with Daddy to the courthouse and actually peeked through the porthole into the courtroom while he was arguing and saw the back of his head! He didn't know we were out there! And then we had lunch with Daddy and walked around the mall. We pushed Matt in a firetruck stroller. And we shopped a little. We stopped at Yankee Candle, and Eddie Bauer, and the Disney Store. You know, G-rated destinations.

Matt and I dropped Daddy off at the office and came back home. And later, while Matt was wrapped up in Party Time with Max and Ruby, I got a naughty idea. It was, after all, late Friday afternoon and I had nowhere to drive, no business to tackle.

So I sneaked into the garage and burned a tiny bit of plant material -- half a thimble, tops. Just as some other mom might sneak some champagne into her orange juice, or open a cooler instead of a Diet Coke, you know. Nothing imprudent.

But afterward, Matt ran up to me as I sat on the floor, to hug me I thought. Instead he abruptly drew back, grinned and scampered off. He mentioned something about it's like steaks -- meaning he smelled something like when Daddy runs the barbecue. A half-hour after that, playing with Woody and Bullseye, he told me Bullseye needs eye drops. His eyes are red.

So we went upstairs. I had a little travel Visine in a duffel, so I gave him that for Bullseye and Woody. And I put in eye drops from the big Mommy-sized bottle.

And I thought Three years old and this kid has eagle eyes and can report with impressive accuracy on what he observes. Nothing less than total honesty is going to work with this one.

Matt has a way of bringing out the best in me. If I'm going to look at myself through his eyes, I can see I'm going to have to keep my eye on the ball -- I can see that he sees clearly.

Thanks for a great day, kiddo. I owe you one.

My Son Matthew Has A British Accent.
Mood:  quizzical
Topic: Matt
And I have no idea why. We don't watch THAT much Harry Potter or Monty Python or Beatle movies or what have you. There is no explanation, but when Matt says "Mommy, I am feeding the homsters," his tones seem to come straight from the banks of the river Thames. I suppose I should be grateful that if he's to have an inexplicable accent, at least it's uppercrust.

But good sweet jumping Jesus, it is strange.

Kiss The Girls.
Mood:  crushed out
Topic: Matt
Matt says he is going to kiss a girl for Valentine's Day. He has a girl at preschool all picked out for the kissing. Her name is Devon. I told him to be sure to wipe his nose first, and to kiss Devon gently on the cheek, and also to be sure she wants to be kissed, before he kisses her.

Matt is three years old, but definitely a ladies' man already. He's the one I'm going to have to watch, I can see that. He's the one who could end up involved with the teacher when he's sixteen, or deliver more than the Orange County Register on his paper route. Am I scared for him? Shit no. I am scared for the girls. They are going to really have to watch their asses, and their hearts, because I have known guys like Matt, and they are TROUBLE.

Happy Birthday Matt.
Mood:  celebratory
Topic: Matt
Today is the day Matthew William Crumpacker, my second son, celebrates his third birthday. Matt has never ceased to surprise me, from the moment of his conception right up through five minutes ago. He has been delightful and unexpected at absolutely every turn: the circumstances of his conception, the day of his birth, and every other thing about him. Matt is a bit of a magical creature; there's something OTHER about him, a sense that he's not exactly one of us, but is a slightly different type of being. A being friendly to us, for certain, but not exactly like us. Elfin. I guess that is the only word that approaches it, but it doesn't do justice to my Haz Matt, because the only way to know him is to experience him firsthand.

I'd like to take a moment to thank him for showing up and sticking around, and for the late-night conversations I love so much. Sometimes when everyone else is asleep, Matt and I lie there and talk, and he lets me see a piece of his mind, and it really is a marvelous thing. Thanks for letting me in, sweetheart. I'll always do my best for you, although I feel it incumbent upon me to point out that you've got a bit of the devil in you and always will. Just be sure to channel that energy properly, and if you do? The world can be your pancake, and your smile will melt the butter they pour on top.

Dream On.
Mood:  spacey
Topic: Matt
Matt, who is about to turn three, has started telling us about his dreams when he wakes up in the mornings. He is an early riser like I am, and these days he's been popping awake and telling me Mommy, remember . . . and then launching into a description of something that never happened in life.

Oh Matt, you had a dream, I tell him.

Yup, he confirms, beaming up at me.

I hope your dreams are always good ones, kiddo.

Boob Man.
Mood:  incredulous
Topic: Matt
The other night, Ben and Matt and I were roughhousing and cuddling on our big bed when Matt said to each of us in turn I love you. Charmed, we told him we loved him too; then Matt turned to me and said I love your boobies! We were a bit taken aback, but I laughed and thanked him. Hey, at least the kid is honest.

