So today I took him for that two-week follow-up and all still looks good. I nearly hugged the man. Had I not gone for the second opinion, my Boo would be sporting a gap right now. I would be mourning the loss of a sweet little tooth (still).

Truth be told, the infection could come back. He may still need to have it pulled, but we need to keep an eye on it for now. Totally cool. I’ll keep both eyes on it.

Also? The new dentist is awesome. I love him. Okay, not love love. Just love. Here’s why. This morning I told Boo we had to go run errands and he said, “We have to go check my teeth again?” It’s like he knew, like in a freaky sixth sense kind of way. (I can’t tell him certain things ahead of time or I will pay dearly. This is one of those things.) I told him that yes, we had to go again to the new dentist and check his teeth. He whimpered a bit but didn’t cry like he had in the past. I talked to him about the toys there and then, I kid you not, he said, “Let’s go the dentist.” Sounds good, little man. Let’s go.

Boo hates going to the dentist. No idea why. He’s only been twice for cleanings. Nothing bad has happened. So when I told him we were going to the dentist later, his voice quivered, “Nooo….” Sad face. I did my best reassuring act, because seriously, what the hell was wrong with my kid’s tooth?!

I distracted him with a little side trip to a nearby Toys R Us to do some browsing. Fortunately, Boo does browsing well and completely accepts that we are not taking the toys home. Whew.

But now? Now he really hates the dentist. And I kinda do too.

I’m going to make a long story short — not just for your benefit, but for mine as well. Boo’s tooth is infected. Yup. Tooth abscess, to be precise. They couldn’t even get an xray of it, what with his screaming, crying, and writhing around. Hubs had to go back with me a second time. Still, they couldn’t get an xray. I’ve told you — he’s a feisty one.

The good news is that the top tooth next to the yucky one appears to be fine.

The bad news is that the yucky one needs to come out. Of course, doc tossed out the word “extraction” as if it was obvious. I stopped her. “It needs to come out?” Go ahead and remove my arm, why don’t you? My baby’s tooth? Anesthesia? Oral surgeon? No, no, no, no, no. You’ve got this all wrong, sister!

Over the past two weeks, my mind has been racing. Quick! Teach him about the Tooth Fairy. Start explaining how teeth fall out. Try not to freak him out. Try not to freak myself out. Make it all sound so very cool. Schedule a second opinion. Schedule the surgery just in case. Finally schedule family photos. Stock up on Curious George videos for the big day. Take some Valium.

So how did this happen? Apparently, a tooth abscess can result from a cavity (not in his case) or trauma to the tooth. Enter the sweetest thing, a post I wrote about a wee collision Boo and I had several months ago. Crap.

I know. I have to calm down about all of this. I am lucky. My son is healthy. It’s just a tooth. Some parents would literally give their arms for a healthy child. That’s not lost on me.

But I am so not looking forward to Friday (yup, this week). Not at all. I’m still holding out hope that the other dentist will say that everything’s fine. That his cute little face will get to keep all of its teeth.

In the meantime, I’ve gone into Operation Tooth Removal Preparation mode. Because this can all be made better with shopping. Behold my purchases:

Short. Sweet. Makes sense to a 2-year-old. Score. Also, TF brings a "surprise," so very open-ended.

Just because it's cute. Also, having a toddler put a tooth under his pillow is equivalent to feeding it to him as a midnight snack. Also hangs on his door, so TF doesn't need to enter the room. Boo panic attack averted.

Okay, so there are more purchases, but I’ll save those for when the big day arrives. Also, big props to a friend who scored a dress-up scrub mask and cap so Boo can play with them and maybe be a little more comfortable with the whole thing.

At this point, I’ll try anything! Stay tuned…

Nope. Today we talk about pee. Before I had a child, I’d never imagined how many brain cells I’d kill thinking about poop and pee. There I go again. Seriously, what’s my problem?

Lately (okay, for a while), Boo has been waking up soaked through his jammies and with wet sheets. (Future teenage Boo is way psyched about this post. You’re welcome, buddy.) Changing jammies and sheets became a part-time job; I even invested in more of each in case I couldn’t get them into the laundry right away. Gross, I know. TMI?

I put out a cry for help to my mom friends (on facebook, of course). The advice came rolling in — love those ladies.

Apparently there are things called “diaper boosters” you can get at Babies R Us. Diaper boosters. Who knew? Sounded pretty straightforward. Put in diaper to absorb. Fantabulous.

I went to BRU, hit the diaper aisle, and lo and behold, diaper boosters. And I thought I knew every square inch of that store!

And then…a pause. Because these, my friends, are diaper boosters.

What's with the chick hatching? Don't. get. it.

Uhhhh… Ummmm…

Are you thinking what I”m thinking? I honestly don’t know what I’d imagined a diaper booster would look like. This makes complete and total sense. But I admit, I paused. And then I laughed inside because yes, I am a 12-year-old boy at heart.

