Mommymatic

She's ba-ack. Kinda.

2009-09-25T15:20:00.002-07:00

I'm moving, dear reader (if I have even one left after lo, these two years I've been away). I have been re-reading this blog over the last day or so, and I've even gotten a little verklempt about the time of my life it describes. But that life has changed radically--mind-blowingly so--and so I think it's time for a fresh start.

Feel free to visit me at my new bloghome.

From the You Cannot Make This Stuff Up Files

2007-08-09T15:19:00.000-07:00

Ok, so the preschool teacher told me the other day when I went to pick D up that she had been tickling him, because she loves to hear his laugh, and he was laughing, laughing, laughing. And then she stopped, and he stopped laughing and sighed and said "That was amazing."

So then we were trekking out to the ~~bicycle stable~~ shed in the backyard and he was asking for, oh, I don't know, the thirty-thousandth time if he could ride the "big Zander bike" which, as I may have mentioned, has had to be replaced for a short period by a Slightly Smaller Big-Boy Bike (which he is riding here) as he can barely reach the handles. I had already told him, oh, twenty-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine times that he could not, he was still too small, he can ride it when he's three next summer, so I opened my mouth to answer him (perhaps in a voice not specifically designed to be an Inside Voice) when he looked at me like I was nuts, cocked his head, laughed and said "Mommy, I'm just bein' a joke."

And then when I was playing hooky from church, attending a rally for my new man-crush, D and Daddymatic were working the coffee hour room after getting their Eucharist on. Apparently, D asked for--and received, because Miracles Happen in Church--a cupcake. He ate the icing off, handed it back to Daddymatic and asked for another in that Toddler Trance Voice, the one where they kind of mutter the same thing over and over because they know you aren't listening but are hoping to wear you down by sheer volume? And Daddymatic was apparently not wearing down fast enough, because the kid took his father's face in his hands, looked into his eyes and said "DADDY, DO YOU HEAR MY WORDS? I WANT ANOTHER CUPCAKE."

Of course, it's not all Kids Say the Darndest Things around here all the time, though--I think I actually may have said the words "I will stop yelling when you start listening." But then I turned immediately into my mother, so I don't remember much after that.

Six and a half weeks? Seriously?

2007-08-02T10:21:00.000-07:00

I've really been meaning to update this blog, but something about a solid month of temperatures hovering around, say, 4000 degrees has pretty much drained all the life out of me. But I realized that since I wrote last, the One True Child has done a number of blogworthy things, and it's high time I just sucked it up and got back on the computer. That and it's only supposed to be about 86 degrees today. I know that sounds like Early Parenthood, when you say things like "Wow, I just got three whole hours of sleep!" and mean it, but seriously, 86 degrees feels damn near arctic after these last several weeks.

Blogworthy Items of Note:

1. The child decided, completely on his own, that it's time to potty train in earnest. At least on the weekends. Of course, the fact that he gets 3 jellybeans for each successful, ah, 'deposit' doesn't hurt. Apparently, however, he has yet to fully grasp the whole concept of Escalating Rewards, because over the weekend, he was peeing and rather unexpectedly dropped a small brown trout in the potty. I got pretty excited and informed him that when he poops in the potty, he gets a sucker, and you would have thought he won the lottery (of course, pre-potty training, he was more likely to win the lottery than to get that much refined sugar in one sitting, but who's counting?).

He gave me this look that said "Are you KIDDING me? There have been SUCKERS in the offing this whole time and you've neglected to mention that up to this point? I have GOT to instruct my attorney to look at the fine print more closely." He hasn't pooped in the potty since, but I'm just glad he lives such a deprived life that we can get away with offering suckers when other people have to bribe their children with actual nice stuff, like model airplanes and bikes and Roth IRAs.

And while we're on the subject, I have to say that I am frightened by the dizzying array of underwear available for little boys. Boxers, briefs, boxer-briefs. And the licensed characters--good grief. Bob, Diego, Spongebob, Spidey, Mater--I have to bring the Noggin Schedule with me just to figure out who's who. Especially since the preschool has put the big ix-nay on "any characters who fight," which in Little Boy-ese translates to "anyone cool."

However, the most disturbing thing about hunting for boys' unna-pants are the kids on the packaging--they just look so spry and jovial, all hands-on-hips, nubile, clothed in nothing but a pair of spidey tighty-whiteys and grinning charmingly. It totally creeps me out for some reason. Having to spend a lot of time browsing on this aisle makes my tummy feel funny, like at any minute the army of Target's anti-pedophile militia is going to swoop down and ask the guy next to me if it really takes that long for him to find some size 4T spongebob boxers. Ick.

2. He has learned to pedal, which earned him a big-boy bicycle, complete with training wheels. He has not learned to properly operate a coaster brake, which has earned me a number of heart attacks. He has, however, accepted as gospel the fact that "big boys wear helmets on big-boy bikes." Video of the entire bicycling extravaganza coming soon.

3. He is becoming learned at the Art of Manipulation, even at his tender age. Case in point: the other night I had to work late and wasn't going to get home before he went to bed, so we talked a little on the phone, and then he said, in the Most Plaintive Voice Ever, "Come home, Mama."

As I was piecing the shards of my heart back together, Daddymatic explained that D had wanted to go outside after dinner and Daddy had said no, and D suggested we call Mama and ask her to come home so that THEN he could go outside. Because apparently I am a complete pushover wussy-pants. After this information helped lift the crushing weight of guilt off of my chest, I have to say I had a grudging admiration for his keen ability to, well, try to completely play two people who, working together at least, should be able to outsmart him. Well done, indeed.

4. You know how everyone has those incredibly sweet, cloying things that their children say, and you get all jealous because your child is busy saying things like "DON'T say no to me, Mama!" and "I want daddy to put me to bed?" Well, I think D has finally redeemed himself in this area: He's been obsessed with these two videos--especially the "C is for Cookie" one. So then last night, this conversation took place:

Me: What does c-c-cookie start with?

D: Cookie starts with C!!

Me: What does D-D-Davis start with?

D: Davis starts with D!

Me: What does D-D-D Daddy start with

D: Daddy starts wiiiith..I love you!

