those questions

"Color camp" - he's the counselor, the tiles are the campers, Birch Bay, WA, August 2012

We were getting ready for the third day of kindergarten. I was in the kitchen, working on my morning checklist.

Lunch - packed.

Backpack - ready.

Bike helmets - in bike trailer.

My breakfast - in process...

Elan was munching on a bowl of Os while jumping on the couch when suddenly he announced, "I'm afraid of dying."

I finished pouring the milk into my cereal while wondering what kind of response I should have to this question. Here's what I came up with: "Oh?"

Then he followed it up with, "Is God real?"

It was a one-two punch, all before my morning coffee.

"I don't know," I said. "What do you think?"

Now he was standing on the couch, one of his favorite positions. 

"I think he is, because he's in this book." He held up a copy of The Ziz and the Hanukkah Miracle, a book that recently landed in our mailbox courtesy of the PJ Library. By the way, everytime we get another (free!) Jewish-themed book from the PJ Library I always take a moment to be impressed at how organized we Jews are. My library of Jewish children's books would probably number about 1 book if it were up to me to stock it.

I thought about asking my giant-eyed child whether he thought the Ziz - an enormous yellow bird who, in the course of the book, ropes the moon and tries to tug it down from the sky - is also real. But I didn't want to shut down his train of thought. Elan's not the kind of child who constantly busts out questions and observations about The Big Things in life.

"If he is real, when I die, I'll ask him for a new life," he said.

I put my cereal bowl down on the table and sat next to him on the couch.

"I think that's a nice idea," I said.

"You're going to die before me, right, Mama?"

I made reassuring noises.

"But you're not going to die until I'm a grown-up," he declared. 

More reassuring noises.

"Like 22 or 23 or 24 or - yeah! - 25. You won't die until I'm 25 years old."

And then, with my fate and his all settled, he went back to jumping on the couch.

because i know you were wondering

Elan on the pumpkin pile, October 2011

Halloween was a very big deal at our house this year. First, we went to our neighborhood's version of a pumpkin patch, which is more a pumpkin pile, a huge hill of pumpkins at Monterey Market. The kids (and brave adults) scramble all over the pumpkins, including some that must weigh 100 pounders (pumpkins, not people, well, people too, but that's nothing extraordinary).

Someone should have taken a picture of the maneuvers I had to make in order to get myself, Emry and my camera onto the pumpkin pile, not to mention position the boys and get the shot, while balancing in my clogs on pumpkins. They're not so stable, pumpkins. Kinda round and slippery.

But it was worth it.

Then, on Halloween, we had a robot.

Elan came up with the idea. This is the second year that I've been surprised by how definite he's been about his costume. Execution was carried out by Mikhail, on box duty, and Grandma, on decoration duty. My job was to admire the results.

We also had a monkey who, true to form, managed to get through this banana peel and cover himself with banana goop despite the fact that he has exactly zero teeth.

I was dressed up as a harried mother of two. I threw that costume together in about 4 seconds flat. That's how good I am.

And this picture proves that I suffer from lack of imagination when it comes to Halloween costumes:

Elan as a monkey, 11 months old, Halloween 2007

Or maybe I just like tradition.

It was Elan's first time doing official trick or treating, since last year, our Halloween block party fell on Oct 31, and Elan was so worn out after 8 hours in the jumpy house that he was asleep before the trick or treaters were out. This year, trick or treating was a huge hit. The monkey hung out in the Ergo and sampled his first 3 Musketeers bar.

My husband got into the spirit. Someone had to help Elan get up and down stairs without falling. Boxes don't have the best visibility, we learned.

Eventually he would just take his head off between houses. Which led to funny lines like:

"Dada, you have to put my head back on!"

allergic

Superhero on the beach, San Diego, July 2011

A conversation between Elan & me, on the topic of allergies:

"Mama, what am I allergic to?

"You're not allergic to anything, love." (thinking I'm delivering good news)

"That's not fair!"

"Oh, okay. Maybe you're allergic to... to... porcupines."

