The book would be entitled, "I Wrote This Book to Make Alice Cry."

Henry: I want a book about Star Wars and star destroyers and death stars and ambulances and pumpers and tie fighters and star destroyers. And ladders.

Me: That would be some book!

Henry: Yeah. It's sort of my whole deal.

Spinning wheel, got to go ‘round.

As the Child hurtles past the 2 1/2 mark and careens toward 3, his mood swings have begun to last for days, if not weeks. So: we’ll have a marathon of intense horribleness, followed by a leisurely stretch of unbridled lovability. It also seems that, the more horrible he is, the more lovable he’ll be later, and vice versa. (Of course, if this were strictly true he’d be escalating in every cycle toward a state of almost inhuman badness or goodness, so I guess it’s not strictly true, but whatever, I’m not a scientist.)

You’d think this could mean that I could ride out the bad period, because I’d know it would soon come to an end. Like during the last Black Period, when we were at the bookstore and, for no reason I could see, he threw a book at my face and screamed one of his charming nonsense words that sounded exactly like “Bitch!” (To all the shocked caregivers surrounding me, some of whom gasped and clutched their bosoms: he wasn’t saying “Bitch,” okay? I mean, if he was going to repeat the cursing he hears in our house, he’d call me an asswipe or a douche. You know! All sophisticated-like!) Or at the playground, when he collapsed into a frothing, shrieking mess because it was time to go home, and I had to haul all 40 pounds of him into the stroller and somehow buckle him in and he kept kicking me in the teeth. You’d think I could laugh these episodes off! Ha, ha! Kids!

Nope, pretty much I can’t.

But now! Oh my god, the sweetness, the cuddling, it's almost too much. Unbidden, he will request a kiss and/or hug. He will come up with statements like “You're my best pal” and “Your hair is cute” (I swear I’m not making this up) or “I’m enjoying this wonderful day with you, Mommy.” During walks he’ll ask me the names of different flowers and then expound upon the wonders of that particular flower. This child, according to him, has an infatuation with tulips that borders on the inappropriate. He is hot for tulips. Today, as I ate my lunch, he stood next to me watching, a huge smile on his face, and as I ate the last bite of my sandwich he said, “That was your last piece!” and I agreed and he said, “And now the Last Piece Monster is coming to kiss you!” and he started kissing my arm.

The Last Piece Monster. Can you stand it?

He’s been this way for a while. It could all change at any minute. No storm clouds will herald the darkening of the Child’s mood. He could go down for his nap with a smile, and then wake up to announce that I am in a world of shit.

He’s napping now.

I’m afraid.

Welcome to Williamsburg. Here's your beret.

First off: my Dad thanks you for the prayers and good wishes. While I may be lacking in religiosity, or at least let’s say I don’t cotton to the church-going, my Dad is one holy bastard (and I’m sure he would be charmed by that turn of phrase) and appreciates very much all the praying. So if you have any more you feel like serving up, you go right ahead.

Okay, also? Apparently in addition to getting a Dacron stent inserted (what’s with the Dacron? Didn’t one of my commenters mention this? Can someone tell me why Dacron is the fabric of choice?), he’s also getting some pig valves. Pig valves. “Available only from Hormel,” as my Dad put it.

I don’t know what to say about that.

Last week I wrote an entry about a conversation with my family-in-law, in which the older members of said family quizzed Scott and me about what a “hipster” looks like, after I made some comment about the hip kids in Williamsburg. It was a funny entry. Oh, how it made me laugh. I was going to post it, to share the surreal joy with you. And then evil gnomes invaded my computer and destroyed the document because, well, didn’t I say they were evil?

What I can recall of their guesses as to what hip people wear:

1. Berets. (Or some other manner of “interesting hat.”)

2. Fringed and tie-dyed apparel. (“You mean hip like hippie?”)

3. Sweaters and sportjackets. (Yes. Hip people dress like Bing Crosby.)

4. Spats and corncob pipes.

Okay, I made that last one up. I wish I could remember the rest. Oh, it was funny. Hoo boy.

I couldn’t tell them anything about the attire of the hip, because when the hipsters approach I’m so shamed by my comparative absence of hipness that I am temporarily blinded and all I can do is roll about on the ground shrieking until they retreat.

Moving on:

Yesterday Henry and I had the following exchange, after I came upon him curled up on the ground next to his Star Wars dolls (THEY ARE NOT DOLLS, my husband shouts even though he’s not here), I mean figures.

Me: Are you okay?

Henry (eyes squeezed shut): I’m a baby.

Me: You’re my baby.

Henry: No. I’m just a baby. [After a second, he gets up.] I will have some water in a big boy cup. [This is as opposed to a sippy cup, you see.]

Me: Good idea!

We go get some water.

Henry: You feel sad.

Me: I do?

Henry: Water will make you feel better.

Me: Sure, I like water.

[We drink water.]

Henry: Do you feel better?

Me: You know, I do! Do you feel better?

Henry: No, you were sad. Do you feel better?

Me: I absolutely feel better now. Thank you.

Henry [putting his cup down]: Good. Now it’s time to spin around and around.

And dear god, he was right.

Note to my neighbors: What you heard through the pipes in your bathroom was not what you thought you heard.

During tonight’s pre-dinner hand-scrubbing, Henry was playing with two small plastic balls. The joy he felt at being allowed to bring these balls with him to the sink prompted the following series of enthusiastic declarations.

I’m going to wash my balls!

My balls are all wet now.

My balls are so slippery! Slippery with soap.

I will rinse my balls.

My balls are all nice and dry.

Now my balls are so clean.

Thank you and goodnight.