Matt's fixation on my mammaries is well-known. Although I weaned him from the breast back in February or so, shortly after his second birthday, and he's made it clear that he doesn't want to go back to nursing -- and I honestly don't want him to, anyway -- he remains completely fascinated by my chest. When tired or in need of comfort, and especially when falling asleep at night, his first instinct is to reach for my boobs. I spend what seems like my entire life removing his hands from me; he's like the worst date I ever had. Won't take no for an answer.

I wonder why this is? He wasn't weaned too early, or weaned too late. Sam has none of this fixation. And while I certainly don't think there's anything sexual about Matt's obsession with my boobies, it makes me think.

Sam has a typical four-year-old boy's attitude toward girls -- he plays with them at school and day care, and his best friend at both places is a girl, but he doesn't particularly like girls. He has the classic Kissing, yuck! little-boy attitude. Matt, on the other hand, is crazy about girls and has been since he was old enough to focus visually -- since babyhood. He adores little girls, follows them around, introduces himself to them in public. He loves females on television and in movies. At Target, picking out toothbrushes, Sam chose Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles; Matt chose Barbie. Not because he plays with Barbies -- because he loves girls!

It's going to be interesting watching Matt come of age, to see if he turns out to be a ladies' man, a boob man. He and Sam, raised together in the same household and by the same parents, are so different in their attitudes toward these things. Are such tastes really present at birth? I'm curious to find out. Meanwhile, I hope Matt eventually learns to take no for an answer when it comes to reaching into girls' blouses, because if he doesn't, I foresee a lot of problems for him down the road -- not to mention the poor girls who will date him.

Grammar Bitch footnote: I was listening to talk radio in the car this morning, some stupid promo for some stupid TV series, when I heard the following clunker: The biggest cliffhanger in television is finally revealed! Hello: THAT MAKES NO SENSE. The outcome of the biggest cliffhanger is revealed, okay; or the biggest cliffhanger is finally resolved. Come to think of it, those sound like hell too. Best to give it up. And do you know what this means? Not only is whoever wrote the copy a fucking idiot, but whoever edits or approves the copy is also a fucking idiot, and even the guy who did the voiceover is a fucking idiot, because you'd think he would have read it over and said WTF? Surely this comes as no surprise, but it's just one giant clusterfuck. Hurts to hear it.

Project Gemini.
Mood:  crushed out
Topic: Matt
This is the way my little boys fell asleep last night. Matt was on my pillow when I laid him down, but he's like a little heat-seeking missile; he scooted over until he was with his brother. I'm told they nap like this every day at day care.

Ah, the joys of cosleeping. Julia will arrive any day now, and the boys' bedroom sits unused, except for the times they go in there to play and explore. None of us are in a hurry to give all this up. Five in a bed? It could happen.

Happy Father's Day.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Matt
For me, what summed up the day was hearing, while out in the garage folding laundry, Ben and Matt inside singing You've Got A Friend In Me together. You know, from Toy Story.

Honey, you wanted kids -- I knew that from our very first date, because that was the first time you brought it up -- and sometimes I think you got more than you bargained for. But I know that cuts both ways; as you said today, these little humanoids are worth it all, and more. Watching you with them, hearing them say "Daddy, Daddy!" -- all this is candy to my eyes, music to my ears. Happy Father's Day, sweetie. You're a fantastic dad.

Great Name For A Rock Band.
Mood:  lyrical
Topic: Matt
Last night, Sam and Matt were taking their bath when suddenly Matt got to his feet.

DELICIOUS NIPPLES! he exclaimed, covered in vanilla bubbles, apropos of nothing. It wasn't even so much what he said, which was remarkable enough, but the way he said it. Matt has a very expressive manner of speech; the word No has four syllables in Matt language. Likewise, the nipples were apparently very delicious indeed. He didn't so much say it; he sang it.

Ben and I looked at each other and almost wet our pants laughing. Delicious nipples, Matt sighed again. Of course, it would be an excellent name for a rock band. Ben said as much to me, and Sam, hearing this, improvised and sang to us:

Delicious nipples for you,
Delicious nipples for you.

And once again I was knocked out by the everyday dialogues that go on in our house. I have no idea where Matt has been getting this -- we don't watch such things on television or in movies, and although it's true he has weaning issues, we don't even use the word nipples. But there it is. Delicious Nipples.

