Okay, I want anyone reading this right now that is pregnant or thinking about becoming pregnant to stop reading. Like, right now. Just stop. I want you to pick up the phone, call your health care insurance, and double whatever existing coverage you may have. Yes, you may pay more out-of-pocket now, but in the future, you will save. Because once you pop that little tyke out and he/she hits the age of 2, you will find yourself a frequent visitor in various doctor's offices. Doctors you didn't even know existed, you will one day be in their waiting rooms. Trust me on this.

Deana, my friend with 2-year old twins, briefly considering asking the ER staff for a punch card ("10th visit free!") after all of the trips she had in January with her boys.

It's insane. But sadly, it comes with the territory.

EarGate 2012, like most -Gates, started out like any other Thursday. We went to music lessons. We came home. I took Scotty's shoes off. As I removed one shoe, a tiny pebble rolled out. "Rock!' Scotty proclaimed happily. He picked up the little object and ran to put in in the bed of one of his trucks.

This is an everyday situation in our house - the rocks, that is. Scotty is a little dirt magnet and adores playing in dirt. It must be that Y chromosome or something, but he spends hours in the backyard in the flower beds, gently scooping piles of dirt into his cars, and then carefully transporting it to the other side of the yard.  He's working on some kind of project, but I have no idea what it is.  We have huge holes in our beds, but I'm not bothered. The kid is amused, he's playing quietly by himself, which means Mommy can lounge outside with the iPad and a cup of coffee. Win-win.

So yesterday Scotty scampered off with his new treasure and I went to the closet to put his shoes away. When I came back, I didn't see the rock. And he was holding his earlobe.

"Rock ear, Momb!" he declared.

"What?" I asked, peering in closer.

"Rock EAR!" he shouted.

I frowned. Now what? I didn't want to suggest to him that the rock could go in his ear, or now I'm giving him ideas. But what if he did put the rock in his ear? Then what?

"Scotty," I started slowly. "Did you put the rock in your ear?"

He grinned at me. "Yes," he stated emphatically.

Okay, let's try that again. "Scott, Mommy needs to know if you put the teeny-tiny rock in your ear. Did you, sweetie? Did you put the rock in your ear?"

He looked at me again with confusion. "Yes," he stated firmly, and then made a beeline out of the room. I think he was sick of me asking redundant questions.

And so, just like in any condundrum in Motherhood, I was left with, "Now what?" I really, really didn't want to take action. I was tired. My legs hurt from boot camp. I didn't want to call Dr. Awesome, who has only been lukewarm lately (in my opinion) and schedule an appointment so we could sit in her germy waiting room and catch our 400th cold of the season. But I also couldn't leave my kid with a rock in his ear - what would that affect? Hearing? Brain development? Possible infection? Is this an emergency situation? Could it wait until after nap time? What are my options?

First, I assessed the boy. He did not appear to be in any obvious discomfort. He was hearing and responding to me just fine. When I put lunch on the table, he ate like a mountain man. (growth spurt). When I shined the flashlight in his ear as he chomped away, I didn't see anything, but then again, he has tiny, tiny ears. I actually brought a pair of tweezers down from the bathroom and thought about going in, all "Operation"-style until my brain kicked and I realized - oh yeah, this isn't a game, no buzzer will go off, and I will likely do more harm than good.

So as I sat there, watching him mow through his strawberries and yogurt, it hit me: call a friend. Better than that - call a friend who is an audiologist.

Enter Courtney.

You all might remember Courtney, mom to Carson and Sam (Scotty's on-again, off-again girlfriend). Aside from understanding the unique challenges of Toddlerville, she is like an ear expert.

One quick phone call and we had a plan. She was going to look for her otoscope at home and then make a house call. If she couldn't find it, she would send me to her co-worker later that afternoon. Worst case scenario, we could drive to the hospital she works at and she could use the equipment there to determine if indeed, there was a rock in my kid's ear. If there was, an ENT was available to remove it immediately, and we have successfully resolved the situation. Game over. Winner: Momb.