"Yeah! Remember when we saw that one at the zoo?"

"Yup."

"I wasn't very close to it, or I would have sneezed."

"Yeah. Good thing."

"For real, Mama?"

"Could be."

"No, I'm not allergic to porcupines. Know what I'm allergic to?"

"What?"

"Signs! See, there's one there, and I'm just going to sneeze."

And then there was this zinger, also allergy-related:

"Mama, know what it means if you're gluten-free?"

"What?"

"It means you're allergic to glue."

talkin' about family

Elan & Emry pose with Interfaceflor tiles, June 2011

Elan: "Me and Wems are a team."

Nana: "That's right! You and Emry are a team, just like your Mama and Dulu [my sister Laura] are a team."

Elan: "We're going to be a team always! Until... until we die!"

Nana: "Yes, well, let's hope that doesn't happen for a very, very long time."

on safening

Gonzo Photo credit: svensonsan, flickr

Recently, we borrowed my sister-in-law's copy of Muppets Take Manhattan. The picture on the cover made me nostalgic, remembering happy hours with the characters of Fraggle Rock with my sister when we were small (she was particularly obsessed with Fraggles).

But Elan had a different take on the movie. After watching it, he proclaimed, "That's not a funny movie! That's a scary movie!"

I had never thought of Muppets as scary before, even if they are considered monsters of a type. Although, in Muppets Take Manhattan, Kermit does get hit by a car, develops amnesia, and wanders around Manhattan not recognizing anyone, even his friends, until Miss Piggy beats the crap out of him and his memory is restored. Now that I think about it, that is pretty frightening.

And yet Elan likes to watch it. Kind of. So long as he receives regular safening.

It goes like this:

Cue scary part of Finding Nemo, like the jellyfish part -- actually, that's too scary and always requires fast-forwarding (the part where the mother is killed defending her eggs, which are all eaten except for one I choose to fast-forward all on my own -- a girl can only get emotional over so many things daily). Okay, then, so the part when the ship is falling on top of Dory & Nemo.

From a nest of pillows on the couch a voice squeaks: "Mama, Dada, safen me!"

The response: "I'm safening you!"

We used to always run over and give him a little squeeze cause, let's face it, that is just too cute. But it turns out there are a lot of scary parts in classic children's movies -- Jungle Book (Shere Khan the tiger), Winnie the Pooh (those bees), and don't even get me started on how truly terrifying Cruella deVille is in 101 Dalmations. And I've got a baby to nurse, and laundry to do, and dinner to make...

Luckily for us, we discovered that safening can be done remotely.

I'm upstairs, changing the baby's diaper, when I hear the voice call from downstairs: "Mama, I'm scared!"

And I shout back down the stairs: "Don't worry - I'm safening you!"

And then he's fine. (Although some might point out the potential link between scary movies and Elan's tendency toward nightmares, and his new habit of charging hysterically out of his room if he gets up in the night.)

Remote safening is convenient, but we make sure to still get in there & do a little hands-on safening frequently. Having one super-snuggly baby in the house has made me realize how little my big boy lets me snuggle him these days, so I grab every opportunity I can.

And besides, who doesn't need a little safening now and then?

dinner conversation

My picky eater, as a dinner plate is set before him:

"I love ham!"

What every Jewish mother loves to hear.

"Blueberries -- yuck!"

What kid doesn't like blueberries? They're blue, and sweet. What's not to like?

"Seaweed -- yum! I love seaweed!"

Go figure.

"Can I have dessert?"

Now chocolate -- that's pretty much always a winner.

Just like his mama.

preschooler poetry

Before we moved here, I always thought that if I ever bought a house in Berkeley, I'd want a Japanese maple. And then we found our little place. This tree is around forty years old, and nearly every window in our house looks out at it. I love how this tree visually marks the seasons for us even from inside our home. I adore it year-round, though fall is its most spectacular show.

In the car, Elan and I were talking about the autumn color show that's taken over Berkeley. I said, "now that the leaves are turning colors, they'll start falling."

