Wombat, you are twenty months old and change and I have been remiss. So what have you been doing these last four months? Let's begin in the now:

This morning you slept in until 8 a.m., and although that would have been enough to set a thousand victory flags a-waving, you also said "I love you" and then punctuated a mouth-kiss by saying, "Kiss Mama! Yaaaay!" Even if I hadn't already felt close to death because of this stupid summer coldbeast, I still would have clutched my heart and seen my life flash before my eyes in that singular moment, for it surely was the culmination of everything that has come before.

And speaking of "everything," most of what you encounter these days is "yay"-worthy. "Bus! Yay!" "Two cats! Yay!" "Read a book! Yay!" Even when you're scared or unsure it's still "Yaaaay!" although your face inevitably betrays what lurks in the soul of the littlest yes-man. That you're trying so hard to make the best of a less-than-ideal situation, though, is further proof you are your father's son. That and the eyebrows and the dents that form above the corners of your mouth when you smirk.

But with an attitude like that, everything is opportunity, everything an event--life projected onto the bigscreen, in digital surround and with all-caps subtitles. We don't just eat dinner, we have "DINNERTIME!" We don't just play with puzzles, we have "PUZZLETIME!" We don't just squash around on the Playdoh, we have "PLAYDOHTIME!" And now that you've discovered what fun your junk can be, we can't change your diaper without it turning into "PEEPERTIME!" and I'm sorry if that's embarrassing, but how do you think I feel when we're out in public and you're sticking your hands down your pants and yelling "YAAAAAAY!"? (I supposed this is what has replaced sticking your hands down my shirt and yelling "Boobies!" and didn't Dr. Phil once say bad habits aren't broken, just replaced with new ones? And didn't I just say you were your father's son?)

Yes, last month you were weaned while I was away for a weekend, and although it was a loss for us both, we're fine now. You occasionally say, "No boobie! Boobie no!" and I occasionally have the urge to plug your screamhole with a deflated teat, but overall the transition was smooth, although not without tears (mine) and a little bit of bribery. (At the end of our last nursing session, I told you "all done" and then distracted you with a fruit roll-up, which we bought in bulk for your birthday and are still working through, so help me Costco.)

As the boobies went the way of the dodo (see what I did there?), so have most of your signs too, and I'm especially sad to have lost the one for "fish," which you never did with less than full-bore enthusiasm, wagging your bladed hand back and forth like you were fanning a nascent campfire on which to cook a plump side of salmon. A few signs linger yet, the most consistent among them being "all done" and "more," although when you sign you also say the words at the same time (albeit not always in English: "Motto!" you say, bouncing your fingertips off each other; "Oshimai!" you insist, waving jazzhands.)

We get the most of "more," though--"more outsidetime," "more peanut butter," "one more story"--and it's been especially cool to watch your vocabulary flesh out beyond concrete words to include concept words, like "new" and "hot" and "other" and "nice" and "right t/here." It's like you've opened a beloved hardcover that yesterday was just a standard four-color picturebook to find it has transformed overnight into a touch-and-feel pop-up with a sound card and embedded LEDs. Your flat world has become round; a twister has plopped you somewhere over the complete double rainbow.

The language explosion blew the lid off of absolutely everything during your seventeenth month, and although you've taken leaps and bounds since then, you still have some curious lexical quirks that require translation. "Shoes," "socks," and "shirt" are "yous," "yocks," and "yurt," and "green grapes" are "deen dapes." "Grandpa" sounds a whole lot like "diaper," "milk" is somehow "meeto," and "same" has morphed from "mwee" to "weemah" to "weem." But every day it seems you're getting a tighter, firmer grip on the language the rest of us speak (at home, anyway) and we can finally say, unironically, "Use your words," and expect a result more satisfying than a frothy raspberry. At last count you could say more than 350 words, but we stopped counting two months ago. "Mo-mo" has become "good morning," a spitty rattle in your cheeks has become "eggs," you can say the names of the animals instead of just mimicking their sounds, and sometimes "Mama" is even plain old casual "Mom."