And in the end, that what we ended up doing. All of this, mind you, was to avoid Dr. Awesome and her waiting room of disease. And the giant co-pay. I'm not sure what's going on with our insurance, but we came out of pocket close to $600 in the month of December in co-pays alone. We just received a $511 bill for the stomach bug that sent us to the ER last summer, and quite frankly, I'm concerned about health care in this country. I would prefer to not spend every dollar we have on co-pays and outrageous deductibles, so yes, I'm very happy to have an audiologist friend.

Courtney saw us right away this morning and within a few minutes, she declared that there was no rock in his right ear. We looked at each other for a second, and then said simultaneously, "Let's check the other ear, too." (Ahh, Motherhood. Never assume anything.) That ear, too, was clear and EarGate 2012 officially ended 23 hours after it started. Total cost to us: $0.

Courtney and I did what any good friends do in this situation: we turned it into a photo shoot. So with Scotty still in the bomb-shelter hearing cage, we took pictures of each other and the Bear doing various audiology-related poses.

It's good to have friends in high places.

And while Scotty doesn't have any rocks in his head, I'm happy to report that Courtney doesn't either. He checked.

Thank you, Courtney!!!!

Scotty has recently developed an affinity for certain stuffed animals over the last few weeks.

It started out innocently enough. After spending the morning cuddling with White Bear, Scotty insisted on bringing him with us to Costco. I consented. I mean, it was just White Bear. Where's the harm in that?

So White Bear came to Costco with us. Scotty kept a protective (chubby) arm around him the whole trip.

And then this week, he was all about Tucker. When I told him we had to go the dry cleaners and the grocery store, again, he insisted Tucker come with us.

(I know, I know. The glamorous life of the stay-at-home mom. This is why I get so excited about Junior League stuff.)

As you can see in the cart, next to the almond milk, is Tucker the Puppy. Forever sleeping, since his batteries are dead. (shh...)

And then today, it was Jelly Cat's turn to shine. Not only did he get snuggles all morning, but he was honored with a trip to music lessons. I don't know about you, but introducing a stuffed animals to five other toddlers is like donning a cow carcass and jumping into a pool of sharks. It's just a really, really bad idea.

Thankfully, no toddlers were injured during music lessons, and more thankfully, Scotty lost interest in Jelly after twenty minutes. I was able to stash the cat behind my bag and it (he?) didn't pose as an interruption for the rest of class. No one melted down, no one got into a tug-of-war with Jelly with his floppy cars. Peace endured. (mostly).

I looked it up on Baby Center to determine if this behavior was normal, and it is. According to the experts, it's common for children this age to gravitate toward a favorite lovey or stuffed animal (or in our case, multiple stuffed animals). They suggest that because kids are so busy exploring this big, scary world, a lovey or animal is a great way to comfort themselves during this journey towards independence.

Okay, I'll buy it. Sounds good.

But please tune in to watch us on "Hoarders: Toddler Edition" as they chronicle the Bear's bedtime "comforting" routine. There are so many stinkin' animals in his bed, we're not sure where our child is.

Can you find him?

Sorry for the lack of blog posts lately. It's been nothing but non-stop work/craziness/activity around here.

It's that time of year again - Sage time. The quarterly newsletter that is published through JLLV is both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, I love exercising my brain and stretching my writing muscles. On the other hand, I hate the constant back-and-forth contact/communication I must have with other people in order to get it done. Deadlines need to be met, people need to be informed, and quite frankly, the whole process is exhausting. Add in a few more Comms projects, and I'm on overload. I need a secretary and an assistant and a full-work day just to get it all done. In my tiny home office where I have maybe 2-3 hours to myself per day, I'm not holding my breath.

Scotty also pulled a fast one on me. Monday was not a good day. He decided to just simply not nap that day. This has happened only twice before (w/o illness): on 1/15 (a Sunday, and the same day the Packers lost), and almost on Jan 19th. I had a call that afternoon with a person with a Very Important Title, so I could not get off the call to go upstairs and comfort the boy. Instead, I kept my phone glued to my ear and simply turned the monitor down (and tried not to start crying on the phone. I hate to hear him cry). The call lasted over an hour, and by the time we hung up, Scotty had fallen asleep. Finally. But I was a wreck.