Gimme Gimme Gimme.
Mood:  cheeky
Topic: Matt
As some of you may know, two-year-old Matt has finally weaned from the breast. Depending upon who you are -- whether you're a crunchy Mommy type or a college buddy or a smart-ass blogger or what have you -- that information may inspire any number of reactions from Kudos! to Ewwww to About bloody time, or possibly some or all of the above.

Matt is being a pretty good sport about the whole thing, really, but has replaced nursing with a habit which I fear most people would find socially unacceptable, namely that he feels free to plunge his hand inside my bra, any time the mood may strike him, and start rummaging about in there. I have tried reasoning with him, explaining that we just don't do that and that people aren't generally going to let him get away with that type of thing later in life, but he isn't really impressed by any of my arguments. Nor is his father any help whatsoever. He just cackles and gives him a thumbs-up and says Go for it, kid.

Well. Many women say that they wish their husbands would be more tolerant and supportive of extended breastfeeding. And to that I say Be careful what you wish for.

Being There For Matt.
Mood:  crushed out
Topic: Matt
That kid is so attached to me. Most of the time it's flattering and delightful; but I have to remember how large I loom in Matt's world, and how a rejection from Mommy, however small, can hurt that dear little guy.

Yesterday he woke up while I was downstairs packing his bag for day care. I heard Erika call to him, "Are you looking for Mommy?" as he stood at the baby gate in the doorway. She offered to carry him downstairs to find Mommy, and I looked up to see a smile break across that little face like sunrise when he caught sight of me from the upstairs hall. She brought him down and handed him to me, and he wound those little arms around my neck, buried his face in my cheek, and stayed that way for a good five minutes.

I've received less enthusiastic greetings from friends who haven't seen me for years.

Later in the day, I was feeling less patient. Sam and Matt had been squabbling on and off for hours, and the two of them were snapping at my heels like a pack of surly dogs as I tried to work around the house. I darted out to the garage to fold a load of laundry, and sure enough, there came Matt, coming around as usual to unfold the clothes as fast as I could fold them and place them in the basket. "Honey, can't you please go inside and see your Daddy?" I said impatiently.

His little shoulders slumped. "Okay," he said, and trudged into the house. Oh, honey, I'm sorry!

God, help me cultivate more patience. With another kid on the way, I'm sure going to need it. And especially, help me never to forget that as busy and harassed and rushed as I might feel, I'm the sun in the sky of a certain little boy, and that's not only a big honor but a big responsibility. Help me shine bright for him.

The Sweetest Thing.
Mood:  crushed out
Topic: Matt
Oh, my Matt. This child slays me. On weekday mornings, he is invariably asleep when I gently put on his slippers and sweater, and sometimes he barely stirs. I lift him carefully to my shoulder, and he is unspeakably warm and soft as he puts his little head on my shoulder and burrows his face into my neck. So sweet and trusting. I love it that he feels so safe in my arms.

I carry him out to the car. It's been cold in the mornings, and when I sit him in his seat and start to buckle him in, his face crashes and he starts to cry. Poor little guy. Pulled from his warm bed and his mother's arms! I tuck a blanket around him, and soon he falls asleep again.

This morning when I got him to day care, he didn't want to let me go -- just held on tight with that little face burrowed into my neck. And then he raised his face to mine and said "Mommy!" in the happiest voice, with the biggest smile. Little angel. He just spent the entire weekend with me, yet he looks and sounds like I'm his hero and he hasn't seen me for weeks.

He cried when I handed him over to the day care lady. I walked out the front door with his howls trailing behind me. I've learned it's easiest on Matt if I make a quick escape instead of prolonging my departure, so I kept going. But I knew what he meant. Honey, it was so hard to tear myself away from you.

See you tonight, pookie pie.

I Love You, Too.
Mood:  crushed out
Topic: Matt
This morning, Matt said "I love you" to me. If there is no sweeter sound in Heaven or on Earth than Matt's voice, then there is nothing anywhere so sweet as that voice saying those words.

I love you too, Boo Boo.

Boobies Out!
Mood:  happy
Topic: Matt
Matt has always asked to nurse by saying na-na; it was his first "word". Today I was sitting at the computer when he came up and asked for na-nas. And then he said, "Boobies out!"

I just about peed my pants laughing. When he was done nursing, he got down from my lap, waved bye-bye at my chest, and said "Bye-bye, na-nas!"

You have to like a guy who has that kind of relationship with his food source.

A Matt Moment.
Topic: Matt
Just because he's adorable.

Would You Like A Tantrum With That?
Mood:  happy
Topic: Matt
It's become quite clear to me that we aren't going to be able to eat out anywhere but Chuck E. Cheese for the next five years or so. In fact, three nights ago I vowed that we would never again leave the house.