I was afraid to ask what Mommy starts with, but luckily it appears that Mommy also starts with "I love you," which is good, because for a while there, he was saying things like "You not keeming [screaming] at me, mommy!" in this awed, surprised tone, which made me feel just fantastic, because, I guess, it represents such a departure from my normal MO. Or we'd be looking at his "Mercer Mayer book" at the scene where Mama Monster is clearly comforting Little Monster, and I'd ask what the mommy was saying and he'd say, "She say, NO NO, you get a time out." Outstanding.

So those are my updates. Pictures? Videos? One day soon. *sigh* I mean, at least I'm not keeming, right?

Advice from Sistermatic

2007-06-12T07:20:00.000-07:00

I got nothing. A weekend-plus of the world's worst case of croup (people still get that! some people get it THREE TIMES A YEAR! Who knew?), a visit from the Outlawz, and about a thousand other things too gross or petty to name have just wiped me out.

Luckily, however, my sister is funnier and cleverer--and apparently better rested--than I am, and she sent me this nugget of advice I thought the interwebs might appreciate:

She and her husband who have been married less than a year (read: still honeymoonish and completely nauseating) just got custody of his son last week. This morning I got this email:

>From: sistermatic
>To: stefanierj
>Subject: New Equation
>
>Some things you have to learn the hard way, I guess.....
>
>Threat of thunderstorms + 7 year old = wear PJs to bed

See, now don't say we don't never offer advice on this here blog.

My personal answer to "what could possibly be more boring than reality TV?"

2007-06-06T13:51:00.000-07:00

So say what you will about Di$ney, but whatever sticker company they license their "Car$" products to must freaking rock, because D gave me a sticker for my hand yesterday, and it has lasted through the following:

1 very splashy and interactive toddler bath
1 very wiggly and silly toddler diapering and baby-lotion-applying session
1 sinkful of dishes with the level 2 extra-greasy-slime option package
1 pre-in-law-visit-panic-mode guest room cleaning
2 loads of laundry (which had to be hung up to dry, not because I'm all getting into the Laura Ingalls-y pioneering spirit of Utah or have become angst-fully aware of my carbon footprint, sad to say, but because my dryer is apparently more moody than I am, and a darn sight harder to mollify with a pedicure and a handful of candy bars)
1 shower
1 post-shower high-maintenance product application routine
1 excessively type-A hairdrying routine
3 car-to-office/office-to-car trips. in the rain. without an umbrella. because I am dumb. and this, for Pete's sake, is THE DESERT WEST.

So now I am taking bets as to which will come first: will the sticker wear off? or will someone from my office who no doubt knows me as an Uptight Office Type finally, finally, finally ask why I have a raggedy-ass kid's sticker on my hand?

This is what passes for entertainment when you only have basic cable, people. You have been warned.

The Lord's Day and the Day After That

2007-05-29T15:50:00.000-07:00

Okay, so it's time for a confession, Utah-style. Most of you know that while I am not Mormon, I am quite positively inclined towards the LDS church. I think it's a force for good in this community, and while I don't espouse the theology myself, I think there are some lovely ideas there. Being nice to people. Helping out. Being with one's family for all time and eternity. Now, ten days straight with my family is about all I can manage, but hey, if one wants to be with one's family for all of time and eternity, be my guest! If I were a better person, I probably would, too.

One thing I just don't get, however, is the ban on shopping on Sundays. I get the general gist--that it's a day of rest, that one should not conduct business on the Lord's Day, but what about those of us for whom shopping is less and chore and more, say, a form of therapy? Especially when there is a newly opened IKEA in town, taunting me with its cheery yellow and blue promises of extremely cute Scandinavian design. And 99-cent breakfasts.

So yes, I am confessing. On Sunday morning, we decided that we did not need a repeat performance of last week's nursery debacle at the Cathedral of the Perpetually Howling Toddler and went to IKEA instead. I kind of want to duck behind something when I say that, but it's true. I skipped church and went shopping and I'm not even sorry. We had breakfast, which frankly, wasn't that great, but dude, it was 99 cents. We found the toddler bed to end all toddler beds (because it has a tent! that attaches to the bed!) which we won't be buying for some time but which is darned cute nonetheless. We also found all manner of cute stuffed toys, which we need like a hole in the head but bought one anyway--it's a macabre little turtle who sings "Twinkle Twinkle" when you pull his head out from his body. Gruesome? A little. But also silly cute. Now D announces to everyone he knows that "I LOVE IKEA." That's my boy.

And may I say about 3-day vacations is that they are only 3-day vacations for those without children? Because by Monday morning, I was so ready to be back at my desk, fielding countless demands and answering the same question over and over and over again. Oh wait......

Content evaluation

2007-05-23T07:42:00.000-07:00

Recent google searches that have led people to this blog:

meal moth cat poop

testicle grabbing

poop "bear down"

Mommymatic: Come for the scatology, stay for...what? More scatology?

(I know I'm being cliche and that every blogger inevitably does a post about the wacky searches that bring people to their blog, but this past week is the first time I've gotten any really good ones, so bear with me. No pun intended.)

Tinkle Tinkle, little boy

2007-05-04T08:49:00.000-07:00

So you may have noticed our decided lack of news on the pottytraining front here at Chez Mommymatic. That's because there hasn't been any. I've been trying not to freak out about the fact that some lovely people have managed to potty train their children scant months after their two-year birthdays and that we, up until the last few weeks have only shown a third-party kind of interest in the whole toileting business.

That is, until one of the preschool teachers tapped into the two great toddler currencies (peer pressure and high-fructose-corn-syrup-based products) and persuaded the One True Child to (drumroll, please) PEE-PEE INNA POTTY. Here is how Daddymatic and D broke the news to me:

Daddymatic: Tell mama what happened at school today.

D: I fell DOOOOWN.

Daddymatic: No, tell mama what OTHER thing happened today.

D: ((crickets chirping))

Daddymatic: ((whispers in D's ear))

D: I go pee-pee inna potty. ((pause)) I GET CANDY.

Ah, yes. It seems we have found the magic motivation in the form of...jellybeans. Unfortunately, we also have a toddler who is smarter than both of his parents put together, because the other night before his bath, he begged to be put on the potty. Normally, this is nothing more than a stalling technique, but it's an effective one, since we simply cannot seem to take the gamble of refusing him. I won't double down on an 11, but I'll take 100 to 1 odds that he will actually pee, because this time is different. This time could be the one!

