The Boy has learned how dispense water from the refrigerator. He makes a circuit of it: fill up a glass, take a drink, toddle over to the sink, pour out the remainder. Repeat.
Refill
growing
Sorting
Evening play with the Boy: we put the cards out on the steps, one at a time, sorting. We place Emily on Emily, Thomas on Thomas, and it’s all going quite well for the first few cards. E takes a card, looks at it, and places it on the right stack. Soon there are three stacks, and the accuracy decreases. Soon, with five, six stacks, he loses interest in place them on the right stack and simply begins tossing cards on the stairs.
Later, as L is working on her homework, the Boy begins rifling through a pack of bandages. One variety: no sorting, but still there’s the question of manipulation, of getting them all in a stack, all in a row, so to speak.
It’s captivating to watch, whether cards or Band-Aids, because we never really know what he’s trying to do, and I’m not sure he does, either. Patterns emerge that seem to be purposeful then disappear into new chaos.
Time Machine
One of the great aspects of WordPress is the fact that one can incorporate the work of others into one’s own site through plugins, widgets, themes, and various hacks. One of my favorite additions is the “Time Machine” widget I have installed on the right toolbar, which draws posts from the current day of previous years.
The “Time Machine” widget shows me that Babcia was here during her first visit in 2007, and Dziadek was here in 2008 for his one and only visit to the States. Babcia is back with us now, her fourth or maybe even fifth visit to the States.
The “Time Machine” widget has also shown me that we had a snow day on exactly the same day several years apart.
It also let me know that we’ve now had a particular camera lens (that I’m thinking of selling) for five years now. I would have guessed three.
In a sense, that’s what this blog is all about anyway: a time machine. I look at pictures of the Boy, pictures of the Girl and think, “That was last weekend, photos I put off because of Kamil’s big win.” And then that “last weekend” is “last month,” “last year,” “years ago.”
And then I write about that continual surprise yet again.
The Tooth Fairy’s Telescope
I heard the crying first thing in the morning. L was nearly panicked, her crying almost a heaving, desperate bawling.
“What’s wrong, sweetie?”
“The tooth fairy! She didn’t come!”
Uh oh.
The tooth came out unexpectedly last night. She came running to me, showing the new gap in her lower teeth, explaining that she’d just bitten into an apple and boom — out it came. The first disaster of the experience occurred shortly after that, for we couldn’t find the little circular plastic container that the dentist had given her for her lost teeth. We searched and searched, but no one could remember where we’d put it after the last lost tooth.
I suggested that she put it on a bookshelf. “The tooth fairy will be able to hone in on it then,” I explained, thinking, “and that might make it a little easier for me to remember.”
In the end, she put it in a plastic bag, which she tucked under her pillow.
“Well,” I said this morning, “perhaps the plastic bag somehow messed things up.” I could almost sense the gears turning, could almost hear the response: “But Daddy, that can’t be it. The last time, I put it in the little box the dentist gave me, and that was plastic!” So I made a preemptive explanation: “That’s odd, because the fairy box the dentist gave you is plastic. Perhaps it’s the type of plastic, or the fact that it’s in a bag.”
What a good thing that I didn’t almost blow it with the tooth fairy like I almost did with Santa, when I called down to K, “When did we buy that telescope?”
“Wait, did you buy it or did Santa?” L had asked.
So it could have been much worse. A forgotten tooth fairy night can be remedied with the explanation that even the tooth fairy needs a night off and a couple of bucks under her pillow the next night. But there’s the question of whether one wants to do this: isn’t it essentially lying to your child? I always thought that as a teen and young adult, when the thought of being a parent first flitted into by brain. Now, with a bit more experience, I see it differently: it’s no more lying than telling a story is lying. We don’t take the time to examine the veracity of each story we read to the Girl. We don’t cultivate a sense of doubt in her simply for the sake of creating a skeptical daughter. We do it because a sense of the mysterious is not such a bad thing.
Yet as I left her room this evening, I realized that she could have peeked through one eye to see me sneaking out and I’d never know it. Maybe she’ll let us believe we’re still fooling her.
“Do your parents still believe you believe in the tooth fairy and all that?” a friend might ask.
“Yeah, it makes them feel good,” she might respond. “It lets them think I’m still a little girl.”
In a way, as long as she believes in the tooth fairy, as long as a missed visit causes tears, she is. But on the other hand, she put it behind her easily enough and soon was making her “100th Day of School” shirt, gluing anything and everything she could think of to her t-shirt. Had such a disaster occurred just a few months ago, I can’t see her getting over it so quickly. Just more proof that L’s imagined conversation contains the unavoidable truth: she won’t be a little girl forever, nor would we want her to be.
