Not my words Wednesday

Oh my freaking gawd. We're drowning in snow, and we're getting more. We're freezing our buns off. There's really nothing to do...except watch Junior's trains go around the Island of Sodor.



I'm afraid that one of these days I'm going to go to the Island of Sodor and never come back.

I can't complain too much though. Really. Junior is happy to pass the time pretending to be Sir Topham Hatt. About 20 times a day we overhear this from the living room:



That Fat Controller is so critical. And loud! Curiously loud. I was interested to see how Junior was able to throw his voice so well, so I checked in on him.



At least the damn breast pump is good for something.

My life is now complete

I can't friggen believe it. Thomas the Train emailed me a Mother's Day greeting, along with cutesy tips on how to enjoy my day. Because he wants me celebrate by riding on him again—not by drinking vodka—I've decided he can bite me.

Happy Mother's Day!

Hah. Like I really take bubble baths

Dear Junior,

At one time, you slept like a butterfly in something my friend liked to call that sack.



You loved your Amby Bed sack, so much so that I worried you’d always need to sleep suspended in the air. But one day, after I learned that putting you to bed earlier—rather than later—made falling asleep easier, you spent the night in a crib. And there you’ve slept for a year and a half.



You never once tried to climb out of your crib, which surprised me. Isn’t that a rite of passage? Weren’t we supposed to awake one morning to see you standing by the foot of our bed?

I guess there’s plenty of time for that now, because your father found this on craigslist:



When your father told me it was a train bed, I didn’t make the connection. Or maybe I did and I just didn’t want to accept the fact that another piece of your life had fallen prey to that fat-faced train.

I’m happy Thomas brings you so much joy, but between the Thomas lamp, night light and train station set, our home is starting to resemble the Island of Sodor, and that freaks me out. Some days it bothers me because the Island of Sodor sounds a lot better than Mulletville, and I don't really want it to be my go-to place when I'm in the bubble bath.

Unless Sir Topham Hatt suddenly started looking like this:



Other days it bothers me because Thomas the Train seems like a big commercial machine. None of the other characters you could have chosen to embrace seem as heavily outfitted. Curious George doesn’t have a shed he sleeps in or a platform he puffs up to (one that retails for $19.99 anyway). And Clifford the Big Red Dog doesn’t even have a dog bowl—at least one that I’ve seen in the stores.

I want to be sure you don’t become the kind of kid who walks into a store expecting five new Thomas friends. I know that has a lot to do with us, your parents, but the Thomas the Train empire is the size of planet earth, and your father and I are the size of, well, just middle class Homo sapiens.

Everything seemed so much simpler when you were dangling from a metal spring. Your gray, creepy-faced train bed has made me realize that I'm not ready for you to be ready for a real bed. I had a lot of wine tonight and I'm really, really crumpled up over your sudden leap into big boyhood.

Could you please slow down? Could you please give me a second to absorb all this? Could James or Percy possibly talk to the Fat Controller about starting an exercise regime?

No? I didn't think so.

P.S. If you have an Amby Bed, the company did a voluntary recall in January. All the details are here.

The puffers vs. the gamblers

Yesterday's outdoor wedding, sit-down dinner, winter hike and child’s birthday party went swimmingly, thanks to the four changes of clothing I brought.

And actually, it was such a beautiful day that I didn't feel like slitting my wrists until after we got to my nephew’s birthday party. But only because Chuck’s brother’s wife is a she-beast. I won’t get into that now, however. Instead I’d like to tell you where I've been for the last week—and not because I want to bore your pants off, but because I think I started dating someone.

It all started Tuesday night. My brother Ted called me in tears. He and his fiancee Holly were having problems. She’s getting clingy and is too eager. He needs space. They would be at our house bright and early Wednesday.

Joy.

On Wednesday, Ted and Holly arrived for brunch. Chuck beat his chest and said he was going to Home Depot; Ted would help him. Holly and I spent the next two hours watching Junior push Thomas the Train around the track.

"Is Thomas puffin'?"

"YES. YES. YES."

When Chuck and Ted got back to the house, I contemplated puffin’ myself.

Ted informed me and Holly that he was getting together with the boys to play poker; Chuck offered to sit in for someone. Holly looked forlorn and asked if I wanted company. Despite my internal noooooooooooo, I heard myself say yes. I spent the next few hours drinking wine and listening to Holly’s childhood pet stories.

The highlight: The time Holly’s guinea pig had pneumonia and she nursed it back to health with a heating pad. The lowlight: The time Holly’s guinea pig had pneumonia and she nursed it back to health with a heating pad.

On Thursday, Holly spent the day with her family. While Ted farted and enjoyed his space (all ten feet of it), we ate turkey at my mother’s house.

On Friday, Holly and Ted came over again. After lunch, Chuck and Ted "got lost" at the casino on the way to Home Depot (don't ask). Holly and I spent the next five hours watching Junior push his trains around the track.

"Is Thomas puffin?"

"YES. YES. YES."

Somewhere in there I drank mass amounts of wine and sent Chuck threatening text messages like, “I guess u never want 2 hve sex again.”

The men came home. Chuck left for a stag (yah, I know). Holly and Ted spent the night. We played Scrabble. The only words Holly and I could come up with had to do with trains. Ted felt suspiciously like a third wheel.



On Saturday, Ted left at 8 a.m. to be to work in Boston. Holly offered to keep me company for breakfast while Chuck slept (bastard). Again, we watched Junior push his trains around the track. When Junior asked, “Is Thomas puffin'?” she answered, “Uh huh! Yes! Yep! He is! Uh huh! He is, sweetie!”

Suddenly I realized I’d become numb to her eagerness to please. I also realized I’d rather hear her sing-song voice than my brother’s toxic flatulence. When Holly left at noon, Junior and I watched her from the window. I started to feel something, something achy and sad in the stillness: separation anxiety.

If a train puffs in a playroom and Holly isn’t around to hear it, does it make a sound?

I swear, if my brother breaks off the engagement, I will date her myself. Even if she is clingy and lazy and she monitors my wine intake like a busybody. Even if she does tell too many guinea pig stories and leave lubricant everywhere she goes.

I’ve invested too much time to let her go that easily. We can make it, baby!

Holly and me, up in a tree
P-U-F-F-I-N-G
First goes Chuck,
Then goes Ted
Then comes Thomas in Tidmouth Shed

Hah!