You know your letters, numbers, shapes, and colors. When you're playing by yourself, you sing "Twinkle, Twinkle" and the whole Alphabet Song and "Baa, Baa, Black Sheep." ("Weem!") You can count objects up to ten in English and Japanese. You know all the actions to "Ito Maki Maki" and you turn your arm into a trunk for "Zousan." You take a stab at spelling, but no matter what the letters are you always say, "B-O-E spells...'Mama!'" which isn't quite right, my dear, but then you say things like "Bye-bye, little red car! See ya!" that leave us reeling. When did all this happen? While we're sleeping do you steal away like the Twelve Dancing Princesses except instead of taking your ballet shoes to a magical netherworld ball you take your thinking cap to night school?

Oh, but you're still a baby. When I pick you up from daycare and strip the snotty Bib of Shame from 'round your neck, in three seconds flat you turn my sexy but tasteful, trendy yet timeless, carefully-thought-out outfit into a giant bogey rag. (Okay, so maybe it's just the shirt I slept in the night before, but still.) You are a baby because you need me to wipe your nose. You are a baby because you eat dinner from a highchair. You are a baby because even though we took your crib rail off when you learned to climb it, it's still a crib. You are a baby because you poop your pants. (As much as I look forward to the end of the Diaper Years, I do see the many benefits of a well-made Pamper: for instance, you conclude Ring Around the Rosies with such force and such joy that I wish I too was wearing such cushy underthings and had only a foot and a half to fall; surely no one else is having as much fun as you anywhere in the world at that moment.)

You are a baby because you make me feel old and young at the same time.

You're a baby because I'm still (mostly) "Mama," just like the first time you said it, almost a whole year ago.

It was a lovely time. It was a time of do-nothingness and in-sleeping, of shoes and ships and sealing wax. It was a quiet, calm, peaceful time. But it was not as quiet and calm and peaceful as it looked.

The wind blew and the thunder boomed and the cats whined and the deer in my parents' new neighborhood went *monch monch monch* and "meeeeh, meeeeh, meeeeeh."

Wombat had to sleep in our room as a precaution against untimely-death-by-stairway and he woke up often during the nights either phlegm-coughing or deer-bleating (meeeeh! meeeeeh!) or stumbling around the pitch-black room with his eyes closed (although that is not how he bloodied his lip.)

We did equal parts sight-seeing and homebodying and surveilling of the locals, and not to be the eternal Pollyanna but it was all so well-timed and much-needed and perfectperfectperfect that I don't mind telling you I sent Wombat off to play in the yard with his grandparents so I could spend some quality minuteshours playing Bookworm on my Nintendo DS without a care in the world.

(Wombat does not have a DS but a magnetic drawing pad thingy. Giving him a DS at this age would be like...like giving him Cheetos. Or Lunchables! Someone call CPS!)

(Not blood this time but black beans.)

So it was quiet but not too quiet. Hot but not too hot. Family-full but not over-family-flowing.

The crickets went *chirp chirp chirp* and the neighborcats went prrrrrr and this grasshopper sat still for a portrait, smizing with his shark-black eyes.

Wombat thinks the vintage Fisher Price Little Person with the blonde ponytail is his mama the way I always thought she was mine ("Weem!" he says. "Mama weem!" where "weem" means "same" to the kid who won't use "s" at the beginning of a word), and I am pleased to find that I enjoy my old toys in all the old ways but also with the added benefit of thirty years of world knowledge and an unchallenging sense of humor.

("Dinnertime!" pipes my kid. "No, poker," quoth I.)

We learned things too. In addition to the whole "bulldozer" deal, we now know that Wombat likes suckers once he learns what to do with them, hates huggy girls, and is a big boy when it comes to brushing his teeth but a giant freakin' baby when the mist descends at the splash pad.

We were also reminded that we all really, really like each other, which I think is kind of the point.

We're off to Salt Lake! Wombat and I are flying alone tonight and Simon will be joining us later and it will be warm and sunny and there will be water parks and manmade beaches and picnicking with family and sleeping in and temporary tattoos and long gazes over the valley basin and lots of other wonderful and worthwhile things but, first, my god, Wombat and I must fly ALONE--alone together--through the skies and across the desert and mountains and, you guys, I don't know if there are enough brand! new! books! in the world to make this idiot-proof. We've had great luck flying with him in the past, but it's never been just me before. It been me and the team--Simon and my boobs--and although the boobs will indeed be accompanying us on this voyage as per usual, they're not exactly useful these days. Not unless a quick flash at a hard-up flight attendant can score me a babysitter and/or a complimentary cocktail.