And then this Monday, without warning, he simply just did not nap. My computer crashed three times that day, and our damn printer is still not working (insert multiple expletives here). After 90 minutes of messing around, I marched upstairs with very little patience left, scooped him out of the crib, and demanded he go downstairs and play with his cars. That's what he wanted, right? To keep playing? He looked at me with concern and I simply pointed downstairs and screamed, "GO!"

Not my finest parenting moment.

Once down, I put myself in timeout in the back bedroom. And cried. Scotty was outside the door, playing with his orange dump truck, and I think he sensed Momb was not alright. He was right; I was losing it. Big time.

So I sat on the bed and cried for a solid five minutes. I cried because I felt like I was failing my child. I cried because our stupid computer is a disaster and I lost an entire article I had been working on and I didn't know how to fix it. I cried because I have no IT guy to call or co-worker to vent to. I cried because everyone tells me I should feel so lucky to stay home, and during times like this, I would rather be anyplace but home. I cried because every text/email I received that day was more bad news.

I cried and cried and cried.

I finally opened my eyes when I felt a small tap on my knees. Two giant blues eyes were looking at me with great concern. "Momb sad," Scotty stated solemnly. "Momb crying." I nodded. "Momb is in time-out," I told him.

If this were a movie, he would have patted my hand and told me, "There, there. It's okay," and we would have hugged it out and spent the rest of the afternoon on the couch, watching movies and snuggling.

But life isn't a movie and so what he did instead was grab me by the hands and start screaming, "PLAY CARS! MOMB, UP! PLAY CARS NOW!" at which point I threw myself back on the bed and sighed heavily.

And when I finally did get up, I went to the garage, opened the fridge, and pulled out a Rolling Rock. Yes, it was three in the afternoon. But I was so over Motherhood at that point, short of dying my hair, changing my name and driving to California, beer seemed like a much safer option.

You know what? It worked. Within ten minutes, the rage had subsided and I had a handle on the afternoon. A play date was arranged at our house. Scotty had a friend coming over to keep him company and I had a friend coming over to cry to. Instead of feeling like the next five hours stretched in front of me like an endless desert, I had a grip on life, sanity, and Motherhood again.

Whew.

Because sleep is a much-discussed topic of parents, once I came back to my right mind, I decided to set some boundaries. They are as follows:

1.) The boy will be placed in his crib between 12:30-1pm everyday.
2.) I will not open the door to his room unless I feel he has a.) pooped, b.) climbed out of his crib, or c.) wolverines have breached the nursery walls.
3.) If the boy refuses to sleep, he will remain in the crib until 3pm. He can play quietly, in the dark, with his animals. Or he can sleep. I cannot control what he chooses to do, only provide him with good options.

And with that, I'm very content with my plan. I will not freak out, I will not panic, and I will not continue drinking beer at three in the afternoon (not good for general mental health and/or weight loss and training).

After all, boundaries are good things. I remember when we were designing and picking stuff out for the new kitchen, I was overwhelmed with options. It wasn't until I finally decided on two rules did things finally come together. They were: anything functional (i.e. appliances) = stainless steel and anything decorative = oil-rubbed bronze. Simple rules (kinda dumb, really), but it worked. And now I really like my kitchen.

I'm hoping these nap boundaries = no more time-outs for Momb.

The Bear is sick.

He woke up with a 102.7 fever on Saturday morning. He was coughing this wet, mucus-y cough and looked downright miserable. I immediately called the pediatrician and got an appointment that day at 10:45am.

Which meant I was now unable to attend the Holiday Coffee.

Boo.

This is an annual Junior League event, and one of my favorites. A sustaining member opens her (giant, impeccably-decorated) home to members, and we sip coffee or tea from real china while balancing our catered appetizers on crystal plates. There is no alcohol or men, and it's quite lovely. It's like women acting like proper women while teetering on four-inch heels. I had selected my outfit months ago with great care, thinking, "What is conservative enough to wear around my grandma, but stylish enough to wear around my friends?" These types of questions keep me up at night.