He thought about it for a moment, then pronounced: "The wind is their haircut."

Nicely put, my dear.

Moments, By The Sea

A cloudy day at the beach is still a day at the beach

Elan named the baby. Thank goodness, because Mikhail and I have been having some trouble with this task. One morning, playing a game involving magnetic tow truck and wrecked cars with numbers on them, Elan said "Baby Tie-lie is 1 years old." Only a blip of hesitation before he busted out with "Tie-lie." Then he towed the "1" over to my belly and plopped it on top. Also, according to him, it's a girl. He's thought that since the start, using the pronoun "she" and talking about his "sister." Won't he be surprised if it's a boy. Of course, I think he'll just be surprised that it's an actual baby, come to live with us, and by the way, when will she/he be going home?

Judah is safely on his way back to Georgia with no injuries caused by Elan. Not that he didn't occasionally try. One morning, while I slept in, Elan overturned an ottoman on top of Judah. He did it right in front of my sister. She put him in a time-out. Later in the day, while my mom gave Judah his bottle, Elan overturned the ottoman on top of himself (it's pretty light) and chastized himself. Obviously there is a lot going on in that little blonde-streaked head. I believe it is now clear that he takes after his mama in that he processes things in advance. And he's definitely in processing mode about "Tie-lie," this unknowable baby on the way.

Showing Judah the ropes

Kind of

We've been having a lot of 5:30 a.m. scream-fests. You can imagine how much Mikhail and I enjoy this. This morning, I plopped Elan in the stroller and took a walk. The sky was gray, the air was damp, and the crickets were still chirping. The fact that I could hear the crickets chirping was a blessed relief. He was quiet in the stroller, curled under a blanket in his sleeper, eyes wide. On the way home, he told me: "Mama, I'm going to blow like this (demonstrates a puff like blowing out a candle), and then I'm going to be a big boy. Ready, set, go. (Big puff.) See? Now I'm a big boy."

Back in Berkeley, it took knocking the contents of a full glass of water into my open nightstand drawer in the middle of the night to get me to clean out my junk drawer. Not that I tend to procrastinate household organizational tasks or anything... If I spent as much time doing them as thinking about doing them, I'd have a very well-organized house indeed.

***

Moments is a weekly challenge I'm setting for myself, an opportunity to reflect on and capture all those little moments that make up life. If you'd like to join me in this blog challenge by starting your own Moments series, please do! It's not just for parents. If you do take this blog challenge, please link back here.

He Made It Up All By Himself

Elan's favorite joke: "Pee-pee comes out of my butt, and poop comes out of my wee-wee!"

(Peals of laughter follow)

Clearly, his friend Ben shares the same sense of humor. Check out my friend Andrea's latest post. Ah, the humiliation humility of parenthood!

Moments, Beginning of Summer

Elan playing with his set of rescue vehicles: "This is a police car. It goes to the... it goes to the... camping. When we go camping, we need the police car. And this one is the ambiance."

A bird is building a nest in the Japanese maple tree in our little yard. It's nice to see someone acting on my nesting impulses.

Elan's first nursery school show. He was so serious and attentive, trying to get all the hand motions right, with a llama finger puppet stuck precariously on his chubby little finger. And then he partied hard. And then he fell asleep during quiet time (a first!).

Napping on Mama's belly, several weeks ago

When I woke him from a nap this week, he looked right at me and said: "Hot sausage and pickles. Vitamin chip sauce!" My child, the picky eater, dreaming about strange food concoctions.

I was feeling the baby bounce around, so I asked Elan if he wanted to feel the baby move. To my surprise, he said yes, ran over and put his little hand gently on my belly. The baby cooperated and gave his hand two swift kicks. Elan's eyes went big with astonishment. He pulled his hand away and giggled. I know, little bubs, pretty crazy that there's a tiny human in there, isn't it?

***

Moments is a weekly challenge I'm setting for myself, an opportunity for reflection and to capture all those little moments that make up life. If you'd like to join me in this blog challenge by starting your own Moments series, please do! It's not just for parents. If you do take this blog challenge, please link back here.