Well, lo and behold--this time? He did. He tinkled a bit and was thrilled to recieve 3 jellybeans for his trouble. He got in the tub, and announced 5 minutes later that he had to pee-pee again. Now, he knows that candy is only distributed for actual fecal or urinary production, so I was curious to see what he'd do since he'd just peed, and the little stinker peed another, oh, pint or so. So either they are putting real coffee in his daviscoffee (why is it that one cup of coffee going in equals 3 coming out again?) or this little bugger has figured out how to hold some back in order to maximize his jellybean intake. Either way, I think I speak for the entire Matic parenting unit when I say "Craaaaaaap."

But seriously, it's a very good thing. I haven't been pursuing the potty training thing for a number of reasons, top among them being the fact that it would really cut into my Laying Around on the Couch time, and yesterday it became clear that It Is Time, because an untimely diaper full of poop throws quite a wrench into one's sequence of errands, especially when said person has been Laying Around on the Couch instead of, say, making sure there were extra diapers stashed in the car.

So we shall see. I welcome and solicit any advice (or shoot, even assvice) you have to offer, dear reader (and that's not a reference to Ann Landers, it's because I'm sure all but one of you have totally given up on my ever posting again).

Oh, and yes, Bee-bee and Grampy were here for 2 weeks, so there should be a post coming about their visit, which might soon be renamed The Least Stressful Two Weeks of my Recent Past.

I will leave you with some cute recent pics and D's favorite memory of my father from this last trip: "Gumpy havva loud nose." Apparently, heaping this child with gifts and food is second to having the most dramatic nasal-mucus-expelling routine ever. Let this be a lesson to you, friends: you never know what you are going to be remembered for.

This is Bee-bee's favorite picture. Yes, she made the apron. Daddymatic has a matching one. Yes, you may throw up in your mouth now. It really is THAT cute.

This is my favorite recent picture. And his mouth is open in both of these pictures because he almost. never. stops. talking. Finally, a trait for the Outlaws to claim!! *cough, cough*

I don't know where he gets the endless chattering thing from

2007-04-26T09:27:00.000-07:00

Some thoughts:

One: So I was washing my hair the other day, and my little voyeur peeped into the shower. He asked for some "bubbles" out of my hair but told him I was washing it. He looked at me gravely and said "You're doing a good job, mom."

Two: We were driving away from the library the other day and a cute Asian couple walked by our car. D doesn't always notice passersby but for some reason, they captured his interest, and he said "What's HIS name?" I told him I didn't know, and he kind of shook his head at me, like "come on, that was such an easy question" and said "it's Frere Jacques" as if maybe I just didn't recognize Frere Jacques because he was wearing sunglasses or a bad toupee. I don't know why this filled me with glee, but I think it has something to do with the fact that D is thinking about this guy now whenever I hear his reedy, sweet voice singing that old French nursery rhyme.

Three: The following commentary might be the reason it takes us 13.5 minutes to get in the car and get ready to go somewhere:

Okay, sweetie, time to get in the car. No, no, D honey, now is NOT the time to run under the tent and hide. I need you to get in the car. Right now. Okay, I'm going to count, and you either come out of the tent or I will come in and get you. One. Two. Very good, thank you for listening. Okay, now let's get out the door. No, the door honey. That's right. Mommy will open the door, you just walk on out. Out. This way, please. Yes, I see the tree. Yes, I see the bicycle. We will play with your bicycle when we get home. No, sweetie, I need you to get off your bicycle right now and get in the car. Are you listening? Thank you for being a good listener. Okay, let mommy open the car door.

Come back over to the car, please. I know you want to roll your car on the ground right now, but we need to get in the car. Please walk to the car. Do you want to walk like a big boy or do you want me to carry you? Okay, then walk. NOW. Oooooone. Twoooooo. Thank you for listening. Now let mommy open the car door. Okay, okay, YOU open the car door. Go ahead. Do you need help? Okay, okay, I won't help. "My" do it. Yes. ((pause)) Do you need help? Because when you grunt and scream like that, mommy thinks you need help. Mommy actually thinks MOMMY needs help when you scream like that. Okay, now into the car. No, honey, there's nothing under that seat. Yes, that is mommmy's seat. There's nothing under it. Okay, you're right, there's a goldfish. No, no, please don't eat the goldfish. That goldfish is grey. And slimy. Yes, slimy. Yes, I will give you a not-slimy goldfish once you GET IN YOUR SEAT. I know you want to climb in the way-back, but we are not climbing into the way-back right now. Get in your seat, honey. I am not asking again. Okay, okay, "my" do it. Just do it NOW. Sit down. D, listen to me. You need to sit down right now. No, mommy needs to help you buckle those straps or she will get arrested. I know you want to do it, but mommy needs to help. Okay, you're all buckled in. Yes, I will get you some goldfish. Yes, I will get your water. And your la-la. And your binky. And a very large, very cool cloth to put to my head.

As Daddymatic likes to say, it is a little like getting pecked to death by a duck.

Co-opting pagan rituals for the sake of candy since 2007

2007-04-17T08:20:00.000-07:00

I've been bad about posting. I really wanted to post just after Easter, but I had a rough week in which I received some pretty bad news about a friend who was killed, and in light of that and the recent shootings at Virginia Tech, it seemed frivolous to post about the fact that D had candy for the first time over Easter and how much fun it was this year to have Easter with him.

But I have been thinking about this more and more, and I think what helps me to get through news that seems so bad you can't even get your brain around it are precisely these moments of silliness and joy--even if they are fueled almost entirely by high fructose corn syrup and D&C red #5.

So I will have more posts coming up--I actually have a few drafted that are just waiting for the gimlet eye of revision to be cast over them before I release them to the ether (yes, believe it or not, most of the stuff I publish here has actually been reread and often revised despite the scrawled-in-haste-on-two-squares-of-toilet-paper je ne sais quoi it embodies.)

And so, I give you a picture and two videos:

Act I: In Which The One True Child Finds Candy, after Just Having Stated to His Mother That "I Don't Want to Eat Real Food, I Just Want Candy."

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Act II, In Which We Explain Wordlessly Why The One True Child Should Not Ever Be Given Said Candy (and Possibly, Why Toddlers Even Look Cute Dressed as Old Men in Socks and Sandals):

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But this face? How can you deny this face the jellybeans it loves more than either one of its parents? Especially since this child gets more mileage out of 3 lousy jellybeans than most people would a 5-course meal?

(The strapping lad with the OTC in this picture is our neighbor, Xander, who has convinced me that the person who said all children should come with the older sibiling accessory was RIGHT RIGHT RIGHT on.)

