Twenty-One Months
This is the month you discovered the toilet. It was an epiphany. After several days of expressing interest, when you finally, by sheer dumb luck, actually peed in the potty I thought I might have stumbled on parental nirvana. But you quickly restored my world to order by refusing to repeat the performance and quickly losing all fascination with that swirling, watery vortex into which all feces disappear. So last week, Mom.
The wooden block cart that was your favorite toy when you were learning to walk, that actually gave you insight into the advantages of being upright, has become something of a passion for you these last few weeks. I think because you have realized you actually control its movement and not the other way around. Giggling with maniacal glee as you run down the dogs, man handling through tight turns and even once abandoning in the far reaches of the bathroom when you somehow managed to wedge it between the wall and the toilet.
For awhile now we've been granted a reprieve because, while you would repeat everything, it sounded as if you were speaking Chinese and talking under water to everyone but me. But now. Perfectly distinguishable. Your father and I burst into laughter the other night when you were tugging your pirate ship around the living room and trying to hoist it onto the table. "Sheeeeeet," you exclaimed in frustration as if you were a bong wielding illegal just caught sneaking over the border. There are, however, other advantages to getting you to repeat words. Words like "Bok Choy," which you say as ferociously as if you were delivering a karate chop right to someone's Adam apple.
The other day when we were taking a walk you looked up at the rippled sky and, pointing to the graying clouds, exclaimed..."Ooooo... pretty!" I was gratified that you had such a love of nature until later on, when you said the same thing over your bowl of cheerios. Or the grimy, remote control Jeep gathering cobwebs in the garage. I guess this just means that you're a boy and that the beautiful things in life have everything to do with engine grease and donuts.
A perfect example of this was on another one of our walks, when you spied a banana yellow Corvette Sting Ray parked on the street about three blocks away. Anyone would have thought you had just seen Elvis. You practically stood up in your stroller, every cell of your body screaming, "Car? Car? Car?" And irrationally, I realized you wanted to hold it. This full sized automobile. Stroke it like a pet. With it's shiny wheels and lovely sloped hood. This. Entirely a male reaction. I can see a sports car and think "hey... that's sexy". Boys see the same thing and immediately... they feel the need to fondle it.
Recently we've begun to get frustrated with each other. I'm sure on your end it seems like you are saying, "Mom, let's get up and have breakfast." A very reasonable request. To me it sounds like, "Wonk, wonk wonk." NO SENSE at all. What we have here is a failure to communicate. So you've resorted to simply taking me by the hand and leading me about the house until you get your point across. "Here, you silly woman. See that pantry. OPEN IT. Good girl!"
You're ability to communicate has had some surprising effects, especially in public. I took you to the Treehouse Museum the other day and you were playing with some trains. This is a dangerous thing to do because there are only two train tables, ten cars and a zillion kids who want to play choo choo. You see the problem. You were playing happily until a group of five year olds from a birthday party descended into the room. A girl approached you, asking for the train you were playing with while simultaneously trying to grab it from you. You clutched it to your chest and began shaking your head, backing away slowly. "No? No?" You repeated over and over as you tried to melt into the wall, valiantly sticking to your principles and refusing to hand over the engine.
The last few days we've been sick with a cold/ flu thing and, of course, it sucks. Your fever was pretty high and you had been cranky and difficult all evening. I had gone into the shower with you to try to let the steam and warmth work its magic. We were both moaning and feeling sorry for ourselves, letting the warm water cascade over our backs and hanging our heads. I was holding you for several minutes and suddenly, in the middle of the delirium of your fever, you turned into the crook of my neck and blew a raspberry. We both began to laugh and you did it again and again until we were nearly hysterical. And it seemed so easy, to laugh instead of feel crappy, that I wondered why I hadn't thought of it first.