As of two days ago, James's first word is [Ba]nana.
Although, as soon as I said that was his first word, officially, I realized he's been saying "up" (minus the p, but still) for months. He also says "Na na na na," irately, for no, and he barks and meows like a champ
Nevertheless, I stand by banana. Like many, many of my experiences of motherhood, things that seemed perfectly straightforward before I had children reveal themselves to be a little murkier in their outlines than I could have conceived: How exactly do you define "word," and what, pray tell, do you mean by first? First said by chance, one off? Or what?
In any case, he has already added to his repertoire, with dog (minus the g) and ball (minus the ls).
I can't wait to find out what is next.
Friday, March 30, 2012
Monday, March 26, 2012
loving and learning
Last night, Henry says to me: "Mama, don't wash your feet tonight." (Washing was, on the face of it, strongly indicated.)
"Why not?"
"Because I love you the way you are, and I love dirt."
***
This morning, my sweet naked Henry, with his knees wrapped thickly in surgical gauze, after he skinned them yesterday afternoon while gamboling at the cemetery with Peter) caught my eye in the bathroom mirror and said, "I'm trying to not make you put me in the green room, Mama." (Yesterday morning I popped him in the green room for what I suppose is in fact a time out, although I reprobate the term. While there, he found Peter's phone and called Susan in San Francisco.)
Experiencing indefinable pangs of something--motheguilt-- I said, "That sounds good."
"Because," he went on, "You really need to learn not to do that. It makes people cry."
"Why not?"
"Because I love you the way you are, and I love dirt."
***
This morning, my sweet naked Henry, with his knees wrapped thickly in surgical gauze, after he skinned them yesterday afternoon while gamboling at the cemetery with Peter) caught my eye in the bathroom mirror and said, "I'm trying to not make you put me in the green room, Mama." (Yesterday morning I popped him in the green room for what I suppose is in fact a time out, although I reprobate the term. While there, he found Peter's phone and called Susan in San Francisco.)
Experiencing indefinable pangs of something--motheguilt-- I said, "That sounds good."
"Because," he went on, "You really need to learn not to do that. It makes people cry."
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| Comforting the wounded with Sesame Street. |
Monday, March 19, 2012
A few moments in March
Henry called me in to be with him tonight while he was falling asleep. No doubt I would be wise to consistently refuse these requests, since sometimes, all I really want is for him to put himself to bed and leave me be to watch half an hour of some 1980s British costume drama on Netflix streaming before I go to bed myself, but then other nights, I cannot resist the sweetness of these summonses, and the sleepy conversations that ensue.
So tonight he was almost asleep when he lifted his eyelids for a moment. "I was just thinking, Mommy," he confided, "about a football player." The eyelids dropped, and then reopened. "With a claw."
For the last 3 or 4 weeks, he has been talking about thinking things, or dreaming them, "in my head." He seems to understand now that he can deliberately conjure up ideas and images. If he is angry about having to go to bed alone, for instance, he tells me that he will think about witches and ghosts and scary things, even after I remind him that he could try to think about nice things, like Mom's cat, and ice cream cones, and tractors.
**
In James's inner world, meanwhile, humor is blossoming. A few weeks ago, he made his first joke, when he picked up a sock and draped it over his foot. Then he lifted his foot up and transferred the sock to his head. We agreed this was hilarious. Lately, he reduces himself to helpless giggling by waggling his foot under my nose while he is nursing, prompting me to make a face and tell him his foot stinks. He is also, within these past two weeks, truly walking, not just tottering for a few steps at a time, and his two top front teeth have just come in, bringing the grand total to four.
**
Saturday afternoon, Mom & I took the boys to the library bookstore. A man, perhaps 60 years old, was standing nearby, talking to a woman about the recent death of his mother, age 85. I heard snatches of the conversation while I was hunting for children's books. Yesterday, Henry told me, casually, that he had heard "a man" talking in the library.
"What man?" I asked, not thinking much about it.
"A man talking to a woman about his mom," he said.
"Oh!" I remembered. "You mean, the man who was telling his friend that his mom died?" Henry nodded. "Yes," I said, "I heard him too."