Our New Valet

2007-03-21T11:25:00.000-07:00

D apparently has decided he is destined for the service industry and is hard at work on carving out a niche market for himself. Namely, he sees a big future in becoming a Bathroom Valet. Lest you think this is merely some fancy name for the person who, in very fancy restaurants, hands you towels when you are finished washing your hands, let me correct you: not so. The responsibilities of this position go far beyond the conveyance of hand-drying textiles. As best I can surmise, his job description for this position would look something like this:

1. When a person in your presence casually mentions that they have to go to the bathroom, announce clearly your intent to go with them. We call this process Engaging a Client. To fully prepare yourself, you may also inquire as to which substances ("PEE PEE? POOP?") that person plans on depositing during this particular bathroom trip.

2. On your way to the bathroom, close and lock all doors with as much enthusiasm as you can muster. Clients like their privacy.

3. Once you get to the bathroom, be sure to rush past the client and lift the lid of the toilet. Once again, you will want to carefully explain every action you are taking ("I LIFT THE LID ONNA POTTY!") so that your client does not become confused.

4. When the client sits to transact his or her business, sit on the small bench (I was going to say stool, ha ha) provided for you and gaze intently at your client so that he or she knows you are fully committed to the waste expunging process. You are encouraged to make descriptive comments about this process, including--but not limited to--attempts to recreate any sound effects that occur. Most clients find such a rapport both charming and compelling.

5. Occasionally, your female clients may need to procure feminine hygiene products. Know where they are kept and their technical names, and repeat them loudly ("TAM-PAAAHN") to ensure you have selected the proper product. Also, do not be afraid to model how these products are to be used, at least in front of female clients. Often such a "refresher course" is appreciated. However, you will want to avoid any mention of feminine hygiene products in front of male clientele. They do not appreciate the depth and breadth of your knowledge.

6. When your client has finished her or his transaction, reach behind him or her for the toilet paper roll and hand it over with a flourish.

7. When flushing, which is your primary responsibility, hold the handle down as long as possible. This is not overkill. It is called Being Thorough.

8. When your client is washing her/his hands, narrate the process, repeating the most important steps loudly ("Washa haaaands! WASHA HANDS!") to ensure that your client knows you are paying attention to procedural detail. The fact that any listeners/bystanders will likely think that your client simply doesn't usually DO these things and thus needs extra reminders? That's merely a bonus.

So there you have it. Fortunately, he hasn't installed a tip jar on the back of the commode, but I fear that's not far off.

What happens in Vegas...

2007-03-13T14:30:00.001-07:00

Oh, yeah. I've been in Vegas. Vegas, baby! A city so storied it caused Daddymatic to leave me a note of things to do that included items such as

1. Double down on an 11 and
2. If you can't be good, at least take pictures.

It was hard-hard-hard being away from my peeps for a week, especially since the One True Child refused, for the first time in six months, to take a nap. This of course was mere hours after I left. Apparently he had forgotten that the last time he pulled this stunt we explained with exaggerated patience that two hours of midday toddler rest time is a mandatory stipulation of his continuing to stay with us. However, the boy rallied later in the day as he and Daddymatic rode the train and conversed with the tweakers my husband seems to attract in the same way that I attracted unwashed slacker dickhead boyfriends during my college years.

Then of course he was ailing and coughy and weepy for a day or two, during which time the confining guilt actually squeezed all air from my lungs and left me gasping after every single conversation with Daddymatic and his small person companion.

But dude, as soon as I hung up, I got to go shopping, meet up with old friends whom I introduced to new friends (what happens when a japanese-hawaiian mormon chick meets up with a formerly catholic lesbian jew? hilarity ensues!), get a mani-pedi, rock the old-school casinos that apparently only elderly hawaiian people frequent, and find out exactly how much sushi one can consume when it's an all-you-can-eat buffet. So there was that.

And the people in my training group were startling in their similarity to, say, the entire cast of Best In Show. Seriously. My coworker friend and I spent most of the first day casting celebrities to play these people. There's the flamboyantly gay guy in bright clothing, his middle-aged female friend with teenaged children who went nuts at the local male revue, the second grade teacher who wore skirts so short I was sure she had to work a bikini wax to wear, and the loud older woman who missed no opportunity to point out the ways the curriculum we were learning was sure to be inappropriate for the Navajo children she teaches at the rez. I am not even making this up. It was more fun that should be allowed, even in Vegas.

But then I came home again, and got to watch D say "pinkle pinkle" as he sprinkled sugar on his oatmeal in the morning, and hear him say, for the first umprompted time, "I love you, mama," and I thought "Meh. What's Vegas got on da SLC?"

So thanks to those of you who were checking to see where I was and a BIG SHOUT OUT and "mwah" to Mo-wo for nominating this post for a ROFL award. I'm blushing, babe, especially since you always make ME ROFL. High praise from the Motherwoman herself. The pressure's on now!

Items of note

2007-02-22T21:59:00.000-07:00

One: The One True Child has apparently mastered the concept of the First Person Singular Pronoun. For those of you who don't speak Insufferable Grammarian, that means that instead of referring to himself by his name, a la Bob Dole, he can now use a pronoun to represent himself in a sentence. Thus, "Day-vuss chair" has become "My chair."

Unfortunately, "my" appears to be the only first person singular pronoun he knows, so it's been a little confusing around here this week as Daddymatic and I, slow as Neanderthals, have finally realized that what he's saying is NOT NOT NOT "Mommy do it" but rather "My do it," as well as charming variations such as "My don't like it" or "My have some." Honestly, it's a wonder this child doesn't lose his patience more often with us, considering that every time he said "My have some" when holding out a bite of food, mommy would, oblivious as she is to Obvious Cognitive and Conceptual Linguistic Progress, eat whatever he was displaying. I mean, at some point, he had to be going "Damn, woman, get your own snacks."

Two: For the first time since I was in the throes of prenatal nausea three years ago, I weigh less than my husband. Yes, he is nearly 5 inches taller than me. Yes, he still has a smaller butt than I do. Yes, this occasionally makes me want to poke at my eyes with a splintery stick. But dude, right now? I weigh less than him.

This woman is responsible for the recent transformation. I have been reading Kristin's mommyblog for months, ever since I found out she was a regular reader who was neither related to me nor paid for her perusals of this blog. I knew she'd done some personal training, and I knew she was tough--I mean, her son Logan is dribbling a soccer ball at a scant 12 months old! But all I wanted was for her to give me a fitness plan. You know, tell me how long to get on the treadmill and how much weight I should be pumping when I do tricep curls or whatever.