I didn't have room in my suitcase to bring you each back an "I *heart* NY" T-shirt, but I wanted to send a little BlogHer love your way nonetheless, and this is best way I know how: with a Discount Roundup. Yee-haw.

(You will either find this incredibly helpful or incredibly annoying. Imma hedge my bets with this one and hope it's cool.)

Pay $25 and get $50 worth of stuff at the Gap via Groupon--TODAY ONLY.
Offer valid on sale items and in Canada, of all places! Demand is high, so the website keeps crashing, but try, try again. (This isn't BlogHer-related, but since you can only get this deal today, I wanted to put it front and center.)

Get 15% off your first order with Soap.com using code BLOGHER2010; expires September 20, so get to gettin'.
This is basically Diapers.com but not strictly baby-centric. I placed my first order last Thursday at 4 p.m. and my box of goodies was on the porch at 9 a.m. the next day. That's astounding.

HauteLook has partnered with BlogHer.
If you wander over there to my left-hand sidebar, you'll see one of today's deals; if you click through and register, you can see even more discounted items, with most everything coming in at under $100.

Get a free one-month Pro membership at ThredUp with code BlogHer.
ThredUp has brought high technology to the proud, low-tech tradition of hand-me-downs. Search the database, find a box of used clothes for your kid, pay for shipping, and they're yours. When you have a box of your own to give away, ThredUp will arrange for free pick-up and shipping. Way less creepy than Craigslist.

Get free shipping from Gettington.com with code BLOGHER through September 15. Offer excludes clearance items and cannot be combined with other offers.
Gettington is an online department store for home goods, and they provided this year's Freeset conference swag bag, handmade by women in India whose lives have been impacted by the sex trade.

I was not asked or paid to promote any of these products or services. Just sharing the love is all.

A few months ago I tweeted something to the effect of:

Can we start recognizing the difference between "personal" and "lifestyle" blogs? Because no one's "real" life is that pretty all the time.

You know what I mean. You've been to those sites. And don't get me wrong, pretty is pretty is pretty, but that doesn't mean there aren't still "special effects" at work beyond the camera's reach--a flock of snow-white light-diffusion umbrellas, the Dooce effect, the pile of purse jetsam that usually litters the kitchen counter but has been cheerfully, serenely, shoved aside to make room for the ceramic bowl of handpicked and carefully arranged organic plums.

On Flickr that same day I posted this photo, "for my Lifestyle blog, where everything is beautiful":

Then I posted this, for my Life blog, and captioned it "But I don't WANT Cashew Chicken!"

When it comes to how we share our lives on the Internet, both are good, but I think we can now agree that each is distinct from the other.

While I was at BlogHer, I was feeling particularly cute, and so each day (and after each midday wardrobe change), I snapped a selfie in the hotel room mirror to capture the moment, as well as to commemorate the occasion of my not being accessorized with the toddler-related fluids to which I and my wardrobe have become accustomed. I also took photos every time I found myself in an elevator alone, which, trust me, was kind of a minor miracle considering the 2,400 women packed into the Hilton in addition to the poor, unsuspecting non-conference guests.

On a Lifestyle blog I might tell you where my clothing came from or how each element has special meaning to me--perhaps a memento from an impressive vacation or a beloved late relative. Through my Life blog, though, you've already read about how I totally cheat at the Working Closet, and you know that most of my Nice Clothes are from Target and TJMaxx, so there's just no fooling you anymore, is there? That's the problem with a Lifestyle blog: you always have to be on.

In that spirit, here's a Life moment for you: me in a strapless bra and shapewear (from TJMaxx!).

(There was an honest-to-goodness nudist roaming the halls at BlogHer this year, so what's the big deal, eh?)

And because I don't want to leave you here stuck with the image of me in my unmentionables, here is one more Lifestyle | Life series: me jumping on the hotel bed vs. my many failed attempts to jump on cue with the self-timer (because I'm apparently too embarrassed to ask someone to take my picture jumping on the bed but not too embarrassed to post the outtakes on the Internet, even the ones showcasing my shapewear and white-girl bed-jumping overbite).

(Even then, a little Life is peeking out from underneath my 50-percent-off-at-Kohl's dress, just to keep it real.)