I got the diaper boosters, convinced they would solve our problem. But then I faced the issue of whether Boo would notice them in his diaper. I resorted to stealth diaper booster-ing. He’s totally one of those kids who sees something new and freaks. Oddly enough, Boo didn’t sense the extra padding in there (and still hasn’t). Personally, I think that’s a little weird but I’m obviously very cool with that.

Because I’m me, I just had to do a little googling. What? I needed to know what makes a diaper booster a diaper booster. (Yes, I am trying to see how many times I can type diaper booster in one blog post.) I’m sure you already know or have figured out that diaper boosters allow liquid to flow through them into the diaper, thus maximizing absorbency. I didn’t know that…because I’m me.

In case you’re wondering, they’re working out pretty well. I’ve had to change a few sheets and jammies, but these booster thingies have significantly helped.

What I can’t get past, though, is this: Someone somewhere invented these things. And is making money off of them. For reals. Kinda wishing it had been me.

Poop.

Whatever, great job opportunity. Whatever.

When the hubs and I moved into our house BB (Before Boo), our neighbors were a couple about our age with a baby boy. We were hopeful — new friends? Possible friend for our someday child? We never knew. They weren’t chatty, which totally says a lot if you know me and the hubs. We’re not a chatty folk. Eventually, they put their house on the market. Great. What kind of peeps would we get this time around?

Enter young family #2, complete with a little girl who would become Boo’s first friend. Our neighbors were kick-ass. Like I just made eggplant parm, do you guys wanna come over kick-ass. (Seriously, that actually happened. We were already making pizza and we all ended up with a pretty sweet dinner.) These were old-school Can I borrow an egg? or I’m running to the store, do you need anything? neighbors. Bliss. Little girl soon after had a little brother, Boo’s second friend. Double bliss.

And then?

Well, this summer came. Happy face for the new job opp. Sad face for the moving to NC. Bye bye, wonderful neighbors. Sniff. Sniff. Now whose cake decorating tools am I going to borrow? Geesh.

And crap. Who will we get this time?

Enter Fantasy Neighbor. (Hey, hubs has Fantasy Football; I make my own games.)

Fantasy Neighbor is kick-ass in her own right. She loves kids and thinks my son is the most adorable child she’s ever met. She has gobs of energy and enjoys his company immensely. On a weekly basis, she texts me to say Hey, send him on over and we’ll bake together (or do crafts…or knit…whatever). Then she sends the baked goods/masterpieces/handmade scarves to my house. Boo adores Fantasy Neighbor, who is not only super-fun, but also incredibly responsible, certified in CPR and first aid, and has a degree in child psychology. She’s funny, an amazing cook, and invites me over to watch Grey’s Anatomy. Also, she doesn’t roll her eyes while she watches it. (Did you hear that, hubs?)

But alas, Fantasy Neighbor has her flaws. First of all, she’s unemployed. Seriously, how did I never wonder why she had so much time in her schedule? And without a steady income, there’s no way she’s keeping that house, which will obviously go into foreclosure, which would be oh-so-awesome because the house across the street has been in foreclosure for, like, ever. Before you know it, the neighborhood is going to hell in a handbasket (still one of my favorite expressions of all time, because if I were going anywhere — especially hell — a handbasket would be the way to travel.)

So not big enough for a whole neighborhood. Maybe I could use it?

Wait — how did I manage to screw up my own Fantasy Neighbor?

Eh, let’s be honest. At this point, I’d be happy with a cat lady who keeps to herself.

Truth is, I haven’t been particularly inspired. Oh sure, Boo says some pretty hilarious stuff of late. Turns out two-year-olds are a riot. And they absorb stuff like crazy. And have insane memories for random, seemingly unimportant facts. They’re sweet and give hugs and smooches. They have amazing imaginations and watching that unfold is totally fascinating. Boo does an uncanny impersonation of mommy (expressions and all) during play time. He could be a little less accurate.

But two-year-olds? Hell, they are their own breed of crazy. Damn. What with the whining and crying. The demands and obsessive fixations. Lordy. The mental gymnastics surrounding his bedtime routine are enough to send me to the funny farm. Mama dare not accidentally open the microwave to warm his milk. Hellz no. Flip-out. He must open it. And press the buttons. And close it. And then he has to take it and put it on the kitchen table, ensure Mommy and Daddy are sitting on the couch in the living room, and then go back to the kitchen to get the milk. Every.damn.night. Slip-ups are not tolerated. And that’s only a teeny slice of the antics. Whew — exhausting.

Rumor has it I’m not alone. And seriously, some days it’s just nice to hear about some other kid’s tantrum. Or lack of nap. Or bizarre fixation. Or sudden aversion to leaving the house. This? This is what helps keep me sane some days. Also naps.

Sometimes it’s easy to focus on the challenges, the frustrations, and the head games. But isn’t it amazing how one minute you think you might just lose your s*#% and the next you’re sitting in the “car” (play tent) getting buckled in by your two-year-old so he can “drive” you both to the bagel store (his room) and then order your favorite bagel? What? You don’t play bagel store? Anyway, it’s enough to make your head spin.

So back to this whole lack of inspiration thing.