Teaching My Girl
Every day, I teach kids how to write better. I teach them how to organize their thoughts, how to plan their writing, how to improve their sentence variety, how to proofread effectively, and seemingly countless other things. As L has begun school, I’ve been thinking about what it will be like to teach L these things, at which age I might begin, how quickly we might progress. How fun it might be.
Last night, it began.
“I have a report to write for school. We had to choose an animal we don’t know anything about. I chose a sea turtle,” she said last night. And so we went off to the library to get some books on the subject. She devoured two of them during her evening reading ritual and was ready to go.
“Tomorrow,” I assured her.
Tonight, after dinner, we sat down at the computer and I began teaching the Girl how to make an outline. For practice, we worked on favorites: favorite animals, favorite foods, favorite books.
Then the first outline of the report itself. Some from her head; some from her books. It was slow going: we had to figure out how to spell words, how to type those words (“Where is ‘z’ daddy?”). And the end result?
First Music
The first album I ever bought is one I’m almost loathe to admit to now. The second, less so: Boston’s Third Stage. I was in seventh or eighth grade when I bought those albums, and it was no small feat, for my father had made a rule that he had to investigate and approve any music purchase I made. At the time, I thought it was ridiculous. As a father myself, now I understand.
Recently, L made a discovery: portable music is highly convenient. She’s been taking my iPod about, listening to whatever she finds on there that strikes her fancy. That’s almost fine: most of my music I’d willingly play for her, but there is this and that which I don’t think she’s quite ready for. Fortunately, she was more drawn to jazz than anything else. Ben Webster’s “Late Date” was a particular favorite.
Still, there’s always the risk of accidental discovery of something she’s not quite ready for. So when L suggested she buy her own MP3 player with the money she’s saved up, it seemed a good idea.
It came Wednesday, and I loaded it up with Ben Webster, Sonny Stitts, Buena Vista Social Club, Beatles, and similar selections, and K bought her the Frozen soundtrack as a first album.
And yet, as I sit here listening to the newest John Mayer on Spotify, I realize that by the time she’ll be the age I was when I first bought my first album, iPods will even seem old-school. All music available all the time.
What will she listen to?
I’m not so much worried about what she’ll listen to as I am the music her potential suitors will be drawn to. A boy who listens to misogynistic rap will likely be somewhat affected by it — at the very least, his disregard for what the man is actually saying will be worrying. Of course with the prevalence of free online porn, what the young man might be listening to might be of less concern than what he’s streaming on his phone.
All of this flashed in my thoughts as I saw L dancing about, singing along as best she could to a song she barely knows, and I thought that perhaps Babcia is right: the nineteenth century was so much better…
Moo
Moving On
For a while, it was Barbie. All Barbie, all the time. Barbie Volkswagen Beetle. Barbie bike. Barbie camper. One birthday, she got five, six Barbies, perhaps more. Like I said, all Barbie. So intense was her obsession that she even saved up all the money she got from grandparents and parents to buy a Barbie bike.
But interests change. Girls grow up. And soon enough the Girl informed us that we could pack away the Barbie camper. “I never play with it,” she explained. It sat at the base of her bed, taking up valuable space. So back in the box — honestly, it ever left, for the box was its garage — and down to the basement.
Eventually, all the Barbies and paraphernalia ended up downstairs.
Fast forward a few months. Our church’s annual rummage sale — An Angel’s Attic it’s called — was approaching, and K was deciding what to sell. The subject of toys came up.
“You can sell all my Barbie stuff,” the Girl suggested casually one evening. There was of course the question of who gets the proceeds, for the church gets thirty percent of donated goods while seventy percent goes back to the owner.
Once it became clear that she would get some of the money, she was all for it. And so this morning, while the Girl was off with a friend at the local science center, K gathered all the Barbie plastic and a number of other items and arranged them on the bed.
“Go up and see if you’re okay with selling everything on the bed,” K instructed when the Girl when she arrived home. She bounded up the stairs and returned shortly.
“Yes, that’s fine.”
But not so fine with me: as expected, she’s growing up faster than I was ever prepared to accept.
Clipped
“Jew!” the Boy cries, pointing feverishly. Yet we’re not playing I-Spy in Crown Heights, Brooklyn. The Boy is just thirsty, and he clips most of his words. Our cat, Bida (“Poor thing” in Polish), becomes “Bia.” Big sister’s name gets the middle vowel and consonant removed, so she becomes simply “La.”
