Not Only Are There Opinions, but They Are Complex

This morning we were out the door early. I was off to the orthodontist's in Seattle so The Boy was off to Grandma's.

Still in his jammies and tucked into the car seat with a mug of milk, he chimes in to my morning reverie.

"News (NPR was on) is Daddy's favorite."

Yes.

"Abba Dabba (Honeymoon) my favorite."

Yes, it is. (I know. I know.)

"Listen to Abba Dabba."

Yeah, okay.

"Mama sing not."

Right.

Having cleared up the music issue, The Boy moved on to future concerns.

"Get on bus. See Buffalo." (We went to Northwest Trek in ... April? I didn't think he was paying attention to the buffalo, but apparently he was. How do they remember this stuff?)

The stock answer of late has been, "When Nonnie gets here, we'll ride the bus and see the buffalo."

As I took breath for the rote answer The Boy jumps in: "Wait for Nonnie not. Get on bus. Go see buffalo today."

Wow.

I've been told that there are developmental "bursts" where kids synthesize mental (vocabulary) and motor (speaking) skills seemingly overnight. Since he wasn't talking like this yesterday, I'd say "bursts" are a fact.

Hidden in the Brush Mower

Matt was out working on the brush mower with The Boy while I went to get a pizza (dinner was a failure — don't ask).

My return was greeted by the announcement, "Brush mower has nose goblins. Come out."

Oh. Really.

Tell me more.

Matt had got into the bearing and taken out the old grease. Quite nose goblin-y.

Now they're out there "polishing" the brush mower while I clean up my dinner disaster.

Daddy Do ... ?

This morning while I was dressing The Boy, I got the plaintive question I get every morning: "Daddy downstairs?" (Such a wistful, little voice.)

And, as it is five days out of seven, the answer is, "Daddy is at work. He'll be home at dinner time."

This morning, though, the question went further. "Daddy at work do ... ? Daddy at work do ... ?"

[He looks so intense when he is trying out new words or concepts. It looks like he's 1) not asking it right and 2) is concerned whether you will understand.]

I hadn't planned my answer to what Matt does at work but I gave it a shot.

"Daddy listens to people's problems and tells them how to fix it."

The Boy thought for a while and declared, "I help Daddy."

Well, yes, you can help when you're older. But for now, you can help him best at home.

"I have tools and hammer!"

Yes, you do. Those are very helpful for Daddy and I.

"I help mow grass!"

Yes.

"I brush mow!"

And the list went on and on. Turns out there's a lot of things he can do.

The Boy *IS* Twitter

The Boy provides a running — and constant — commentary of every thing he does.

Shoveling dirt.
Making hole.
More dirt.
Dirt everywhere.
Pat dirt.
Eat it?
Nummy dirt.
Mommy running.

The Boy is Twitter incarnate.

A TWO Red Letter Day

First Red Letter:
With every major developmental milestone (rolling over, standing up), people have said, "The party's over now!"

I've breezed by that statement. The Boy is pretty groovy about boundaries and no-boy zones.

But tonight, I think the party is, indeed, over. The old party, that is.

Tonight we had our first I Can Do It Myself.

You know that silence that rings after someone says, "You said you had the tickets," or "Will you accept a collect call from Thurston County jail?"

Yeah, it was like that.

Second Red Letter:
The I Can Do It Myself was prompted by the new potty chair.

There's been a lot of potty talk around the house lately. We've been talking about the day when diapers will no longer be necessary. The Boy seems interested in the concept.

So today I thought I'd see how he felt about the execution.

The ICDIM came from The Boy's dawning realization that he now has a reason to pull down his pants. There was a lot of pant readjustment, sitting and standing.

Oh, my genius boy, I thought to myself. He's going to be trained in a week and all will be self-sufficiency and pride.

You have to give me my flights of fancy.

It was a great ten minutes until he figured out the potty can be disassembled. Yes, that's right. It's a bowl, a toilet seat insert and a step stool. This was way better than some thing to sit on.

A list of Rules burst from my mouth:
The pot stays in the seat (it does not go on your head).
Nothing goes in the pot, through the seat or into the base that isn't poop, pee or paper.
It is not a truck.
It is not a tractor.
It is not a boat.

What finally got through: The potty is a tool just like the lawnmower and the chainsaw. You use it for only one thing.

So the party may be over.

But I think a new one has begun.

Exhausted but Present

Not the most alluring shot of Matt.

It's the end of day 22. 22 straight days of work; drilling in the National Guard. Four more days and he can be done for a bit.

But Matt's a Good Dad and absolute brain dead-ed-ness notwithstanding he is takes on Boy Care from the moment he walks through the door.

Tonight, by the time he dozed through dinner, flopping on the beanbag and staying awake was all he could manage.

The Boy figured he just had one more toy.

Daddy: Better Than a Swing Set.

Dad was, by turns, a horse, a plow, a car and some unidentifiable bit of machinery. Matt must have kidneys of teflon and a bladder of steel. There were a lot of giddyups and kick starts.
At one point Daddy the Tractor wouldn't start. The Boy walked around to see what the matter might be. He inspected Dad's nose the most closely and firmly announced, "Well, there's the problem."

Which was funny. But I can't figure out what the high point of the evening was. Either watching The Boy climb back onto his perch using Matt's face for a leg-up or seeing Matt's head flush a deep fuschia when The Boy when around back to "put the train in the tunnel."

Me? I was sipping a very nice glass of wine and laughing. I certainly didn't want to interfere with their bonding.

Unleashing the Train

My dear cousin Adele bought The Boy a Brio Starter Set. A year ago. Almost.

It's a little embarrassing.

See, he just wasn't ready a year ago. He didn't get the whole train thing. He had (has, still) a low frustration threshold for stuff he can't do well. (Whose child is this?)