***

Posting will be light next week while I'm spending time with my extended family. May your weekend be filled with memorable moments.

Moments, Week 1

A life is lived moment by moment.

This week I'm introducing a new weekly series called Moments. It's a place for me to capture all the little moments that make up a week - quirky, joyful, heart-rending, funny, enlightening, frustrating, touching... You have a lot of those when you're raising children, and but they don't necessarily make their way into a blog post. Welcome to my first Moments post, an opportunity for weekly reflection when life spins fast.

Elan fell down the stairs and sported a Harry-Pottery-style mark on his forehead for a few days.

In the car: "Next year I'm going to be four. And I'm going to turn into a girl. Next year, I won't be a boy." (We are guessing this is because most of the four-year-olds at his nursery school happen to be girls.)

We got him to try corn, which probably wouldn't feel like a victory in the vegetable department to some parents, but did for us.

On finding his wallet, a coin purse: "Okay, we've got money. That means we can borrow something from a store."

Have you ever tried to sing a bedtime song over a different song playing on the CD player? I did, and the comment I got, with an affectionate hand in my hair was: "Mama, you're funny."

An afternoon that felt like summer: I took Elan to Lake Anza, up in the hills outside Berkeley, where we met up with friends. My friend and I sat with the sun on our backs and our pregnant bellies (we are due the same week, as is another good friend!), while Elan and his buddy played for two hours in the shallow sloping water. They were ecstatic. We got soft-serve ice cream cones and the boys would take a few licks, then run back into the water, then run out again for another few licks... Elan slept well that night.

My husband bought me flowers to mark the one-year anniversary of my miscarriage.

* * *

If you'd like to join me in this blog challenge by starting your own weekly Moments series, please do! It's not just for parents. (If you do take this blog challenge, please link back here.) Thanks for reading & may your weekend be filled with memorable moments.

Good Morning...

Bubs: Good morning. I’m a shark.

Mama: Good morning, shark. What did you have for breakfast?

Bubs: Um. Maybe French toast.

Mama: French toast? I thought sharks ate fish.

Bubs: Oh yeah. (looks around) I need a fork!

A Boy Called Nemo

About a month back, on a whim, I ordered Finding Nemo for Elan.

It's a hit.

I am not proud to admit that he has watched this movie (or part of it) every single day for the last two weeks. Okay, maybe three. I've lost count. Thank god for Ellen DeGeneres. Her Dory is hilarious, my salvation. And the part with the sea turtles is awe-inspiring; I always advocate skipping to the turtles. The other thing I've noticed, as this movie forms the background to my early mornings, is how impressive the score is. The moments where the music shifts to contemplative remind me to take a deep breath, the quick beats remind me to eat breakfast and drink my coffee, the soaring melodies remind me to savor the quiet and appreciate the fact that he's not obsessed with Barney.

The other benefit of this movie entering our lives is that now Elan, Mikhail and I have alter-egos. Elan is Nemo, fittingly enough (he even has a "special toe" - two webbed digits on his right foot - just like Nemo has his "lucky fin"). Mikhail is Marlin (pronounced "Maw-in"), the devoted (and neurotic, which Mikhail is actually not) father who searches the ocean for his lost son. Elan used to call him "Chuck" before he picked up on the fact that was just a made-up name I pulled out of a hat one day naming his three toy fish. And I am Dory. She is a great alter-ego for me. Dory, a "natural blue", who suffers from short-term memory loss, is of the glass-half-full mentality. She can't remember enough to be stressed or worried. Her motto is Just keep swimming, sung with much gusto as she twirls into the darkness where lives the scary monster-fish sporting a light-up spinal column. Dory is happily ignorant of the existence of such threatening creatures. She bounces on the tops of jellyfish, not remembering that the tentacles sting. She certainly does not wake up at four in the morning unable to go back to sleep because she's worrying about the what-ifs in life. I find her a good balancing force for me.