We took the kids to Stride Rite for another appallingly expensive round of new shoes. Afterward, we cast about for someplace to eat. Someplace without white tablecloths, a kid-friendly place. We settled on Ruby's.

When we tried to place him in a high chair, Matt had an utter meltdown. He screamed like we were boiling him in oil. Wouldn't let me hold him. Wouldn't take a bottle. Wouldn't eat the crackers or play with the toy the manager rushed over to give him. I carried him outside briefly, but the minute we went back in, he erupted into howls of rage.

I was able to get him to shut up for a while by letting him stand next to me on our seat in the booth, but this was problematic as he grabbed for every item on or near the table. And if I tried to stop him? he howled anew.

What did Matthew want? Matthew wanted to walk around. I've written before about Matt's insistence on freedom and his absolute fury when restrained. That high chair felt like a cage to him. He felt he had an unbridled right to go where he pleased and touch what he wanted, and when we tried to infringe on that right, he screamed with the loudest and, to him, most righteous anger.

So we did the tag team thing. Ben took Matt out into the mall and let him walk around while I scarfed down my salad, then I took Matt out into the mall and let him walk around while Ben scarfed down his fish tacos. Was the food any good? Don't know. Didn't notice.

But you want to know the funny part? Today I met my husband for lunch in the middle of the work day. We went to El Torito, one of our familiar old haunts. There were no children with us. No one was screaming or struggling. And you know what? I was almost bored. I wasn't sure what to do with my hands. I tried reading the newspaper, but found that the 'Net has completely ruined this for me. People, did you know this? The newspaper is full of news from, like, yesterday. It's so half an hour ago. And I found myself wishing the kids were there, as I usually do when I'm not with them.

So, Chuck E. Cheese it is: the only place louder than Matt. Bad food and Bud Light. See you there. I'll be the one chasing the stubborn toddler all over the room.

Matt Speaks.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Matt
Finally, at almost 19 months, my little angel has decided to start talking. I was starting to worry; Sam was an early talker, and although you're absolutely not meant to compare your kids to each other, Matt seemed a little slow to talk. But then he's been slow about doing almost everything, even cutting teeth. He only has six of them, at last count, although just try to get him to open his mouth.

Last night in the car on the way home, he pointed at his eye and said "I got eyes." Later, he told me he wanted to come in from the backyard and watch Teen Titans: "Titans. House."

These are his first sentences. And suddenly I noticed that his voice isn't that of a baby anymore; when he says these words, he speaks like a kid. My baby is growing up.

Every one of Matt's milestones will always be a little sad for me in a way that Sam's will not, because Matt is my last baby. This one is no different. Take all the time you need, little Matt. Maybe you're not hurrying to grow up for your mommy's sake.

Matt Matt.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Matt
Sometimes he is Matty Boo or even Matty Boo Boo, but mostly he is Matt Matt. Not in the John-John sense, but in the sense that he is more than a Matt, he is a Matt Matt -- he is Matt squared!

A few weeks back, I sat in my office and mooned over Sam. Today I am mooning over Matt. One of the best parts of being a parent is getting to rediscover your kids (and your spouse) over and over again. No matter that I see them and interact with them day in and day out, they are always reminding me anew how much I love them, and exactly why.

Matt is 17 months old and remains a brilliant ray of sunshine (albeit with a core of pure steel. Don't mess with him!). The highlight of my day is picking him up from day care, because he cries out with happiness on catching sight of me. And then I pick him up, and he puts his tiny chubby arms around my neck and hugs me as tight as he can, and doesn't let go. Meanwhile giving me "mwaah" kisses on my cheek and neck. Does life get any better than that? I look forward to this moment all day.

He's using his words more and more, although sometimes to mysterious effect. Just yesterday he started saying "Quack" at various intervals. So we are quacking back at him. We're not sure why he wants to quack, but if that's the game, if that's what Matt Matt wants, then so be it. He is a slower talker than Sam, so we try to encourage his language skills. I can't wait to hear what he has to say (until, as Erika has pointed out, he gets much older and what he has to say is Up yours, or the equivalent. But that day is a long way off).

So it's only eight a.m. or so, and I have nine and a half hours until those chubby arms are around my neck again. And sometimes I wonder why I work all day, but I guess that's it -- two little boys running up to greet me, a brilliant dimple-lined smile, a pair of chubby arms around my neck. (And later, the sight of their daddy coming up the front walk, coming home.) It might not be glamorous, but for me? It's all I ever need.