"I think he was telling his friend," he said, evidently working something out. "I think he was telling that woman so he could go and live with her, and she can be his mom."
So tonight he was almost asleep when he lifted his eyelids for a moment. "I was just thinking, Mommy," he confided, "about a football player." The eyelids dropped, and then reopened. "With a claw."
For the last 3 or 4 weeks, he has been talking about thinking things, or dreaming them, "in my head." He seems to understand now that he can deliberately conjure up ideas and images. If he is angry about having to go to bed alone, for instance, he tells me that he will think about witches and ghosts and scary things, even after I remind him that he could try to think about nice things, like Mom's cat, and ice cream cones, and tractors.
**
In James's inner world, meanwhile, humor is blossoming. A few weeks ago, he made his first joke, when he picked up a sock and draped it over his foot. Then he lifted his foot up and transferred the sock to his head. We agreed this was hilarious. Lately, he reduces himself to helpless giggling by waggling his foot under my nose while he is nursing, prompting me to make a face and tell him his foot stinks. He is also, within these past two weeks, truly walking, not just tottering for a few steps at a time, and his two top front teeth have just come in, bringing the grand total to four.
**
Saturday afternoon, Mom & I took the boys to the library bookstore. A man, perhaps 60 years old, was standing nearby, talking to a woman about the recent death of his mother, age 85. I heard snatches of the conversation while I was hunting for children's books. Yesterday, Henry told me, casually, that he had heard "a man" talking in the library.
"What man?" I asked, not thinking much about it.
"A man talking to a woman about his mom," he said.
"Oh!" I remembered. "You mean, the man who was telling his friend that his mom died?" Henry nodded. "Yes," I said, "I heard him too."
"I think he was telling his friend," he said, evidently working something out. "I think he was telling that woman so he could go and live with her, and she can be his mom."
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Very nice
Breakfast this morning:
Henry requests toast with jelly. I slice up a banana for James. Henry immediately runs over to James's place and holds his hand out like the tax collector, demanding that he share. James resists. Henry persists. His hand is extended in front of James's nose, wherever James turns.
At last, James puts a gummed banana round into his brother's palm.
Henry crows delightedly: "He did it! He shared! James is a very nice man!"
Henry requests toast with jelly. I slice up a banana for James. Henry immediately runs over to James's place and holds his hand out like the tax collector, demanding that he share. James resists. Henry persists. His hand is extended in front of James's nose, wherever James turns.
At last, James puts a gummed banana round into his brother's palm.
Henry crows delightedly: "He did it! He shared! James is a very nice man!"
Monday, February 20, 2012
True story
Peter reported having a conversation today with a friend about a visit by her young niece, age 5. The niece was so charmed by the friend's pets and other amenities that she declared she would like the friend & the friend's husband to be her parents, in preference to her own. When it was time for her to leave the friend's house, she told her parents that they were destroying her life.
"That's nothing," said Peter. "Just listen to this shit. The other day, Henry told Leora he wanted to kill her... with a gun. And he told me he was going to skin me and cover me with fire."
His listeners were suitably horrified.
"Where is he getting that from?" they asked, aghast.
"Beatrix Potter," Peter replied.
"That's nothing," said Peter. "Just listen to this shit. The other day, Henry told Leora he wanted to kill her... with a gun. And he told me he was going to skin me and cover me with fire."
His listeners were suitably horrified.
"Where is he getting that from?" they asked, aghast.
"Beatrix Potter," Peter replied.
 |
| Not for the faint of heart. |
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Don't turn your back on this one
 |
| This happened while Peter was about five feet away, washing dishes. |
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
No pictures
I've been meaning to say something here about how, despite the evidence of recent posts, our life is NOT in fact all Victorian morality tales for infants, but then we took a turn for the still-more Dickensian; we all succumbed to colds, which started out with fever & chills, developed into tubercular hacking, and in Peter's case, pneumonia. The whole, dreary, weeks-long episode appears to be on the verge of closing, although with its last gasp it apparently exhaled a noxious miasma of stomach flu upon us. Dad used to quote a friend who said that having young children at home was like living over an open sewer, and it was amusing at the time. Just at present, however, we are not amused.
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