Eggs

This morning I left home to what I think is commonly referred to as domestic bliss. I guess it would have been more blissful if I hadn’t been leaving it and had played more of a role that morning than making the dink cry in hysteria when he saw me put on my shoes and kiss him bye-bye for the next seven hours…but the recovery scene that I caught through the screen door from the carport had me leaving with a smile on my face. J knew just the trick to calm down D, which is one of his favorite “let me help” activities—cooking eggs. J was standing there at the stove in his boxers, holding D on his hip (still in his fleece pajama snuggle suit). Daddy let the dink help open the carton of eggs, and then break each one in the bowl. The report I got later was that D no longer lightly taps the egg in the bowl and hands it off to be cracked for real—no, now he smashes the whole thing fearless onto the counter or whatever the nearest hard surface is. (So fun to rinse albumen from your child’s hand before breakfast.) And then comes the beating of the eggs, pouring them into the pan, and don’t forget grabbing the stick of butter from the fridge to grease the pan first. It’s amazing what kind of stuff that kid has picked up from watching us. Last night I had to fuss at him for throwing his bib into the trash can, but you really can’t blame him. He watches me cooking and cleaning in the kitchen all day, throwing away endless amounts of high chair refuse, wet paper towels, and empty cartons, jars, and bottles (that’s correct, I live in the only city in the world without recycling). I really hate leaving him in the mornings, when he’s bright-eyed and hungry for stimulation and adventure, and especially lately since he’s started clinging to my leg from the moment he wakes up, knowing that I’ll leave him if he lets me alone long enough to put on makeup and shoes. But recovery scenes like that, when you realize that you’re seeing your husband in the exact position that you dreamed about years ago before you even got married…that goes a long way in making up for it.

Misunderstandings

Just a week ago, I declared that “go, go-gee” was the dink’s quirky little way of saying “go.”

Turns out I underestimated him. The kid was giving me direct orders: Go get it! Or maybe he’s just directing himself when he says it. Either way, there are many things in our house to be gotten—his sippy cup of milk when he wakes up (an urgent go-gee!), his Jane’s Great Adventure book (once again, urgent), daddy from bed (“let’s go-gee him”), and a multitude of toys, kitchen items, and other inanimate objects that the dink loves to point to while he’s on my hip. I’ve found myself, more than I’d like to admit, turning circles around the kitchen as we go-gee the vent over the range, the Keurig coffee maker, the red cast iron dutch oven…until I realize that if I don’t stop, these directions may one day turn into “Give me some juice now!” or “Get your ass out of bed” Oh, but my dink would never.

The joy in the pointing and inspecting ritual is the special sound of excitement that D makes. It’s onomatopoeia at its finest. He puts the tip of his tongue between his teeth, barely sticking out, and hardly moving it, makes a strong “s” sound. For those of us who learned that making an “s” sound involves smiling, this would be very difficult. But it comes natural to him, and it’s a sound J and I try to repeat to each other when pointing to things, but as we’ve learned time and again, there are many, many things that are adorable when children do, yet annoying, inappropriate, or stupid when adults do…like stuffing as many strawberries as possible into one’s mouth, inspecting one’s genitalia in the bathtub for ten minutes, or my recent favorite, running in place as fast as possible on one’s tiptoes as a form of dance.

Papa

I always figured this would happen one day, but it still caught me off guard that it happened so soon. At 16 months and 2 days, the dink has officially declared his profound adoration for his Papa (pronounced paw-paw). On Friday evening, I met my dad in Covington to pass off the dink for the night so J and I could go out, get a decent night’s sleep, and talk to some Chinese people about renovating our kitchen. I was feeling hesitant about the whole episode, since we haven’t left the little man since our 5-day trip to the Dominican Republic exactly the day after his first birthday. But alas, my worry was for naught.

The dink spotted Papa as soon as I pulled him from his carseat, and he begged to get down. He started whining, and my dad reassured him “She’s not leaving you yet!” but then realized that the purpose of the whine was to be picked up…by Papa. From there, the dink wouldn’t let Papa put him down. Dad had to uninstall my carseat and reinstall it in his truck, all with one hand because the dink was permanently attached to his hip. When the carseat was finally installed, that dink happily let Papa buckle him in and looked at me like “See ya!” as I kissed him bye-bye and they pulled off. It was utterly unbelievable. Two minutes later, I called my mom to tell her about the dink’s newfound obsession with his Papa, but she had already gotten off the phone with the adored Papa himself, who had told her smugly, “Well, I think D likes me!”