But alas, my gorgeous grey-and-black lace sweater dress, complete with black tights and my favorite sha-booties, remained in the closet. Instead, I found myself swathed in an old sweatshirt, no make-up on, driving 90 miles an hour to make it to Scotty's doctor appointment.

Why was I driving so fast? And where was I coming from? Good questions.

Oh, just the Health District.

In a story that can only be described as never-ending, RaceGate continues. As mentioned on Friday, the Health District contacted and asked me for a stool sample. Ever agreeable, I said yes. After picking up my poop kit (with horror, mind you), my friend Deana asked me if I wanted to come over for a play-date. Since I felt the need to discuss the poop kit with another human being, I readily agreed. She was just as horrified as I was and promptly decided to open a bottle of champagne, since the idea of pooping in a bowl the size of a Cool-Whip container was too much for both of us to handle.

So now I'm going to test positive for parasites and Prosecco.

Great.

Anyways, the directions said you can take the sample in immediately, or it can be refrigerated for up to 24 hours. After doing the deed on Saturday morning, I was so aghast at putting this thing in my fridge (despite the multiple levels of plastic wrap) that I told Brian to take the Bear to the appointment; I would meet him there.

And so, that's how I found myself dropping off my Cool-Whip container to an unmarked warehouse on MLK and the 15 on a Saturday morning, and then turning around and driving like a mad woman back to Summerlin. Brian claims his car was stinky, but I think he's just messing with me.

The Bear's fever went down on Saturday night, but I still didn't feel good about leaving him. Our sitter still came, giving me time to get some other things done, and when he went to bed, she offered to stay at help me polish the silver. My mom had just sent me this giant chest with strict instructions to polish it before use, so again, instead of donning my new grey and silver dress (grey is still in, right?), I wore rubber gloves and chatted with our part-time nanny (who is lovely, I might add.)

I've never felt like such a Junior League member before. Here I was, polishing silver with the help. I felt like I was in The Help for a second.

Sunday, the Bear continued to fuss and cough, and this morning, his cough - and overall demeanor - was horrible. Another visit to Dr. Awesome yielded us a choo-choo train-shaped nebulizer and directions to use it every four hours for the next five days. Including nighttime.

And with Brian in arbitration all week and me on sick Bear-duty, I cancelled the Christmas party I am hosting on Wednesday.

I.

Am.

So.

Bummed.

The food will still be eaten, but the three Christmas trees, cool Costco garland, and new stockings will remain unseen. The lights on the house and on the bushes will not be appreciated by anyone except neighbors. Instead of drinking cranberry bellinis with friends, I will be wiping snot and attempting to nebulize a toddler, which is akin to wresting a slippery, angry pig that bites, kicks and screams.

I am sad.

Such is Motherhood, I guess.

Someone lost his.

...and one day, I'll be showing this picture to his prom date.

So the weird thing about being a parent is that you are so freaking excited for your child to start talking. If I could graph it out, it would like something like this:

0-6 months: He made a noise that wasn't crying! Hooray!!

6-9 months: He's babbling! This is great! I think he said, "Da-da!"

9-12 months: Omigosh! Real words! He said "Ball!" And "dog"! That is so cute! Did we get that on video?

12-16 months: Wow, he was saying a whole bunch of stuff like two months ago, and now the kid has gone silent. Where is that ASD checklist again?

16-22 months: Oh, we're fine. He's chattering away again. I think all of that physical activity took away from language development. Now he's putting together one and two word sentences. This is the greatest!

22-26 months: He's just a little chatterbox! What a love! Everything that comes out of his mouth is adorable. He's up to three and four - and beyond - word sentences! Amazing!

26+ months: Is this kid ever going to shut up? Oh my god. And how in the world did he become so opinionated? And bossy? Did he really just tell me to sit down? I'm the parent here!

As you might guess, we are at 26+ months.

Scotty has turned into something of a small dictator.