And so current conversations in our household often go something like this:

"Nemo, let's go on an adventure out in the ocean now."

"Okay, Dory. That's a good idea. Is Ma-win going to come too?"

"That's right, Nemo. We're all going. Put on your fishy shoes and let's swim out to the car!"

And later at REI, we picked out a new rust-orange fleece for Elan, which won instant acceptance as his Nemo-jacket. Mikhail (temporarily) donned a bright orange women's XL rainshell and ran around the store after our wandering boy, literally finding Nemo, while I searched the racks for a suitably bright blue Dory-coat (but alas did not find one in this aquarium's budget).

On another topic, this weekend, we FINALLY had our one-year-later housewarming party. (And if you live locally and we forgot to invite you, mea culpa mea culpa, check your email junk box for an evite, and then call me up and berate me and let's get back in touch.) It went swimmingly. All those months that we thought we'd get around to having a party in our new house and then something else went wrong so we never did: you are over now. I really like to host gatherings, and luckily I'm married to a man who loves to socialize once he's in the midst of it (just never thinks to plan it), and we've got a child who is starting to understand that parties = cookies. Now I'm thinking about all the excuses to have parties coming up: Elan's 3rd birthday, Hanukkah, Mikhail's and my 34th birthdays. I'm imagining dinner parties for grown-ups after kids go to sleep, crazy child-filled afternoon rampages, and quieter playdates with hot (spiked) cider for the mamas simmering on the stove. After all, fall is here. There's a new oven range in our kitchen, and it's time to reap the benefits of our ugly but indestructible wine-colored carpet.

And if you're looking for a mantra for the week, may I suggest Just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep swimming swimming swimming...

And if you're in the mood for seven minutes of sea turtle (and baby sea turtle!) inspiration, click here.

A First Conversation

On the tire swing with his friend Torben --

Elan: Torben, look at all the babies! (nods head toward four babies stretched out together on a blanket in the shade)

Torben: Wow. That's a lot of babies.

E: One two three four. Four babies.

T: Four babies!

E: You want to go to Little Farm, Torben?

T: Yeah! Chickens.

E: Cows.

T: Pigs.

E: Woosters. 

T: Giraffes.

E: Elephants.

They both nod in understanding, like: I got ya, dude.

T: We're on the swing.

E: With Mama.

T: Elan!

E: Torben!

T: Rebaca!

Giggles. Shrieks of excitement.

Now I know it's probably just because I'm related to one of them, but this was so darn cute. It went on for a while, the conversation rambling here and there, touching on their various obsessions (Elan is way into babies suddenly; Torben loves animals). This was the first time I have heard Elan follow a train of thought with another kid his age. A conversation! I was on the tire swing with them, which was why I had such a good listening vantage, and I called Torben's mom Karina over to witness it. Thanks for the picture, Karina.

Friday Tastes Like Lemon

Elan seems to love the order of reciting lists. He started with the alphabet, then went on to numbers, which he's still completely obsessed with, and now he's added days of the week, which he's learning in nursery school during circle time.

Early Monday morning, just after he finished his ritual good-morning bottle snuggled in our bed, he turned to me and greeted me with a new affirmation. "Today is Tuesday."

"It's not Tuesday," I said. "Today is Monday."

"Today is Monday," he repeated, as he reached a hand out to touch my cheek. And then, very seriously, shaking his head: "We don't eat Monday."

This has continued all week. At least once a day, he offers up his version of what day of the week it is, waits for me to correct him, and then states solemnly: "We don't eat Thursday." Or "Wednesday." Or whatever day it happens to be. It cracks me up every time. All I can manage in response is mute agreement.

But it has started me thinking. If they were edible, what would a day taste like?

So here's my list. And yes, I do like all these foods.

Monday: lentils with fried onions. Strong and sturdy.

Tuesday: banana. Just plain banana.

Wednesday: meatballs and spaghetti. Fill-me-up comfort.

Thursday: Thai-style sauteed eggplant. Roasty exotica.