What I got was a total-lifestyle-altering, kick ass plan to get my sorry butt healthy and in shape. She wrote out a nutrition plan that frightened me so much I still have a 2-page email I composed to her explaining in the nicest possible way that she might see whether or not her ancestors had ever, say, run the gulag or poked sleeping kittens in the tummy. But I made myself give it a try, and I can say that while I cannot say for certainty that I enjoyed surviving a week without a pop tart, I have discovered that it is, in fact, possible.

She wrote a fitness plan that leaves me feeling like every single muscle of mine was scrubbed by the tiredness machine, rinsed, wrung out and hung to dry. She has promised to write a leg routine next week that will make me cry.

I hate to admit that this turns me on a little.

She makes me warm up. She makes me stretch. She runs me ragged. She also encourages me, cheers me on, and makes me feel like I can actually do this. She didn't even make me sleep in the basement when I cheated on my nutrition plan this week. Of course, I didn't tell her that it was the first time I tried the Utah delicacy that is fry sauce, which is so good that it must be made from God's tears.

So all I'm saying is that if you need a good trainer, and you are hip to the idea of working with a HWAHM (Hard-Working At-Home Mom), Kristin is worth every penny.

Three: I got a sweet new ride this week. Yeah, I know. But duuuuuude, is it a nice car. And so nice to not have to worry about not having enough punch to, say, avoid becoming a hood ornament for an SUV every morning on the interstate. And it's safe! Standard side curtain airbags! "Think of the child!" I keep telling my guilty conscience. Also? My purse fits perfectly in the center console. But I promise I did not know this until I had already committed.

I miss my old car just a tiny bit. She was a good old car. She got us across the country and back the summer we found out D was on his way, and she got daddymatic out here in one piece. Ish. But it was time to split up: we'd fight and then make up, and then something else would set her off and she'd just decide not (!) to accelerate. Or to brake 15 seconds AFTER I slammed my foot on the brake pedal. Very childish behavior. And so we parted ways, complete with a whole "it's not you, it's me" speech on my part.

But here's the problem. D called my old car, inventively enough, "Old car." When Daddymatic got the Subie, it was instantly dubbed the "new car." So my question, internets, is what do we call the new kid? "New-new car" won't do because the "noo-noo" is what he calls the vacuum. Really New Car? The Nice New Car? The Get Your Feet off the Seat, Mommy Has a Lease Agreement to Honor Car has kind of a ring to it, but I dunno. Thoughts?

Bug bites

2007-02-14T22:05:00.000-07:00

A number of really nice, concerned and completely great people have written to us to make sure we're okay after the deadly mall shooting that took place about 10 blocks from us here in Salt Lake City. We are shaken, we are sad, we are seriously reconsidering our stance on the concealed carry law, and we are grateful to live in an environment with brave and skilled emergency workers and cops who were able to make sure the situation wasn't a whole lot more devastating than it was. But we are okay.

We've been busy creating a ladybug circus.

Actually, they're not ladybugs per se, they are red and black beetle-y critters that have, apparently, followed us from Pennsylvania where they used to invade our house in the late fall through early spring. But we flout tradition (and common linguistic labels) and call them ladybugs.

And we love them.

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Here we are trying to take a picture of the ladybug, kiss it, and make it better. In other words, harass it within an inch of its life, as if being an insect in Utah in the winter wasn't bad enough. If you click over to our dropshots site, you can view the sequel: Ladybug II, which is about two minutes long and includes such hilarious hijinks as looking at the ladybug "on the tummy," feeding it goldfish crackers, and nearly squishing the poor guy for his trouble.

The picture's dark, but the audio's pretty funny. But then, we are a strange and easy to entertain people.

Oh, and happy valentine's day. Daddymatic and I decided awhile ago that the real V-day love was going out to the preschool teachers, who made our month when they announced last week that preschool would, in fact, be continuing through the summer. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I was ready to offer them celebratory sexual favors when I heard the news. You know, because it would be awkward if Daddymatic tried that.

Instead, we settled on Tar-zhay gift cards in a festive heart design that said, if nothing else "We love you, even if we are so lame that they were out of Valentine's day cards when we got to Target."

Words and wishes

2007-02-06T15:56:00.000-07:00

There are days when my child makes one of my wishes come true to such a degree that I almost wonder what I was doing wishing for that in the first place. Case in point: I could hardly wait for his first words, for him to talk and be able to communicate with me. And now? He. talks. constantly. Yes, the child who Would Not Speak before 19 months now rivals his grandmothers, his garrulous Aunt Katie and his very own mother in the constant chatter competition.

I have said before, I think, that having breakfast with this child is often like attending an auction, what with the endless stream of babble:

Dates.
I want dates.
Dates! ((because, you know, we must not've heard him, or they would have materialized instantly, right?))
Cut in half.
CUT IN HALF.
More cereal, daddy.
More sugar.
Don't mix it.
More sugar.
Bib.
Need a bib.
No, don't like it.
No bib.
NEED A BIB.
Milk.
No milk.
Milk onna cereal.
I want milk onna cereal. ((pause)) pleeeease?

And that's just to get his food in front of him. Of course most actual eating ceases after the first two minutes, but we feel we must at least try to get the child to ingest something other than the fine rime of brown sugar that sits atop his oatmeal. But my formerly good eater just won't do it. No vegetables. No meat, fake or carnivore-approved. Not even pizza or noodles or, in rare moments, even Daviscoffee. I have heard rumours of the Toddler Starvation Diet, but had not seen this particular beast face to face yet. So far? Not impressed.

And why is it that the kid can remember that, for instance, back in September after the loss of our Eldest Cat, one of the felines had an accident in his room (every night he says "GUN-GUN PEE-PEE ON THE CARPET. BAAAAD GUN-GUN". And the cats always look at him like "Hello, broken record. Plus? You totally dropped a brown trout of your own on the carpet once and we have YET to bring that up, dude. Thanks"). And yet this same child with the steel-trap memory cannot recall that EVERY TIME we check out in the grocery store, the cashier is going to need to scan whatever bag of celery/hawaiian-themed rubber duck/pack of hotdogs/plastic plate he has suddenly glommed on to and, more importantly, that he/she WILL GIVE IT RIGHT BACK. Toute suite, in fact. My friend is convinced that "if you want your children to remember something, do it once. If you want them to forget you did something, do it all the time," and I wonder if this might not be the key to the mystery here. Either way, this catchy phrase has become my new mantra for whenever I catch myself using more, ah, quote-unquote colorful linguistic terms in front of The One Who Notices.