He is ruling this family with a tiny, iron fist. Brian and I are quickly learning that if Scotty isn't happy, ain't nobody happy. And it's about the smallest stuff, too. Like lunch yesterday. I asked him if he wanted cheese. He said, "Otay." (so adorable). I then went to the fridge and got him a wheel of Babybel cheese. He saw me, waved his hand with authority, and said, "No. String cheese."

I'm sure I blanched for a moment before replying, "Uh...sorry sweetie. We don't have any string cheese." I was just at Costco! How did I forget the string cheese?! Curses! The child will be unhappy! Use distraction. "Have a wheel of cheese instead."

He pounded his fists on the table. "No wheel cheese! No wheel! String cheese! STRING CHEESE!"

Had it been in his vocab, I half expected him to say, "Off with her head!"

Aside from having very strong opinions about cheese, Scotty also likes to act as my doctor. Every morning, he tells me to sit on the bed ("Sit down, Momb," as he pats the blanket) and take my vitamins. He likes to pull each container out one by one, demand I open them, and then set the pill on the dresser. He then examines the vitamin before shoving it in my mouth yelling, "Take vitamin, Momb. TAKE VITAMIN!" This goes on for like, twenty minutes, until I'm on B-6 overload. It's like have a pint-size physician. A very, very bossy one. And I'm sure I have the most expensive urine in all of Las Vegas.

His demands aren't for me alone, thankfully. Yesterday, he barked at his stuffed doggie. Then held the dog at eye level and reprimanded him, saying, "Indoor voice, Doggie. INDOOR VOICE!"

::sigh::

Or my personal favorite, which happened at Costco yesterday (yes, the same visit where I did not purchase any string cheese). I was fishing in my wallet for the Costco card, which had wedged itself in the farthest corner. My dalliances were holding up the line to enter the store and Scotty took one look at me and then the line, and then exclaimed very loudly, "Oh for goodness' sake, Momb!"

Everyone laughed. Except me.

Toddlers are funny. It's like living with a combination of a parrot, raccoon, and some kind of tropical storm all at once. Your house is never clean. Your words come back to haunt you. You never know when the next Category 5 storm will hit.

I think that's why God made 'em cute.

Thank goodness for that.

I've been fairly open on here about my reluctance to start the arduous task of potty-training, and then this morning, Scotty called my bluff.

Little stinker.

He's taken to pooping in our closet. This is much better than it sounds - he is still wearing a diaper and the mess is contained. He, however, is hitting that stage where a little, uh, privacy is needed. Yesterday, as I made the bed and got ready, I watched as he bee-lined to our closet, very carefully slid the door shut, and gave me one last look like, "Hey Mom...pretend you're not seeing this."

I thought he had something in his mouth, so I followed him and cracked the door. He didn't have anything in his mouth, as he stood here, mouth agape, knees bent, face red. He looked up at me and I felt like I had completely interrupted a very private moment. He then burst into a big smile and declared, "Poo poo!" and gave him rump a hearty pat.

This morning, he did the same thing. I half-expected him to grab the USWeekly off the nightstand before he hit the closet. I followed him again, but before he had a chance to push, I asked him, "Are you making poo-poos?" He nodded yes. "Do you want to go on the potty?" He looked at me, looked over at the bathroom, and then said very certainly, "Yes. Potty."

Um...

See, I don't have a toddler potty seat. I don't have anything potty related, and the kid just called my bluff. I didn't expect him to say yes - I thought I had six more months to plan my attack. I would have to hold him over the seat while he dropped fecal matter in the toilet, and quite honestly, that sounded like a haz-mat situation in the making.

So I did what any good parent does in that situation: I stalled and then distracted him.

"What a good boy!" I said, gently taking him by the arm and steering him past the potty. "Let's go to your room and change your diaper...and then M&Ms!"

Looks like I know how's buying an Elmo-toddler potty this weekend.

On October 1, 2011, the world welcomed Ulysses Samuel Abrahms into the world. At six pounds, fifteen ounces, and twenty inches long, Uly was born at 39 weeks and is anything but ordinary.