Friday: crisp little lemony cookies. Fresh, hopeful.

Saturday: flourless chocolate cake, with chocolate ganache, strawberries and fresh whipped cream. Pure decadence.

Sunday: homemade chicken noodle soup, with matzoh balls for good measure. A deep breath for the week ahead.

Try it. It's fun. And it just might help you answer that interminable question What's for dinner?

On Discovering the Toddler's Favorite Pronoun

It used to be that bubs exclusively referred to himself in the second person. "You want to go outside," he'd whine, hanging on the door handle. "You excited!" when asked if he wanted to go to Baby Gym, the padded room populated with gymnastic mats, a ball pit, and a jumping house at our Y. "That's your doggie," he'd say, planting kisses on his stuffed dog's crusty fur. "That's not what you want!" he'd blubber when offered cheddar rather than string cheese.

It made sense. "You" was, after all, the pronoun we used to refer to him. And it was cute. Something to make his parents smile even during a major scream-fest. The experts would probably tsk-tsk me for this one, but I never corrected him. I have to admit I hoped he would hold onto the habit for a while, while knowing full well something that cute probably couldn't last with a child so linguistically inclined.

True enough. In the past few weeks, a new word has surfaced in my little guy's vocabulary, the toddler's favorite pronoun, and he has taken to it with gusto.

"That's mine!" he shouts now, his small body filled with the appropriate toddler rage. "That's mine computer," he says, as he performs a defensive block to keep me from accessing Mikhail's computer left open on the couch. "That's mine sunglasses," as he grabs the lenses off my head. And sometimes, in his mind justifiably so, "that's mine toy!" when a playmate goes for something he's occupied with. 

But the best use of the pronoun yet happened yesterday when Mikhail, his brother, and his sister took Elan to the park. When they got there, they had the playground to themselves. Elan was having a ball on the play structure when suddenly, an interloper arrived. A slightly older boy who cluelessly thought he had equal rights. The boy started up the ladder, following behind Elan, who had frozen in place with shock at the trespass. Elan placed one hand firmly on each handrail, puffed his narrow shoulders up with indignation, and bellowed:

"No! Mine! It's mine park!"

I can laugh because I wasn't there. Though I suspect, I might have giggled a little to myself even I had been Parent On Duty at the moment.

Later, once Mikhail had managed to de-arm the warhead, Elan rediscovered his manners. As park time came to an end, he looked at the boy's red car-themed Crocs and declared, "I like your shoes."

Ah, pronouns. How civilized they can be.

Still Life With Doggie

This is the sight that greeted me when I came back from dropping bubs off at nursery school this morning. Elan's current loves: "old doggie" and numbers. I believe the dino was just thrown in to add texture.

Earlier in the morning, Elan was making up all kinds of number stories with doggie. "Doggie seeing the numbers," he informed me, holding doggie carefully so that his head pointed at Elan's beloved foam numbers. "Come on, doggie, let's go see the numbers." And so on.

Tomorrow Elan and I leave for San Diego. We'll be staying with my parents for 10 days over their spring break, and Mikhail will join us for a long weekend at the end. I'm packing today (and attempting to do it without staying up till 2 a.m.) so it's a short post.

Bubsy Gardener

Elan helping me plant Corsican mint in a planter:

"Mama's going to dig a hole and then you can put the plant in."

Nods seriously. Watches intently as I dig a hole with the trowel.

"Okay, put the plant in the hole."

He thrusts the mint in the hole, roots up. "He's goin to bed."

I smile. "That's right. The plant is in bed. Turn it upside-down, so the green part is up."

He flips it. "He's tired. Going nighty night."

I laugh. "Now help Mama put the dirt back."

He pats down the dirt with his surprising large hands. "You puttin on a bwanket."

He peers down at the little dirt-speckled plant. "Here you go, pwant. Here's your bwanket. You thirsty? Want a dwink of water?"

And then I promptly melt into a pile of mush right there on the garden patio.