Tonight while attempting to put jammies on Boo after his bath, he got super upset because apparently I didn’t sing the “jammy song” (don’t ask) properly. Aside: Still don’t know what I did wrong, but definitely did not meet his standards. After a few minutes of a fit, he finally let me put the jammies on. And then he came up with this doozy.

Him: “I have a baby in my belly.”

Me: “You do?”

Him: “Yeah. Wanna see?” Lifts up his shirt.

Me: “Oh.” Trying not to laugh.

Him: “Uh oh, it’s gonna hatch.”

Me: “It is?!” Really trying not to laugh, because it’s clear he’s taking this all very seriously.

Him: “Ya. You have a baby in your belly?”

Inspiration? Check.

What? You’ve never tried writing letters into your carpet with the stem of a hydrangea flower? No? Not even at 7:30 in the morning? Man, you’re missing out.

We have potty mouths around here. It was bound to happen. We talk all things potty. Potty chairs. Potty seats. Potty hooks. Sitting on the potty. Peeing on the potty. Pooping on the potty. Flushing the potty. Flushing pee pee in the potty. Flushing poop in the potty. Please keep your hands on your knees while sitting on the potty. No, your book doesn’t go in the potty. And the ever popular — Will he ever actually use the potty?

Boo has a pretty extensive potty mouth. He talks a good game. He’s so well-versed in potty that when I take him with me to the bathroom at say, Target, he quite audibly asks, “I flush your pee pee in the potty?” Uh, yeah, kid. Whatever makes you sing.

We’ve read potty book after potty book. And he loves them. By far, this one is his favorite — so much so that he flipped out when we had to return it to the library. (He gets that we return them so other kids can read them, but that was not acceptable in this case.) Each day after the infamous return, he’d ask for the Michael book. (Michael is the boy in the book.) Where’d Michael go? I want Michael back. Clearly I need to socialize this kid more. He’s befriending book characters better than real-life ones.

On to the book. It’s actually quite cute. It covers all the bases. The best , most brilliant part is how it starts: Michael is a boy just your age. See what I mean about covering bases? Genius.

So why not four stars?

For starters, it covers too many bases, most notably including an explanation of what happens after you flush: The pee and poop go into pipes under the house. Are you kidding me? Why does my kid, who may I remind you, does not pee and poop in the toilet, need to know this? He doesn’t know what a pipe is for crissakes. Weird. Then — and here is where it gets odd — daddy teaches Michael to pee standing up on like day two of using the potty. Huh? Did I miss the memo? Is there a conspiracy to get my kid to destroy my bathroom? What the hell?

The parents also have a poor sense of fashion. Boo thinks the dad is the mom.

And one more thing. Michael is the best behaved toddler I have ever seen. It’s absurd really. Somehow his hands never wander; he never takes the potty insert out to play with it; and he apparently has mad skillz in the undressing and dressing department. Meanwhile, he looks no older than a year and a half. Wha—?

When it comes down to it, though, Boo loves this book. The next time we went to the library, we looked for it again and couldn’t find it. Enlisting the help of the librarian, we discovered it’d been checked out. No joke — we put in a hold request. For a two-year-old. She laughed and said he was the youngest child she’d ever received a special request from. Why does this not surprise me? We’ve had to teach him how to pull down his pants, but he’s making requests from the librarian. That’s my boy.

And all completed in stealth, hidden from my son. Because seriously, let’s talk about my son’s experience with insects. Let’s start with Itsy Bitsy himself. I have to give IB mad props; little guy is living the American dream. Knock him down and he’ll get right back up again. He’s the classic underdog and cute to boot. So what is Boo to think when mama goes around wiping out spiders?

This obviously speaks to a greater problem in our society. Why exactly do we glamorize bugs and other living things that gross me out? Humor me here.

On The Cat in the Hat, Mabel the spider teaches Nick and Sally about spinning her web and then teaches them how to weave. On yet another episode, a caterpillar named Mindy (a true Southern belle…what’s that about?) teaches them about making silk so Sally can fix her “swirly twirly princess dress.” Yup, they’re helpful, too. I could go on and on with examples from that show. On a fave episode of Curious George, George races worms. Yeah, I don’t get it either. He does it in the country; I’m thinking it’s a Maine thing. He goes so far as to take worms into the house and create a habitat for them. I know — it’s appalling.

For real when I see a worm, I flip out a little. If my kid so much as picked up a worm, I would flip out a lot. Because I am a wimp and entirely not fond of creepy, crawly, slimy things. Even fake ones. My three older brothers can attest to this. Let’s just say they had their fun with me. Frogs, turtles, you name it. Me no likey. I almost stayed home from school in the tenth grade on the day we were dissecting frogs (the final dissection in quite the series, I might add). Incidentally, my lab partner was an entirely unhelpful jock who was more skeeved out than I was. Useless dude.

I wouldn’t be surprised if I killed IB himself. I’m pretty sure I’ve killed all Ten Little Ladybugs. I try not to freak out too much in front of my son, but I can’t help it. I blame these damn shows and books for teaching my kid that these are benign creatures he should take into my house.

Little Miss Muffet, I am so with you, girl.