First, his initials are USA. Yes, that is intentional. Adam and Tiffany, proud parents and our dear friends (you may remember the wedding Brian and I were both in last summer in Southern California? Yup, same couple) and self-proclaimed right-wing political enthusiasts, feel very strongly about their patriotism. Their wedding was red, white and blue. Their bulldog, Teddy, is named after Theodore Roosevelt. When they found out they were having a boy, the obvious name choice was Ulysses, per Adam, despite Brian's repeated protests that he was going to call the baby Sam. And my favorite part? When I asked Tiffany if the nursery was going to be red, white and blue, she looked at me like I was crazy and said very seriously, "What? No way. It's light brown and blue."

Oh. My bad.

Aside from his very unique moniker, Baby Uly is unique in other ways: he came into this world with his liver outside his body. Adam and Tiffany underwent the ultrasound every pregnant couple fears - the quiet technician. They found out at 20 weeks that their little warrior drew the one in over 10,000 chance of having an omphalocele, a condition where one or many of the internal organs grow in a sac outside the body. The good news? The liver was safely contained in the omphalocele. The bad news? The condition is most often seen in conjunction with other abnormalities, almost all of which are fatal.

Now processing what I just wrote, it's essentially every new parent's nightmare. A genetic abnormality. More tests. More doctors. Lots of appointments, and lots and lots of test results to endure. I'm not sure how Adam and Tiffany managed to weather the storm of pregnancy, but they did, and with each test, they continued to get better news. There were no other genetic abnormalities noted. All chromosomal testing came back healthy. They met with a surgeon who did the exact same kind of surgery he would do on their baby on two other cases, and both children are healthy and functioning normally.

And armed with that information, Adam, Tiffany and Alex welcomed their little warrior last Saturday into the world with open arms. His condition was better than expected, and he was taken into surgery the same day he was born. With the liver tucked safely back into place, now it's just a waiting game. When I spoke with Tiffany last Saturday, she sounded tired but upbeat, and I find that remarkable. I feel as though Scotty's 4-day-3-night NICU stay is forever burned into my brain, and here is she is, coping, laughing, and finding the positive in the situation. Truly amazing, and downright inspirational.

The healing process is a long one, both for her and for Uly, but I couldn't help but note that this kid has an amazing set of parents. They are strong. They are opinionated (yes, their opinions tend to differ quite a bit from my own, but they are professional enough to never get personal.). They love their child and are willing to do anything to make his life better. And so while he drew an unlucky straw with the omphalocele, he's a lucky boy, indeed.

If you have a moment, take time to think about little Baby Uly and send him some good thoughts and prayers. Tiffany has joined the blogging world (yay!!) and you can read more about his story at http://teamabrahmsusa.blogspot.com.

Love you, Adam, Tiff, Alex, and Uly! The Bear can't wait to meet his new buddy one day, even if they are rooting for different football teams.

Editor's note: I wrote this entry on Tuesday morning, the day after this happened. The big birthday celebration of Wednesday will be chronicled in tomorrow's post. I would have written about it today, but I chose to sleep on the couch instead. Mmm, naptime.

Ever feel badly about your parenting abilities?

Pull up a seat. I'm about to make you feel a whole lot better.

On Monday night, Scotty and I decided to hit Town Square for a little shopping and dinner. Brian was working late, we had nothing else going on, and dining "a deux" seemed like the perfect activity for Mother and Bear. So I packed the kid up and we headed out after his afternoon nap.

We did a little browsing, a little shopping. I bought a shirt at the Gap ($11.20! I love a good deal). I considered buying this cute dress. I almost bought some new earrings. Scotty patiently pushed his stroller while I browsed. My game plan was to hit the park in the middle of the mall, grab a quick dinner out, and arrive home perfectly in time for the bath.

Except I forgot the water fountains were still on at the park...which made my carefully organized plan a complete and total mess. A sopping wet mess, actually.

See, Town Square has this great water area that is great for toddlers. All you have to do is hit a button, and water gushes up from the ground. It's great for when the temperature is hovering near 120 degrees and you are in your swimsuit.

I, however, did not pack a suit. Or a swim diaper.