And yet, the impossible cuteness continues unabated, strategically placed, I'm sure, in between moments of great duress, such as unwelcomed diaper changes, transition of food items to/from highchair tray and any time one of the cats approaches a Cherished Possession such as a bowl of goldfish crackers, a favorite fleece blanket, or Mom.

Which he now calls me, by the way. When I get home, instead of our old ritual of exchanging a hug-and-kiss combo that would embarrass those who grace the covers of cheesy romance novels, I now get a decidedly platonic but joyful "Hi, mom" and a wave. A wave! Oh, sure, if I ask for it, I can get a hug or kiss, but it's clear these are concessions he makes because One Of Us hasn't figured out he's a big boy now. I just know the days where we greet each other with wedgies or by burping "what's up, dude?" can't be too far in the future. *sigh*

I have some incredibly cute video I am going to post when I can get it edited, but for now, I leave you with D's rendition of our nightly routine:

Have a bath.
Brusha teeth. Need toothpaste. Turn it on ((it's an electric toothbrush)). Oooh, new batteries.
What's THIS? La-la on the penis. ((riotous laughter))
Diaper on. Need lotion. Put some onna hand. Put some onna tummy.
Fire engine jammie shoes. Car jammie shoes. Motorcycle jammie shoes.
WANT FIRE ENGINE JAMMIE SHOES.
La-la.
Binky.
THAT binky.
See Daddy.
Night-night, daddy. KISS!
Read book.
Read it again.
Read it again.
Lights off.
((and then? To drown out the sound of my heart breaking in half?))
No sing, mommy.

What is this Global Warming you speak of?

2007-01-26T17:22:00.000-07:00

So the slide? Is very big.

And is very brightly primary colorific. Very brightly colorific.

Also? Two people who together weigh less than 300 lbs are not capable of taking it apart. But the two people in question did not discover this fact until after it had been put together. So my living room now looks like a freaking daycare. Good times, eh?

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But as you can see, it is a big, big hit, (yes, he's actually yelling his new favorite phrase "I LOVE it!" ) so I guess we just look like a daycare for now. Or until we sell the house.

Which might be sooner than I had originally thought, because, gee, I dunno, there’s just something demoralizing about spending, say, $10,000 on a brand-spankety new supah-efficient heating system, only to be completely deflated by one’s first $250 heating bill. Welcome to Utah, indeed. So I spent most of last weekend insulating my basement with the help of our trusty friend Mike in the hopes that we might stop hemorrhaging money heating the black hole that is our master bedroom.

And in case you needed another fun reason to live in Utah in the winter--you know, in addition to the weeks of temperatures where the highs are in the 20s (I, like Sparky, do not believe “high temperatures” and “20s” belong in the same sentence), may I introduce you to the meteorological wonder that is The Inversion? You can read the wikipedia article if you want to know what an inversion technically is, but basically, it’s the glut of pollution that gets trapped in the valley thanks to our bowl-like geography, making everything look like smut soup, obscuring my much-adored mountains from view and giving everyone the experience of feeling what it’s like to have smoked for, say, a decade. Because everyone should have that experience, no?

But lest I complain too much about my beloved new home, it is not wholly without merit. It is the land of Amazing Mormon Grad Student Babysitters, one of whom is the ONLY non-family member ever to put Sleepy D down for the night. And she got him to watch 20 minutes of an animated movie. Twenty minutes! When she called me "a knockout" last week, I almost asked her to move in, but I thought she’d think I was too fast. Or easy.

Oh well. At least she’s coming back tomorrow night so that Daddymatic and I can go to the movies. If we can remember what they are.

You, internets? What does the weekend hold for you?

It's official

2007-01-17T20:59:00.000-07:00

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Well, internets, it's official. We've successfully renegotiated Heavy D's contract for another year, due in large part to a vocal showing by his as-yet untapped fan base. So thanks, Sparky, Kristin and Redneck Mommy in particular for showing the love and letting the management know how you feel about this particular player and his strengths.

So, as you can see from the vid, our little fella turned two over the weekend. It was an unusual birthday by Matic standards--no countdown, no cake, no party, no stripper--and the child is from a family in which the father often begins his own birthday countdown in January (hello, March 29?).

But fun? Oh yes.

For starters, Daddymatic got ~~himself~~ D a very cool remote-controlled car, which was an instant hit. I have never seen the Model D take to a toy this way, but, as Daddymatic pointed out, he is male and it is an Italian car. Even if it looks like a Volkswagen.

He also got a ride in my friend Mike's BIGTRUCKBIGTRUCK! which was very cool, since Mike is not above doing donuts in parking lots and shoving the bad-ass V8 into 4WD to show off a little, which got the typical D response of "Doot 'gin. Doot 'gin." And grins galore. And constant begging for "See Mike! See Mike!" at any given moment during the 48 hours following. It's embarassing to have one's parenting replaced by a $40,000 vehicle, but at least it's a really nice truck, right?

And finally, the perfect endcap to the day was a trip to the local hipster coffeehouse, because we have discovered that we can ply D into letting mama and daddy enjoy a nice latte or so by getting him his own frothy beverage, called "daviscoffee," known to mere mortals as a cup of whipped cream with a spoon. So we decided to forego our usual haunt and head to the hot spah-zot in town where the pierc'd and tattoo-ed staff was more than happy to provide D with daviscoffee. Unfortunately, I was midway through an ETM (extremely tasty mocha) when D dropped a load and we realized why we don't go to hipster coffeehouses more often: they are the only place in Utah that the plastic fold-down changing table people have left untouched. Oh well.

The partying did continue, in typical Matic fashion, as long as we could possibly drag it out, and given that even Utahans have the sense to celebrate The great Doctor Martin Luther King Jr., that means a whole extry day of funness. But that's for another post, so tune in next time for a full report on the Indoor Slide Monstrosity and, God willing, actual video of D voicing his newest phrase: "I LOVE IT." He says it so enthusiastically and, frankly, gaily, that I like to call it his first truly metrosexual phrase.