I won’t say that it was bittersweet or anything dramatic like that. But it kind of was. Sure, I’ve realized before that the dink really liked his daycare teacher when he learned how to say her name (Kee---lly) and chanted it the whole way home, but this was an attachment that I’ve truly seen with no other (excluding Daddy). The most amazing this about it is that he doesn’t even see Papa that much! Maybe once a month, and always when I’m there as well. It was like he just felt some sort of instinctual connection to this grandfather-figure in his life. It’s like Susan at work always says about kids: “They get it. More than you think.” I guess before long he’ll be peeing outside with Papa on the compost pile.

Go!

Guh, Guh, Go-gee. This is the dink’s way of telling me it is time to go! Lately, he’s been waking up super early, as early as 4:45 a.m. and can’t figure out how to go back to sleep. So J and I try to enforce bogus rules, like “he can’t get out of bed before 5:30.” While waiting, the dink divides his time between trying to go back to sleep and practicing his words---mamaaaa, dadaaa, bye-byyye, yeah, yeah, yeah! (usually repeated with increasing emphasis). There’s also uh-oh and night-night, and maybe even calling of the cats (clicking his tongue). Finally, when he’s had enough of this routine, he stands on the door side of his crib and whines loudly and emotionally…and I stumble into his room and try to find a balance of praising him for playing alone for a while and also letting him know that it was still too early for him to wake up. This balance, of course, is inachievable and ridiculous, which is why this insanely early routine has persisted for the past few weeks. J and I are stuck, tired, not in the mood for tough love, and holding out hope that daylight savings time beginning is going to save us this weekend.

This morning, when I walked into the dink’s room at 5:29 a.m., he crawled quickly toward me, unsure of whether or not I would tell him to go to sleep or pick him up. As I reached my hands toward him, he leaned in to be lifted, and as he was rising out of the crib, he threw his lovey back down inside of it and say “bye-byyye” in that low-pitched, sing-song way of his. Then “uh, uh” pointing to the light switch so I’d let him turn it on, then down on the floor to look at me, making his baby sign for eat/drink (fingers bunched together, tapping mouth), and then marching toward his bedroom door, saying “guh guh, go-gee” all the way to the kitchen. The amount of instruction that I take from a 16 month old (today!) just blows me away. I wouldn’t stand for anyone else in the entire world directing me around like that, except maybe in prison or under some sort of kidnapping. But this life under the dink’s direction is the farthest thing from prison. I’d run laps around the house outside totally naked in the morning if his laughs and smiles were my reward.

Where's daddy?

This afternoon, Declan hollered his favorite word: Daaaa---yyy! I think he was talking to me, since we've both been responding to this precious display of name-calling with enthusiasm. So to confuse him further, I said "Where is daddy?" which is, unfortunately in this situation, the same thing I say on Saturday mornings around 7:30 a.m. when I've been up with the dink for two hours and I'm ready for daddy to take over. And the dink knows what that means. So he pointed to our bedroom door, just like he does on Saturdays, for me to carry him into our bedroom, let him turn on the light, and throw him on the bed to lift up sheets and covers and pillows to find daddy and wake him up. Actually, we do this routine during the week as well. So "where's daddy" was not the right thing to say to a poor little doo looking for his da-da. I tried to amend it by saying "Daddy's at work," but the dink was undeterred. "Uh, uh,"--it's his most commonly uttered sound. I mean his neverendingly uttered sound that manages to get him whatever it is he wants. So we walked into the bedroom and I put him on the bed. He slowly lifted each pillow on the bed with a mischievous grin, as if he expected daddy's big smiling sleepy head to emerge from underneath.

But of course, daddy didn't emerge. And dink moved on. But later in the evening, he practiced his newest string of syllables that resemble something we say--i ove ou. He probably said it fifteen times, sometimes to me, sometimes walking down the hall, and a couple times, to the ever-present yet missing man of the house: i ove ou daa--yy. Out of sight, working late hours at the office while me and dink snuggle and act silly and cook all sorts of things in the kitchen, but certainly not out of mind.

Walker

A few weeks ago, the dink finally traded in his roughened knees for his walking shoes. It was about time! I was never sure if I should be concerned that he had been in the “walkers” class at daycare for three months and was the only kid still crawling, or if I should be impressed at his complete lack of concern for what all the other kids were doing. Either way, it’s just like all of those other baby issues that seem so important and relevant when you’re going through them, but then fade so far back into your mind once they’re over that you can hardly remember they ever existed. Watching your baby grow into a little person certainly makes you live in the moment—life is what we’re experiencing today.