Clearing Out
“I’ve outgrown them,” L explained as she packed up her Barbie odds and ends — including her beloved Barbie Camper — to be taken down to the basement for storage until an eventual yard sale or something similar.
But the Boy is into vehicles, and he spotted the camper, and he took it out of the box for a spin.
Silly Story
A bug named Rose lived in a hut made of Roses. Rose is a good bug. Rose has a tub full of mud. Rose likes to play in the mud. Rose is awesome.
A story by the Girl.
First Autumnal Sunday
Outdoor living in South Carolina really only becomes comfortable around mid-September. Temperatures dip, the wind seems to blow more, and it feels less humid.
And so on a day like that — the first day like that — we decide we must take advantage of it. We head to our near-neighborhood favorite, less than five miles away. Lovely views, a flat paved path for the Girl to ride on: it’s a perfect place to pass a couple of Sunday hours.
It’s a great place for L to practice on her new bike: hand brakes and gears make for a stressed, confused girl sometimes, and so a gentle, flat path is what she needs more than anything to grow accustomed to new techniques. She still tries to brake by pedaling backwards, and the overly-sensitive gears on the bike sometimes wreck havoc on her confidence, not to mention her pedaling.
Still, she manages.
As we walk, the Boy, who spends much of the time in the stroller, finally reaches a breaking point. He must get out and walk. But he doesn’t walk when he’s outside. Ever. He runs. And falls. And he has eternal scabs on both is knees to prove it.
His teetering and tottering about add a new stress element for the Girl: she decides it’s safest to ride far in front. Until she realizes she’s far in front, then she stops and waits for us.
Those breaks, though, will come fewer and farther between as she grows older. She’ll soon be seven, and that’s so difficult to believe that I think I must be making that up.
Car Wash
In and Out and Out and Out
If it weren’t for the fact that he’s only fifteen months old, I might think the Boy has some sort of obsession with filling and emptying things. Well, at least emptying things, for he’s doing it all the time: toy baskets, bowls, recycling bins, tumblers, clothes hampers, and likely trash cans if he had half the opportunity. In fact, if I’m honest about it, he really doesn’t much enjoy filling those things — it just sounded better. The only time he really enjoys filling is when he knows that emptying is just moments away, which explains why cleanup is such a difficult concept.
And it’s really not enough to empty the container; the contents must be spread about as chaotically and paradoxically thoroughly as possible. The most effective method to accomplish this is to wildly wave his arms about, catching what he can and sending it flying across the room. Left to his own devices, he would likely move from room to room in the house, emptying everything that had something in it, leaving the entirely floor throughout the house a puzzle of socks, cans, office supplies, pan holders, toys, books, underwear, and all the other little quaint items that constitute a thorough mess.
So we try to teach him a basic principle: only get out one thing at a time, and when you’re done with it, clean it up before getting the next item out. We try, but that involves some complicated concepts for a fifteen-month-old: sequence, completion, and at least theoretically, responsibility. So we try, and as often as not end up turning it into a game in which the parent cleans most of the mess and cheers E when he hands over a block and tosses a toy car into the bin.
The Girl, naturally, is a bit further down that road that leads to adult responsibility (though many adults seem to take detours somewhere along the way and never quite make it to the destination). She’s taken on responsibilities that are really out of her scope of influence. Chores, both planned and unplanned, in other words. Like emptying the dehumidifier in the basement, or taking care of the cat’s food, or cleaning up a mess the Boy made while one of us gets him ready for a Saturday afternoon nap. She’s working toward a goal, a December birthday/Christmas gift that in reality will only add more to her to do list. She insists she’s ready for the responsibility, and as if in an effort to prove it to us, she heads upstairs unexpectedly on a Saturday morning to work on her touch-typing skills.
Searching
Looking for Parts
L has become more and more interested in Legos of late.
Language Confusion and Independence
Like L, E is growing up bilingual. And so when Mama encourages him, “Powiedz ‘no'” (“Say ‘no'”) and he responds “Nie,” it’s difficult to figure out if he’s asserting his newly-emerging independence or simply not differentiating between languages.
Spaghetti!
Every parent has this picture. I know that somewhere, in an album packed away in a box somewhere in my folks’ condo, there is a picture of me eating spaghetti.
What is it about spaghetti that it’s an almost-universally favorite food among toddlers?
Off-road
The Girl has a new bike, with gears and hand-brakes. It’s a lot to get used to. Today, she lost control, ran into a ditch, and like a champ, didn’t panic but merely let the bike coast to a stop.
Crackers and Blocks
Having a one-year-old means finding a plastic block at the bottom of the animal crackers’ box…