For now, though, I have cuteness that only Bee-bee can bring out in our precious spawn:

Forgive me, Internets. It's been a month since my last confession.

2007-01-11T13:55:00.000-07:00

Things in the Matic household have been…interesting. The last few weeks reminded me of when I went to Alaska and saw Mt.McKinley. We were there in June amidst awful weather, and one day, someone said, “Go down to the end of the road and see Mt. McKinley. The fog has finally lifted from it and it’s spectacular.” As I’m walking down the road, though, I’m grumbling something about how in the heck am I going to be able to tell which dang mountain it is, since there are nothing BUT snow-capped, huge mountains around here, being that I’m smack dab in the middle of a mountain range, and then? THERE IT IS: a huge, towering completely snow-covered mountain, dwarfing everything in sight, and upon reflecting on it later, I thought “Yeah, I guess you can’t really miss that, huh?” Sort of like Real Labor—if you have to ask, it’s not Real Labor.

That is how the terrible twos were for us the past few weeks. I have whined here about D’s tantrums and his crying when I leave in the morning, which, while brief, is a tempestuous maelstrom of toddler misery and starts my day off with a whopper helping of guilt and a small side of relief that I get to go to work where, most of the time anyway, people do not scream and cry and crumple their sweet faces when I do something they don’t like.

And I thought, “Geez, he’s hit the terrible twos early. This is pretty hard, but I think I can handle it.” Just like seeing all those mountains, and thinking Mt. McKinley would simply be the vaguely bigger one with slightly more snow.

But ooooooh the week of Christmas, I finally saw Mt. McKinley Three temper tantrums before 8 AM one day. Most days, actually. Whining and crying and clinging nonstop from 7-10 every morning, despite however many time-outs or “mommy goes to the other room because that noise makes her ears hurt” rehearsals we did.

I did things I’m not proud of. I’m sure during one of those put-in-time-out-sessions, I was rougher with him than I needed to be. I yelled, despite the fact that it made me sick of myself to do it. I considered not re-upping his contract, which is due to be renewed on Sunday.

And then the night before we were to come back to Utah (because oh yes, most of the horrible, terrible, no-good, very bad parenting I got to do over the holidays was in front of my own sainted parents. Because God has a sick sense of humor, that’s why), D announces on the way home from some outing that he’s MAD! MAD! And starts to cry. It was some kind of gestalt-type release, apparently, because he cried—hard—for the next hour. Nothing would console him. Mama had to hold him UP (no sitting, woman!) and get him away from all grandparents, the TV, and most books and toys. We got him calmed down a few times, but then he’d start up again. We put him to bed early, and he woke once, equally hysterical, but did go back to sleep.

All night, I worried. Was he sick? Was he going to get worse? Would they make us ride on the outside of the airplane if this hysteria continued?

And then, in the morning, he woke up right when we needed him to—on his own—and was, for the most part, completely charming for the rest of the day. Certainly more charming than either of his parents, who each felt like ten pounds of crap in a five-pound bag.

Since then, thing have been much better. I mean, he’s still being Two, but in a much more manageable kind of way. He’s been affectionate, and even downright adorable on several occasions, so the contract re-negotiations have gone well. It was touch and go there for a while, but the fact that he pretty much poops on command and sleeps twelve hours at night has swayed our front office personnel considerably.

So, now, I will leave you with two bits of D cuteness in case any of you are still reading:

I may have mentioned a time or ten that D calls cats “gun-guns.” We are still not sure why, but the other day, he and the kitty were watching Daddymatic make cookies, and D looked over and said, as clear as a bell, “What do you SEE, Gun-gun?” He then paused dramatically for effect and replied, “I see cookies, Day-vuss.” (he has finally started referring to himself by his own hyper-articulated name. Because apparently, “Day-day” and “D-diddy” are soooo 2006).

And then last night in the tub, he grabbed himself by the business end and said “Day-vuss have a penis.” I concurred that he did. “Daddy have a penis.” I didn’t feel I was in much of a position to deny this, either. I mean, how do you think you got here, little one? Then he said, “Mama have a penis.” No, babe, mama doesn’t have a penis. What does mommy have? He thought for a moment, and then broke into a huge smile and said, very proudly, “a TATOOOOOO!”

That’s my boy.

Pictures coming--Bee-bee was the holiday photojournalist, so when I get them from her, I'll post 'em.

Perspective

2006-12-12T08:11:00.000-07:00

Daddymatic finished his semester last week, and this very. challenging. toddler. weekend, we had this conversation:

Daddymatic: Did you know D's school goes until December 22nd?

Mommymatic: I think I did know that. Why?

Daddymatic: Because it just struck me that he's too young to know how much that sucks, but I'm old enough to know how awesome it is.

I don't know why, but that struck me as really, really funny.

Official Spokestoddler

2006-12-07T20:56:00.000-07:00

Soooo the child has finally decided that the educational materials my company designs are more addictive than, say, whatever the toddler equivalent of crystal m3th is.

Given what I do all day, you'd think it would annoy me to have to watch 2-minute animated clips of "The Eensy-Weensy Spider" and "The Wheels on the Bus" but all I can say is that it's about dang time. I was getting tired of having to dodge my boss's queries about how D likes our product. Telling him that "he likes it as long as there's not something more interesting going on, like figuring out how many peas have become fused to his booster seat or learning to pass gas in the tub" hasn't made me a candidate for employee of the year so far.

So thanks, little guy. Your next vocabulary words will be "mommy's little job security officer." I might even have it put on a t-shirt.

Bits and parts of things

2006-11-30T21:19:00.000-07:00

Some bloggy bitz first: Today is a mommymatic first. Andrea the beautiful and brave nominated this post as a perfect post. I have never gotten one of these coveted awards before, so I'm kind of like a little kid who's been told she's getting the exact brand-new bike she wanted and not the hand-me-down bike from her older sister. It's like when Roger said I had nice hair. Makes me want to cover the world with kisses.

Speaking of Andrea, she used the Best Metaphor Ever in a recent post, so good I have to share it with you: "I could smell her exasperation like a fart in a car." WHY do I never think of such sparkling analogies? It's so PERFECT. And Mrs. Fortune summed up my feelings about my family in one perfect sentence she wrote this week: "I can say with confidence that I must have showed up early and with doughnuts the day god was handing out families." Word to you, sister.