Reunion

Sometimes I’m overwhelmed when I think about writing about the dink—of how to capture so many moments and feelings and experiences in enough words. It usually feels like such a tall task…which is why I avoid it as much as I run to it. But then sometimes, like yesterday, just one little moment in my life as the dink’s mommy can say it all.

Last week was Christmas, and even though I had planned to take vacation days Mon-Wed before the two-day work holiday so that I could finish shopping and work on one of my home improvement projects, I ended up staying home with a sick baby. The dink had his sixth or seventh ear infection—I lose count—raging in both ears. They developed less than a week after finishing ten days of antibiotics from the previous one. So he was in crisis mode, dealing with a wet cough, runny nose, and pressing his big hands against his painful ears. We watched Baby Einstein more times than I’m proud of, made furious, brief trips to choice stores for last-minute gifts, and spent a lot of time in each other’s arms.

The week got better as Christmas Eve arrived, and J was finally home to share the load and add his own excitement for the holidays to the mix. We went to my parents in the country, stayed the night and most of the day on Christmas there, and then to J’s parents in the country to finish off the weekend. The dink was feeling pretty lousy the whole time, but slept well and showed enough excitement for his duplicate gifts—three riding toys and three sets of Mega Bloks—to make everyone say what a sweet, joyful baby he is.

My favorite part of the holiday was our homecoming. Like the dink, I get homesick even when we’re visiting family, and arriving at the house at noon on Sunday just in time for the crappy Saints game was the highlight of our trip. Coming off of a two-hour car nap, the dink was wildly calling the cats as soon as we pulled up in the driveway. He exclaimed when he saw #2, bouncing up and down on his knees and waving his hands high above his head. He crawled madly through the kitchen, greeting his fridge toys, his musical train, and his beloved, beloved pots and pans. And he panted at J’s legs in the living for about half an hour, watching daddy operate the remote so skillfully, quickly changing channels and taking the batteries in and out for the dink’s enjoyment.

Then Monday came quickly, and J dropped off the dink at daycare for the first time in ten days. I wasn’t surprised when I picked him up to see him in his teacher’s arms. She said that he had been kind of sad that day, and she didn’t know. I said it was because he had just spent ten days with me, and she laughed. But then the dink proved my point better than I could have ever explained. He came into my arms, put his head on my shoulder a minute, then looked up at me, smiled, put each of his hands on my cheeks, leaned in for a kiss. I might feel better about leaving the dink every day if I had that kind of reunion to look forward to.

Baby steps

The dink took his first steps a few days ago. Three tiny, one-inch, consecutive forward movements toward something...not me, but something that gets him going in the kitchen like a beater from the electric mixer, or the open door of the dishwasher. He seemed proud, but not totally committed, like he did it without really trying too hard, propelled by the weight of green beans, pasta, rotisserie chicken, and half a can of pears in his near-bursting tummy. If only the dink attacked all of his physical milestones with the gusto that he eats his dinner!

I actually like the way he takes his time. Completely unconcerned with the other "walkers" in his daycare class, biding his time on his butt, perfecting the one-legged, one-handed scoot, which is used when he wants to get somewhere relatively fast but needs to protect a particular item held in one of his hands. He seems just concerned enough with people around him to try to mimic the fun things they do (pointing the remote at the tv, pressing the pin code pad at the grocery store), but then unconcerned enough to tell people no sometimes when they want him to perform on demand (high fives, bye-bye waves, blowing kisses). And certainly undisturbed by the fact that he's had the physical agility to walk for months...because he likes where he is, on the floor, tugging at my pant legs, sliding easily on the terrazzo in our kitchen. And I guess he's teaching me something about taking life slowly, waiting until you're ready, not putting undue pressure on yourself...I think I get it now, what they mean when they say "baby steps."

Hello, Seahorse

The other night, I was playing with the dink in the bathub. Amidst a congregation of rubber duckies, winnie-the-pooh, empty travel size shampoo bottles (the dink's favorites), and God knows what else, I pulled the purple and green sea horse. Making him dive in the two-inch bath water and sail past the dink's avid eyes, I use my best sea horse voice to make him say, "hello, dink, I'm Mr. Seahorse." And then to the dink--say hi to mr. sea horse, dink, say hello...Hello! And I hand the soggy toy to the dink, who holds it up to his ear and does his best imitation..."heee---uuuoo". Should I be ashamed of this?