But I really did not think it would matter. Our little Bear has been water-adverse for quite some time. Likewise, I thought the water was turned off at the park since the temp is now in the low 90s (a bona fide cold front for us desert dwellers.) 

Not so.

Instead, I sat on the bench at the park, unleashed the Bear (metaphorically-speaking) and watched a full-clothed Scotty run straight to the water like he was a little salmon. He was actually sticking his face into the spouts, allowing water to gush all over him, and squealing with joy. My friend (and fellow committee member) Leah just happened to be at the park,  and came strolling up with her son and husband. She took one look at me sitting motionless on the bench, and then a long look at Scotty and said, "What are you going to do about this?"

I just sat there. "Not sure," I said.

"Why didn't you take his clothes off before he got in the water?" she asked.

"Don't know." I said. My brain had kind of turned off at that point.

I mean, I had two options: cart around a nude baby or cart around a dripping wet baby. It wasn't warm enough to attempt to dry his clothes in the sun, and it wasn't warm enough to walk around sopping wet. Not to mention, I still had to stop at Whole Foods for a few items (namely, my favorite salad dressing that I can only find at Whole Foods), so we couldn't even make a mad dash to the car, wet and/or naked. 

So...I chose option #3:

After allowing him to splash to his heart's content, I pulled Scott from the water, attempted to dry him off with my hands, did an impromtu diaper change right there on the bench, and then swaddled him in my new Gap t-shirt.

Best $11.20 I've ever spent.

When I told Brian the story, he wasn't especially pleased that our child is cross-dressing at the tender age of 2, but what's a mom to do?

Personally, I thought he looked rather handsome in my shirt. All he needed as a snakeskin leather cuff and maybe some feather earrings. He was like the Lafayette of toddlers. I half expected him to shake his wrist at me and crow, "Aw, snap!" as we drove along, but thankfully, he just pointed out all of the construction trucks on the side of the road.

...and so it begins.

Brian and I took our first tour of a potential preschool for Scott this morning.

Overwhelming was not the right word.

Intimidating? Exciting? Awesome? Kind of sad for me, since my days with the Bear will be coming to an end? (in like 12 months, I know, but that will go by in a flash.)

It was just a lot to take in. And despite the fact that we are still a year away from any kind of real schooling, I feel like we're already behind.

The lovely administrator we met with, as we walked the 35-acre lush campus, was quick to point out their admissions are highly competitive. Scotty will have to pass an assessment prior to admission and (gulp) will need to be fully potty-trained. I have no doubt the kid will excel with Playdoh sculpting and reciting the alphabet, but going poo-poo in the potty?

We're still months away from that.

Mainly because I haven't started yet, but now the clock is ticking. Twelve months to go...

The whole scene felt like that episode of Modern Family where Cameron and Mitchell look at schools for Lily. One of the reasons that show is so entertaining to us is because Brian and I are Cameron and Mitchell, right down to Cameron's love of flower arrangements and bossiness about event planning. We treat Scotty the same way they treat Lily - like he's going to break - and have that same parental-neurosis that happens when there is only one child in the home.

The only problem? We're not a gay couple, and our child is not adopted, which means we need to find an angle to work to ensure our kid gets into a good school.

I mean, this school was awesome. No child ever brings their lunch, as a professional chef is on staff. The cafeteria boasts real silverware, a salad bar, and nary a vending machine or soda machine in sight. The students are exposed to Spanish, French, Latin and Mandarin Chinese in fourth grade, and then pick a language to "major" in for fifth grade and beyond. The grounds were immaculate, the children were adorable, and in the three-year old class, all of them sat still as statues as snacks were passed out. Did I mention the computer lab was lined with giant, super-sleek Macs?

I'm not sure this is the right school for us (Brian and I would likely have to sell a kidney just to cover tuition), but it was fun to see how the other half lives.

We have another tour at another school set up in October, and then a third one after that. I'm hoping between the three, we will find the right school for Scott. Because despite the opulence and grandeur of this school, our Bear is still our Bear. And at one point during the tour, I looked over and found him licking a park bench.

At least he didn't swear, talk about the "pimp car," or poop during the tour.

Small blessings.