Speaking of my beloved family, I'll say now that spending Thanksgiving with only my immediate family was actually pretty good. We did the orphan Thanksgiving thing with my nabes who were delightful despite their predilection to put their feet in their mouths (they called my work friend "old" and always seem to whine about "the religious breeding freaks" in SLC, to which I almost always reply, "Move your car. My kid and I are late for church."). The rest of the weekend we rolled downtown to see SLC ring in the Xmas season by blazing up Temple Square and surrounds with lights, lights, lights. Is pretty, no?

Saturday, we watched the crazy shoppers at the Overly Kiddie local mall. Which is to say that we rode the escalator for 20 minutes and the elevator for 15. I can't even grouse about it, though, because it saved me from having to shell out $1.50 for the carousel (or worse, stand in line for a ride on the carousel) or $5 for a shopping cart shaped like a car. Thank you, Elisha Otis and Jesse W. Reno. You are totally my homies now. And a big shout-out to the City Library and its 5 stories of completely glass elevatorness. LOVE YOU. We also set up the tree, per Daddymatic's strict guidelines about When the Tree Shall Be Put Up (day after Thanksgiving, always. Down Jan. 6) and When the Christmas Music Shall begin (day after Thanksgiving. Ends the 26th.). This video is dark, but incredibly cute, as D-diddy helps decorate the tree by getting Daddymatic a " 'Nother ooooone" ornament.

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By Monday, though, I was ready to get back to work. It seems the Incredibly Mommyloving D was even ready, though--Monday was the first day EVER that I have left the house without the wailing and gnashing of teeth to accompany me. I kissed him on the head, and he beamed and said "Bye-bye, mama!" I'd love to say a part of me was sad, but I'd be lying. All I felt was relief.

Of course, for the last two days, I've gotten home after D's been put to bed, and now I am ready to get refilled on toddler love this weekend. Especially since he now sing-songs "yummy tummy" while he eats and this very evening observed "Daddy broke head!" when daddymatic hit his head on something. It makes me feel I have to absorb every moment, even the annoying ones, and really enjoy them. That, or I need to cryogenically freeze him in this current state of sweetness.

Thanksgiving tradition-delurk for charity

2006-11-22T09:48:00.000-07:00

All is well--thanks for the concern over La-la's being on the lam(b) [Thanks, Nancy--you know I love a good pun]. We do have a spare--we have to have a body double for Lambie so that she can occasionally be washed. We've ordered another one (thanks, Gund for continuing to make this critter!) and for now, crisis has been averted.

But posting about losing one of my child's many, many stuffed animals (some of whom should, as Toyfoto suggests, probably be sent to Iraq) and then reading this post (thanks, Granny, for posting about it) made me feel a little sheepish (if you'll, ahem, pardon the pun). I've been hunting the interwebs lately in search of a new Family Tradition, because I think we need to start one this year, this being our first Orphan Thanksgiving since we were in the Peace Corps.

So it looks like I've found one. I admit it, I want D to grow up comfortable, yes, but more than that, I want him to understand the responsibility that living a comfortable life comes with--the compulsion to notice that there are those not as comfortable and to do what you can to share what you have. I complain about my mountains of consumer debt, repairs to an old house, and the money-suck that is the diaper industry, but this Thanksgiving, I need to remember that my kid has both parents around, and, as lousy as we may be sometimes, we are committed to him and his needs. This alone makes him Fortunate. In addition, he always has diapers, he has toys "enough and to spare," and we could probably feed another whole child on food he has the luxury to refuse to eat sometimes. So our new Thanksgiving tradition will be to help out kids who don't have what he has and to remind ourselves to be Very, Very Grateful that we have So Very Much.

And I will donate an additional dollar to Little Wishes (or, if you prefer, another foster organization--just specify) for every person I can get to comment, so if you've been wanting to delurk, do it now. For those of you who don't know what delurk means, it means if you never comment, this might be a good time. I'd love to hear where you read from and how you found mommymatic. If you are a regular commenter, you still count, just leave a comment you'll earn your buck. IT'S FOR THE KIDS, PEOPLE.

Also, because I know you are all going to be shopping online like moi this season, you can do it through this link and companies will donate a certain amount of their proceeds to the cause.

I'd love to hear about your Thanksgivings traditions, philanthropic or otherwise (one of our other traditions might be "Feast for the Beasts" at Hogle Zoo, wherein they feed the animals traditional Thanksgiving foods on Thanksgiving night).

M.I.A.

2006-11-20T16:46:00.000-07:00

Name: Lambie. Also answers to "La-la."
Age: 24 months
Description: White (ish) with smudgy grey-ish ears, nose and tail
Noteworthy marks: Rattleodectomy scar on abdomen.
Last seen: November 20, 2006 at ____ Preschool, Salt Lake City, UT
If you see her: Do not approach! Her eyes are always closed, so she may appear to be asleep but could, at any time, go ninja-lamb and escape again. Please contact the Matic-Operated Lovey Department (MOLD) if you see this individual. Please use caution--a little boy's comfort depends upon it.

More breaking news as we have it. Stay tuned.

Happy birthday, Peanut!

2006-11-17T13:58:00.000-07:00

This one's for you, big guy! Enjoy your big day this weekend! And mama, enjoy the 2s. We expect a full report. :)

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NB? PM?

2006-11-15T16:56:00.000-07:00

Ok, so if I only post half the month, can I say I did NaBlo? Or is it PoMo?

Maybe I should just enjoy the collective sigh of relief that I've given in to dropping out (yes, I heard that). I really, really, wanted to be able to post every day, but I'm being crushed by a deadline just now and I don't want to record Memories of Stressed Mommy for D to have when he's older. I mean, if I'm keeping this blog for him (because I am lousy at keeping scrapbooks), I get to pick and choose the memories, right? And witchy, stressed-out Mama who makes a little boy eat his dinner in the car so she can make yet another trip to the office is not a memory I choose.

Except that I just did. Dang. But I can addend that by saying at least all the way home in the car, we sang Happy Birthday to, well, everyone: La-la, Daddy, D (who refers to himself as "Didi/Diddy" now, and I am having a hard time not referring to him as D-Diddy), Mama, the Moon, the Stars, and his puppet Daikon (which is actually just how he says "Dragon," but honestly, who can resist using a funny-named vegetable moniker when given the opportunity?).

So if anyone out there has a birthday coming up (sorry I missed yours, Nancy), let us know and we'll try to get you your own personalized serenade.

Mommymatic the NoMoNaBloPoMo Blogger OUT.