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.

Family Portrait So-Cal Style

First: Bubs is taking a nap. Let us all breathe a sigh of relief.

Second: This picture was taken in southern California. Obviously.

Third: Elan's modeling his new Thomas the Train sunglasses that we bought on a special Target excursion, after he broke my (relatively) expensive sunglasses trying to cram them onto his adorable little face, and at the same time as we picked Mama up a new $14.99 don't-care-if-you-sit-on-them pair.

Happy Tuesday!

Spin

refi paperwork what's the rate today? goddamn is that cat pee again? workout at the gym. pay at the meter. lunch cancelled. roofer's here. shit the baby isn't napping. beautiful day for a stroller walk. why aren't you sleeping? lunch rescheduled two weeks out. playdate on. no off. no on again. roofer needs to talk. for forty minutes. see that dry rot? go to sleep. can't tell if it's cat pee. use the expensive cleaner and hope. how many points if the house reappraises for how much less than we bought it for? do you have time to talk? now he's screaming mad. bank balance and bills due and i need to make some money. old doggie can't come just fluffy doggie. roofer report in the email inbox. shit, the baby still isn't sleeping. not that he's a baby toddler. consulting calls i can do this. two a.m. nightmares of rattlesnakes and wayward policeman and. who turned up the heat? old doggie didn't get the toddler to nap today. why is it so hot in here? kick the covers off and dream of toddler in trouble and wake up with the birds singing secrets and a fresh start it all over again.

This Kind of Clever

Elan and I took an excursion to IKEA yesterday. The last time we did this, we were still suffering move-in-shock, I had a long list of products to research, it was raining, dark at 4:30, we got stuck in traffic, and he cried the entire drive. And that was before we even made it into the store.

This time proved that I have learned something about negotiating Life With Toddler. I had one thing to buy, I knew exactly what it was, and it was located in the kid's section. Elan was SO EXCITED!!! to go to IKEA. He played with all the toys and sat in all the chairs, for about five seconds each. His favorite thing was the hopscotch numbers printed on the floor of the main walkway. He liked to lay on them and writhe around in ecstasy. He got very upset when someone dared stand on those numbers, or push a cart over them. Thankfully it wasn't very crowded.

We made it downstairs to the Marketplace. I was angling for a quick exit, bypassing the complete overwhelm of stacks and stacks of things you might suddenly decide you must have, when Elan started shouting about wanting to go in the alligator. My powers of translation failed for the moment, and by the time I realized he was talking about the elevator, it was too late. Full-down toddler meltdown ensued. He thrashed around in my arms, kicking his long legs, threatening towers of glass bowls and Euro-style vases.

I took a deep breath and decided to try something different, a strategy I had read about before bubs hit the terrible 2s and had recently been reminded of. I set him down on the floor, got down beside him, and said, "It is so frustrating when Mama doesn't understand what you want. I know you are so frustrated. Go ahead and roll around and shout. I am frustrated for you." I said this in a kind of frustration-empathy tone of voice, a little low in the throat and growly, like I really got the full force of his bubsy rage.

He looked at me, his eyes widened in surprise, not sure if this was a trick.

"Try kicking your feet," I suggested. "That's good when you're mad and frustrated and Mama doesn't give you what you want."

He kicked his feet. His frog rainboots squeaked on the linoleum. He let out a few more shouts, a bit half-hearted.

Then he lay there, looking up at the exposed duct work on the ceiling. I did not look around at the people passing us. I didn't want to read their thoughts on their faces. I just looked at him. He was peaceful, and I thought about how my mother-in-law says that children find it literally grounding to lay on the floor. Such direct experience of the law of gravity seemed to have a calming effect.

I thought about telling him we could go on the elevator, but decided it was best not to bring it up again. After a minute, I suggested that we go on home to see Dada. I picked him up and jogged him out of the store, which he found quite amusing.

On our way out, I did slow long enough to notice two IKEA products that I had never seen before: high chairs and changing tables that fold flat when you're not using them, a la luggage racks in hotels. They're not the most beautiful pieces of furniture, but living in a small house, I appreciate this kind of clever.

Sniff Therapy

On my walk today, there was a street that smelled like wet pepper. A huge pepperwood towered over the block. Some kind of cherry-like trees bent over the sidewalk dripping their lacy white blossoms onto my head. Across the street was a gangly bush wild with orange flowers of a nearly neon hue. I walked slowly down that street, bathed in the scent of sweet wet blooms. 

A good antidote to the stink of cat pee that greets me everytime I open the door to our carport. The cats have launched a new offensive. Someone appears to be getting a little too used to the heat-and-motion sensor-triggered ultrasonic noise emitting CatStop that we had to install back in October. We do not have a cat. We only have other peoples' cats, and I have to say that, while I haven't been a big fan of cats since mine tried to kill my father, the repeated markings of Elan's stroller and my beautiful new washing machine have brought my feelings for the furry creatures of the neighborhood to a new low.

I'm going to save the rest of this rant for when I have more time and energy, as I'm still only partially unpacked from our trip. For now, I'm going to think about lacy blooms and wet pepper. But do not be fooled, cats of North Berkeley. You have not won.

Just Yesterday

I have been remiss. I thought I would keep up the blog while in San Diego, but I ended up using Elan's naptime to do the sorts of things I normally don't get to, like a haircut. It was a great trip, and Elan got to bask in the glory of being the only child with up to 5 (!) adults at a time. Lucky kid.

Now we're back to reality. The list of "to dos" is long, very long; the suitcases are spilling masses of clothing across every inch of floor space; the kitchen is crowded with dishes; nursery school is closed for spring break for the week (sigh); and Elan's stuck with just plain old Mama. Plain old tired Mama, I should say. Somehow I ended up wearing myself out more over our week away than I manage to in an average week at home. 

And so, on this rainy northern California day, here's some southern California beach glory.

Elan loves the water. If you take this child to the beach, you better be ready to get wet, no matter the temperature (water or air). He was in heaven when we found these pools left by the retreating tide. For once, he could go in (almost) by himself, and I stripped him down so he could get fully soaked.

Yes, he was cold, in that chilly April breeze, but he didn't let that ruin the fun.

He still managed to give Mama plenty of saucy toddler looks, even though she did a brilliant job balancing cell phone, camera, towel, and hand-holding (if I do say so myself).

I swear someone's stretching my child. In our week+ away, it seemed like his arms and legs just lennnnnnngthened. Like another six inches. Mikhail says this is what it looks like when you add height to the gene pool.