Guess how old…

The Cave Troll will be on Thursday. Bless his little heart–we were in the car the other day and he said, “Mom, I have Percy, and Thomas, and Molly…but I don’t have Toby…” And then he started to sing, “Happy Birthday to me…”

Well, of course a Toby was the number one thing on our list of things to get him!!! (Actually we gave that honor to his best friend’s mom…there are priviledges granted with being asked to haul your tribe to the park on your day off…)

I actually had this post already yesterday when we got back from the party, but blogger took a giant plotz. I think I know how I screwed it up though, so I’m ready to try again, and this time, I’ve got more better things to say about everybody’s favorite Cave Troll.

For example–

The Cave Troll, whom is more OCD than a child born to two compulsive slobs has a right to be, announced his impending presence with contractions that were ten minutes apart. No more. No less. Ten minutes apart. For four hours, I had spine-cracking contractions every fucking ten minutes, until Mate stood up, said, “Fuck this shit! (that’s a quote!) I’m calling your mom and we’re getting the hell out of here.” Mate doesn’t swear nearly as much as I do–I was very impressed.

When the Cave Troll came out, they had given me some very good drugs…I mean VERY good drugs. I didn’t realize how stoned you could be and still function until I clawed my way out of a dead sleep for a contraction they felt on fricking Mars, and they said ‘Mrs. Lane, we’re going to burst your water now.’ I said, “Be ready to catch.” And then I fell asleep. He was born on the next contraction–they said, “Push hard…WAIT, NOT THAT HARD!!!!” It was too late,. As he was coming out, he scraped his face on my pelvic bone–it looked like we shot him out into a frying pan on his face–two brick red eyes, and a bruise around his entire nose/mouth area. We would have ‘oh, boo-bood’ the kid to death except he had other problems. HIs blood sugar was low and they didn’t believe me when I said I was in labor so they didn’t have time to give me the strep drugs so there was that strep worry and basically he spent five days in the NICU before we brought him home. For those of you who have ever gone to a hospital in labor and returned without a baby–for whatever reason, and whatever length of time–you will know something of that awful suspension of your life. It was only five days for us, but I know people who had premie twins, and it was two months, or the unthinkable which I will not talk about today because this is a happy post, but I can tell you that there is a special sort of forlorn desolation about a pristine nursery with no baby to fill it that can not be made whole until there is a shrieking, pissy little person taking up that space.

His third day in NICU, Mate and I were caught in traffic on the way to feed him, and they had to take him out of the premie ward for a moment–he was, in their words, “showing those premies what a fully developed set of lungs sounded like.” It was obvious that when he got home, he would fit the description of ‘shrieking, pissy little person’ with all of his organized soul.

And he has. He craves structure, order, and much like that big melon headed child from ‘Family Guy’ seems constantly to be plotting ways to drive his mama out of her noggin. This morning we got to the babysitters just as Brenda herself drove up. Brenda knew the drill though–he’s got us both well trained. She hopped through the door first, let him ring the door bell and run over to the porch chair to sit, and then she opened the door graciously and said, “Hello, Cave Troll…good morning!”

His brother has to do much the same thing every afternoon when we get home.

He still insists on a bottle because his sister drinks from one, but he really prefers a straw. He wants to make sure his sister is included in everything, mostly so he can either get her in trouble of beat on her when he needs to. She’s plotting revenge already. He’s the only member of the family who couldn’t stand to lose a few pounds, and he’s the only member of the family who plugs the toilet every time he poops. He’s the only member of the family who does not talk compulsively, and the only member of the family who started out enunciating every word with the precision of a tiny exacto knife. He means every thing that he says. Chicken is his favorite guardian, and Big T the person he is most likely to fight with, and he has mama’s number every day on te way home. He knows that I will stop at McDonalds for chocolate milk and a useless piece of plastic every damned day. And he says ‘Thank you’ when I lay down with him to go to sleep, right before he closes his eyes.

Whe he got his Toby train he said, “I luuurrrrve Toby” with the same infatuation of a teenaged girl saying “I lurrrrrve Jensen Ackles” and with probably more sincerity and fervor. This morning when he was lamenting that we couldn’t set up his train in his room he said, “My room is messy. YOu need to clean it. I’m sorry, mom, I made it messy.”

He wore the Spiderman outfit he got for his birthday down to his nap, a little pint-sized spidey, sleeping under our flowered comforter. I love him more than words can say.

Yesterday was a good day, a party in the park, us, grandparents, and one family with two boys and a girl from Chicken’s soccer team (which is how the Cave Troll and the boys got to be the bestest of best best friends) and they played until they were dropping in their shoes. Ladybug, especially, had a fantastic time, and we’ve finally discovered that this one set of sounds that sounds like “ouindat!” actually means “open that”. She tends to say it when we’re holding chocolate. Mate blames me.

So he’ll remember the party–the ‘pentata’, the trains, and, most especially (thanks gramma & grampa) the Spiderman outfit.

Please blogger, load these pix! (Blogger didn’t–I will try another time. *sigh* They were so damned cute it’s not fair. But, I should add, that the cat walked on my computer while I was typing this and left the following “fkggggggggggggggggggg”. Julie, I think he was trying to call himself a ‘fucking feline’ and spare us the trouble.)