Sweet as Honey

Before I became a parent, I, like everyone, had heard much about "the terrible twos." Throughout my pregnancy, I could imagine mothering a tiny, helpless, staring-fascinated-at-leaves-on-a-tree baby. But whenever I considered the fact that that baby would someday become a tantrum-throwing, opinionated and loud two-year-old, a cold shudder ran through me. 

Well, those days are here. With a vengeance. And of course it hasn't been a completely sudden transition. The reality is that my son was rarely the kind of sweet, mellow, even-tempered baby I imagined in my pregnancy dreams. No, he has always had a strong will, even before he knew what to be willful about. Now that the two-year-four-month-old version of Elan has very clear ideas (wants, needs, preferences, demands), as well as a vocabulary that grows exponentially to express them, it's striking to me how often he still doesn't really know what he wants. Not to mention what he needs. Which leads to frustration. Tantrums. Exhaustion. His, and mine.

What I would say now is that the twos, as I have experienced them thus far, aren't so much uniformly terrible as they are tempestuous. One moment, the weather is clear and sunny; the next, a scowling wind has blown up; the next, hail is pelting you as you run for cover. Mothering a two-year-old is like reading the weather in storm-prone mountains. You never know what's coming over the horizon, so you best be prepared for all possibilities.

Elan is affectionate and indifferent, loving and fight-picking, flexible and obstinate and loud and quiet and sweet and difficult. All within five minutes.

This morning we had a tough time getting out the door. I had to execute bodily force to get Elan out of the house and into the car, where he made constant loud and whiny demands about what song he wanted to hear on the CD player (number 17, his favorite number, over and over and over again). The exchange culminated with me stopping the car and saying (okay, maybe more like shouting): "I am not a DJ!" When I dropped him off at nursery school, I returned to my quiet car with a sigh of relief. 

Four hours later, when I arrived to pick him up, the kids were playing in the front yard. He saw my car pull up, and started jumping up and down. "It's your mama!" he shouted, running to the gate. But today, something was different. My little boy, always playing on his own when I arrived, had a companion: running alongside him was a little girl, and they were holding hands. "Your mama's here," she said, jumping up and down with him.

"Who's that?" I asked Marina, one of the caregivers.

"Annie," she said.

I had never heard of Annie, but the way she said the name sounded familiar. "Is there a little girl here called Honey?" I asked.

"Honey? No, just Annie." With her rolling Peruvian accent, the words sounded similar. Now I understood why Elan was always saying "Adios Honey" when we went through our goodbyes.

"Elan and Annie have been playing together like that all day," Marina told me.

Annie had pigtails and was about the same size as Elan. They held hands unselfconsciously, having no concept that the gesture held any significance beyond general goodwill. The sight of the two sets of pudgy little fingers intertwined made me melt. Annie led Elan in a lap around the little yard, both of them squealing in delight, and then they returned to me. I squatted down and Annie relinquished Elan's hand. He came to me. Put his arms around me. I picked him up, and he rested against me, tired out from the morning's running and learning. I savored the warm, sunny weather of the moment.

Hello mama.

Adios, honey.

Overheard

Elan's current obsession is numbers. I bought him some foam numbers, the kind that stick to the wall of the shower. He spends hours arranging and rearranging them, in and out of the bath, and they've even taken on their own personalities for him.

A recent monologue:

"Okay, evewybody, wet's go downstairs." (flinging numbers down the stairs)

"Your turn, seven." (seven goes flying)

"Where's eight? Wet's find eight." (eight discovered on bathroom floor, catapulted down stairs)

Later, after everyone is congregated downstairs in the living room:

"You can make fifteen." (he puts the one and three together proudly)

"Wet's make seventeen." (this one he gets right)

"Oh, wow! It's a seventeen!" (can you tell seven is his favorite number?)

"1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10!" (in delight)

"1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10!" (in Spanish)

"You can make eighteen!" (and so on and so forth, through many combinations and permutations)

Still later:

"Numbers want to go in the batf?"

"Yeah!"

"Okay, evewybody, wet's go in the batf!"

And up the stairs they go.