Oh, hey Andy – thanks for your call.  I understand by your multiple voice mails that ensuring we schedule that last available appointment to meet with your shoe-bronzing representative next week is of utmost importance…

It’s just that I’m a little busy right now…

You see, Andy, while you might think that “preserving those precious memories of my child’s first steps” is an issue of national security.  I beg to differ.  I’m more concerned with preserving my sanity, my carpet, and my security deposit.

You know, it’s those first steps that got us in this predicament to begin with.

Andy, it’s not your fault.  I know the memory preservation business is hurting what with the economy and digital cameras and all.  You aren’t the only offender.  To be fair, Rachel from Wachovia is so concerned about my accidental and untimely (what does she know?) death she calls every night at bathtime.  And I answer every single time, thinking “oh snap, it’s the bank, maybe they want to refund me those overdrafts from last week. Maybe they are calling to tell me that I won the contest for smallest check-card purchase (a single copy at Staples) and we’re  being flown on an all expenses paid trip to anywhere else.”   Nope, just Rachel, calling to remind me that life is precious and short – though not too precious or short to discuss the preciousness and shortness of it every-single-night with a total stranger.

Don’t get me started on the automated messages that we get 6 times a day for some guy named Brian.  For the love of all things ethereal.  Just pay your shit, Brian.  Seriously, cause they don’t believe me when I say that I don’t know you and I don’t like people thinking I’m a liar!

I don’t know why I even have a home phone line anyway.  I wouldn’t dare get rid of it though, in case the CAP waiver ever comes through and they don’t know how to get in touch with me and pass us up.

I digress.  Right, so I’m posting because it has come to my attention that I don’t really have any the best skills for managing “behavioral” things.  So we’re (ahem, I’m) getting help.  Miss Jennifer is going to come every week and give us (ahem, me) some tips on setting boundaries and whatever else good parents do.

Apparently, not only is being a defeated pushover not fun for me, it’s also possible that I could mess my kid up royally too.

I know – talk about responsibility!  This is the crazy stuff no one ever tells you when you go off the pill.

Andy, you should’ve clued me in.  I mean, after all we’ve been through together – I expected more.

Remember when the party didn’t start until after midnight? When you got home with just enough time to shower, take a few No Doz, chase them with a Mountain Dew (we didn’t have “Red Bull” kids), and make it to work on time?

Crap, that was a long time ago.

I love sleep. It’s like my favorite part of the day. There’s nothing better than falling asleep before 7 with the boy and not waking up until the next morning. Sometimes when I am sleeping I dream that I am on a sleep-cation.

All by myself in a giant bed with fluffy white linens and like 20 pillows.

And cashmere socks. Naturally.

But tonight, it’s 4 a.m. and I’ve been watching children’s programming on demand for the past three-ish hours.

My prince woke up with an earache, or a dream about an earache (I’m not really clear on the specifics), and we’ve found ourselves too traumatized to go back to sleep.

So instead we’re eating graham crackers and learning about the merits of turn taking a la Big Bird, Elmo and Zoe.

Is this why grown-ups drink coffee?

Is it possible to keep him at arm’s length forever?   Is it wrong to envelop him in praise and love and acceptance?

I mean, for like every single minute of every single day…as long as I live.

Because failure, rejection, they merely sting my ego – but the smallest of slights towards my child – well that takes my breathe away.

And not in a good way.

I just want to shake them and scream “Answer him!  Play with him!  Love him!  Damn You!”.

He’s actively trying to engage other people.

This is a miracle.

This is the stuff we dreamed about.

Oh but this is also painful.  Because it’s not, “Hey, can I play?” – it’s more like “Excuse me, um yes, my name is Peter.  Can you help me spell my name?”

Today he followed a little boy around a Chuck E. Cheese for 15 minutes saying “I’m sorry.  Can you help me?”.

Where to intervene?  Was it cruel to kind of watch where it was going?  To step back and observe?  To minimally facilitate (place words in his mouth) the interaction, where I would usually jump right in and say “This is Peter.  He would love to play with you.”

It felt wrong.  It felt cruel.  It felt like my heart had been ripped out of my chest and was just floundering there – me, the cardiac surgeon of public relations, wordless – impotent against helping this precious, perfect person relate to the public.

What makes it worse is that he took note and he remembered.  During our daily “once upon a time” recap he inserted “and today no one wanted to play with me.”

Thump. Thump. T h u m p…  Gasp.