Hell Hath No Fury Like . . . Matt.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Matt
My younger son, as I've mentioned, is a sweet, happy, sunshiny soul. This was evident even in the womb, where he was much quieter than Sam -- so quiet, in fact, that I used to lose sleep worrying whether he was okay in there. And further evidenced by their respective first nights on earth: The night he was born, Sam screamed all night. The night he was born, Matt slept all night. Sam is an intense kid, and I was relieved, on getting acquainted with Matt, that I'd finally managed to produce that most coveted of all parental accomplishments: an Easy Baby.

And he was an Easy Baby. But Matt, now that he is walking well and is starting to talk, is a baby no more. Matt is a toddler. An easy toddler? Oh yes. Matt is a sweet little ray of sunshine and happiness.

Until, that is, you thwart his considerable will. Then he turns into Attila the Hun with an anger management problem.

He has taken to walking alone with such fervency, such singleminded dedication, that nothing will do but that he must walk alone everywhere. In busy parking lots. Along steep inclines and small waterways. In crowded stores. Everywhere, in short, that a guy less than three feet tall should not be walking alone. And if I refuse to put him down to walk, or pick him up once he's started, he will struggle furiously and howl with the purest rage and indignation I have ever heard, until people turn around and give me piercing looks like Why are you beating that adorable little child?

Nor, when he walks, will he be guided by any outside force. At the park yesterday, as Matt marched around, he got too close to the edge of the duck pond. I, who was dutifully following him around, took his hand to guide him away. His response? He howled with rage, sank his teeth into the back of my hand, plopped down onto his butt, and screamed bloody murder until I backed off. It was a difficult outing for both of us. Certainly, I wanted to make my little darling happy and let him walk freely in the great outdoors, but I didn't want him marching into the duck pond. Or off the side of the hill. So we were at a bit of an impasse.

Finally I found a flat area with no water or other major hazards, and he marched around to his heart's content, until he decided that he'd had enough and I should pick him up. (When Matt decides that I should pick him up, it's no issue and he doesn't protest; unless, God help me, I don't pick him up. Then it's the indignant rage all over again.)

So I have been blindsided by all this, my Easy Baby blossoming into a toddler with a formidable will and incredible tenacity. Next to him, Sam is a pushover. Who knew? The moral of the story is to never underestimate an Easy Baby, even if he has enormous dimples and a smile that could melt the polar ice caps. Especially if he has enormous dimples and a smile that could melt the polar ice caps. We are a stubborn, strong-willed family, every one of us, but in Matthew I think we have met our match.

Thanks For The Mammaries.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Matt
Breastfeeding is awesome. I had this thought at three in the morning while nursing Matt in our familiar posture, lying down in our warm bed with a cool breeze wafting through the window. It's such a happy thing for both of us that when I cuddle him close and he latches on, a little Mmmmm escapes us both. And I stroke his head and shoulders and look at his sweet face. This is the ultimate in mother/baby bonding, and the fact that we have been at it for 15 months does not make it any less sweet or precious.

Don't think I don't know it. Matt is my last baby, after all, unless Ben and I do something really stupid. I am 43 years old, and the prospect of reproducing again is (a) foolhardy and (b) sort of gross, honestly. So nursing my baby is precious, because when I have nursed Matt for the last time, that will be it. Finito. (Also, from a practical angle, I know with certainty that when I stop nursing him, my boobs are going to wilt horribly, and at my age, that is not going to be a pretty thing.)

Nursing a toddler is something I haven't done before, having weaned Erika at 3 months and Sam at 8 months. (I'm sorry, kids!) It can be a tricky thing, like when Matt tries to stand on his head while nursing, or when he tries to reach in my shirt and deedle my other boob, which I really dislike. But it keeps him happy. He will play with his brother and walk all over the place, but periodically he comes back to me and says Na na, and makes a pit stop. Breastfeeding is his home base, the safe place he comes back to when being a toddler just gets to be too much work and he needs to refuel.

We have fun, too. When he nurses while awake, we smile at each other and play our little nursing games. He pulls at my necklace and explores my face with his hands. And I talk to him and tickle him. Perhaps my favorite sight in the world is his happy little face, laughing with a boobie in his mouth.

I could climb on my soapbox and lecture you on the benefits of breast milk, but half of you know all about it, and the other half of you don't care. But ladies? Don't cave in and go the formula route if you can help it at all. And guys? Get over yourselves and encourage your wives to breastfeed. It quite honestly is one of the most awesome things that's ever happened to me, and Matt lets me know in a hundred little ways that he agrees.