Sleep Dog Sleep

All other things being equal, Go Dog Go, a formidably faithful adaptation for the stage of P.D. Eastman's 1961 early reader classic, would not--I admit it--be my first-choice play to see after going four-plus years without setting foot in a theater. But Oma and Opa are here visiting and we were looking for something to do with them in the evening, and Henry seemed as if he might be old enough to sit still for an hour, so there we were. And watching Henry being transported by the magic and wonder of it, laughing, leaning forward breathlessly in his seat, hiding his face in Peter's shoulder when it got just too good to bear (when the dogs used tools) was certainly worth the price of admission.

He tried to sneak out of the restaurant where we went for dinner afterwards to go back to Go Dog Go; he asked for Henry & Mudge, a book about a boy and his dog, before bed; and he fell asleep in a dog house of his own creation.

In the dog house.

House speaker

One of Henry's favorite conversational gambits for several months now is to ask, of any random thing, "what do you think X is saying?" ("What do you think that cat is saying? What do you think that truck is saying? What do you think the bed is saying?") We like to imagine that he is working on expanding his powers of empathy, although it often feels to me as if he is instead intent on forcing me to confront how utterly pedestrian my own imagination is. ("Meow. Here I come down the street. Get into me and close your eyes!")

Tonight at dinner we were running through a series of these questions. We got to "What do you think the rooms of our house are saying?"
"I don't know," I said. "What do YOU think they are saying?"
"Don't let any mosquitos come into me."
And next: "What do you think the sink is saying?"
"I don't know. What do you think?"
"Rub-a-dub-dub, what can I scrub?"

Touch-a-Truck

James & Reuven rode the WorkHorse.

This truck appeared to be on the scene for actual fire prevention purposes, but anyway, we touched it.

Henry was too shy and too dazzled to actually approach any of the trucks, and there were some doozies: fire truck, ambulance, garbage truck, cherry picker... Here, he sits in the same field as the helicopter, with his back to it, looking over his shoulder. I think the motive here is akin to that which dictates that one never look directly at the sun. The magnificence is too great; it may burn you. James isn't looking either, of course, but that's because he was woofing to a rabbit.

Three-year-olds, I tell you

Henry was out of sorts from the moment he woke up this morning, announcing that he didn't like this day, that he didn't want to go to camp, that he wanted to "break the whole camp," and noooooOOO he did NOT want to go after lunch to Touch-a-Truck, the event of the season for Bloomington preschoolers. I told him to go get dressed while I changed James's diaper. Instead, he went and hid under the quilt on my bed, a favorite game inspired by a favorite literary work, Owl at Home. It's quite straightforward. It's called Strange Bumps.
"What's that strange bump?" I asked. (That's the game.)
He began giggling. I hauled him out, turned him upside down and pulled his pants off. He guffawed.
"Wait, what's that?" I asked. "On your butt?"*
"What?"
"You have a tail!" I said, pulling a four-inch long piece of string from between his buttocks.
He did a dance of delight, whooping.
"I changed my mind," he said when he settled down. "I do love this day. This is a GREAT day!"
"Yes, a day can always get better," I said, moralistically.

*I can't help noting that even now, at 40, I feel dreadfully transgressive when I use the word butt, thanks to my mother's indoctrination. "Fuck" was OK in a pinch, but "butt" and "armpit" were never to be uttered.

Hello, I must be going

In brief, while I've been gone:

James turned 18 months old. The doctor continues to use the same old line ("the only thing he's slow at is getting teeth") about the same four chompers he's had for months now. His height remains average, while his weight is now hovering around the third percentile, and his head falls between the 50th and 75th percentile. He says 'nana (banana), mama & dada, nose (nuh), milk (muh), eye, ear, hair, tickle (tka), digger (dih) woof woof, meow, and vroom vroom. 

I turned my back on him for 30 seconds and found him at the counter, sneaking chicken livers.

Not quite getting the hang of finger-painting.

Although he looks blase here, James is quite the lover, always ready for a kiss and a tickle.

Peter's been schooling Henry at home. 

Henry started a 3-week Montessori summer camp yesterday. Drop-off yesterday was the first time he's ever been left without either me, Peter, Virginia, or my mom, and boy, did he ever not like it. After I unpeeled him from my legs and left, near tears myself, I heard him hurling himself against the door. Later, I learned from both the teachers and from himself, he hid under the furniture and "peed all over the building" (Henry's words). Once that was over, however, he settled down all right, and today our parting was perfectly undramatic. On the one hand, it's lovely to have a tete-a-tete with James in the morning, but on the other hand, three weeks seems like a long time to have Henry gone for four hours every day. I miss him. 

After camp today, a two-hour nap.

Both boys have thoroughly enjoyed our mulberry tree this spring.

More words

It's hard to convey the effect of richocheting through a day from Precious Moment to incandescent rage (never mind whose) and back again, perhaps ten times or more before lunch. I only mention it because when I tell stories about dear things James & Henry do--by far the easiest sort of vignette to write down quickly during a rare moment of quiet--I am leaving out SO MUCH--good, bad, and ugly. (This is very good on the subject.)

So, for example, in between this morning's two blog posts, Henry spent 20 minutes first shrieking, then subsiding into a long, slow whine because I used his spoon to stir James's yogurt. He also tugged so hard on a curtain that he bent the rod irretrievably in two places, and he is currently lobbing wooden blocks from the front of the house against the back door, which I am (obviously) ignoring. I haven't yet had the stomach for suggesting he get dressed, which inevitably leads to tears and raised voices. But five minutes ago, when I went to check on them, the boys were sitting on the floor, heads together, lining up all the train cars and giggling.

So anyway, that happened. And then this happened:

Henry helped me make Super Jello for breakfast this morning. Afterwards, I found him curled up on a sofa cushion, pretending to be asleep.
"Tired, sweetie?" I asked.
"The applesauce was soporific," he said.
I laughed so much he didn't stop saying soporific for the next 10 minutes. Thanks again for the laffs, Beatrix Potter.

Inclusive language

Henry: I'm making a little nest for Jamie & I.
Me (scandalized--where does he pick up this language??): You mean "for Jamie & me"!
Henry: OK, mama, you can be in the nest too.