Okayokayokay. I was saving the set for a rainy, I can't stand it any longer, I need him completely engrossed for ten minutes day. And I didn't feel like tripping over and stepping on One More Thing.

But today was the day. Matt needed a pick-me-up and I needed a break.

Oh, what a lovely toy for The Boy.

He spent the entire evening with Dad arranging and rearranging. Laying the tracks in the front room. Laying the tracks in the living room. Lining the train cars up one way. Lining them up another. Oh, the Options.

There was one point where neither Matt nor I could find the engine. The Boy watched us for a while. Bemused. Then when he thought neither of us was looking, he toddled over to the vacuum cleaner, opened the storage box and hauled the engine out from its secret place. Sneaky kid.




The party really began once a circle was made of the tracks. Then it was both a train track AND a corral. The animals were lined up inside and each got to hold a train car. Then the Case tractor was brought in to restore order.

And The Boy stayed in one spot for maybe nine minutes.









As The Boy was winding down for the night, he gathered up all the train cars and tucked them around him in the beanbag. He gave them pats, examined them closely and then ran each one up and down the dog's spine. Then we said goodnight to them all and called it a day.

Nice job, Adele. Thanks.

Building Highways

I don't know about other moms but I go through periods where I'm concerned about some of The Boy's behaviors.

Repeating words over and over until I sing Abba Dabba Honeymoon louder than his chanting. Odd little jerks of his limbs. Gathering up all his wheeled toys — including the Headless Hippo — and laying them nose to tail along the floor.

I have this autism paranoia thing that frequently rears its ugly head.

And then I talk myself down.

He's a boy. He's 23 months. He's a boy. He's my kid. And he's inarguably Matt's kid.

So it's okay.

These are shots of the Highway of the Day. This is usually his first project after his nap. Until recently he hauled out all his books and made a road. Lately, he's preferred his trucks.

Since there are fewer trucks — including the Headless Hippo — than books. And since trucks — including the Headless Hippo — are more sturdy than books I'm okay with the current trend.

A slight bummer of a footnote: After seeing these pictures Matt thinks The Boy needs more trucks.

The First Time The Boy's Head Flew Off

Okay, so the head flying off thing.

It happened when we got home from two weeks in Montana.

Background: The Toddler Teacher we take classes from talks about how kids who are The Boy's age will often save up their anxieties until it is "safe" to express them. Meaning something could scare or make The Boy apprehensive but he wouldn't react to it until he was in a "safe" state — physically or emotionally.

Hmm ... I thought when I heard this. That sounds like it could be true. It will be interesting to see if it's so.

Oh, let me tell you. It's so.

We got home after a decent flight and a looooong drive home. (Friday I5 traffic.) To get settled we went out back with the toy lawnmower for leg-stretching and juice.

The lawn was looking ragged after two week's neglect. The Boy was trying to mow it with his toy mower and wasn't getting anywhere. After five minutes he completely lost it. Just lost it.

For 22 minutes. I timed it.

At one point he was trying to tip over the couch. My gentle, sweet boy. Yeah.

I offered him the footstool but he declined.

I know every kid is different about how he wants to be treated when his head has come loose. Some want to be alone in the room. Some want to be held. Some want an audience.

I have no idea what The Boy wants. Yet. I'm sure we'll get more chances.

No. Not my sweet, gentle boy.

Look, guys; just let me have my dreams for now.

Montana Recall: Home but still washing off the dust

Well, we've been home a couple days. There were big aspirations for weekend chores but really we — okay, I — just lazed about. I lost all my gumption the minute we walked in the door and The Boy's head flew off.

I'll get to that later.

I want to dwell on the good stuff first.

So. Happy, or at least Cute, Montana Vignettes:

The Boy has reached the "neeeeeed" stage. As in, "Neeeeeed [whatever I have in my hand: bottle/pruners/cd]!" Nonnie has dozens and dozens of tractor toys at her house. When there were tears it was, "Neeeed John Deer! Neeeeeeeeed John Deer!" Popped a green tractor in his hand and the tears dried up. Exxxcccellent.

Nonnie brought new blister packs of little tractors and trucks (like we didn't have enough already) for the three grandsons to keep them live-withable while we ate our Lindy's steak. One toy was a forklift. Crown Prince Liam bagged it quickly. After examining it for a while, turning it this way and that, he translated literally and started eating his dinner with the forklift. Good boy, Liam.

The Carousel for Missoula was a little daunting. The band organ is pretty loud and it is billed as the fastest carousel in the USA. Against slight protest, Daddy swooped him up and around they went. The Boy looked like a melt down was imminent for the first few passes but he was definitely grooving on it by the end. When we were far enough away, The Boy's comment was, "I cried a little but it was funny." Yes, Sweetie, it was.







Matt took The Boy for a ride on Unclejerryinmontana's ATV. They went so slowly that I could have caught up with them at a jog. (Not that I jog. I do joggle.) By the time they came back down the road, The Boy had Daddy in a death grip but his face was lit up and he was chanting, "Go faster! Go faster!" Matt was muttering something about not taking driving directions from a two-year-old.







There is a pretty good playhouse at Nonnie's. He spent a lot of time with a frying pan and a "spatchu-BIya" (spatula) working at the stove. I confess it warmed the cockles of my heart to see The Boy playing at the stove "making eggs" and "coffee." I know he's a boy and I know he's currently dedicated to motorized things. But I am pleased (okay, and a little relived) that he imitates me in some things. (The toy in the picture is a coffee pot, by the way.)

Garage sales are the community event on Seeley Lake weekends. Nonnie picks up a lot of good stuff. What caught The Boy's attention was sitting in the living room: a life-sized mallard carved by a Seeley old timer. The boy fed it grass and took it to the other side of the room to visit the metal loon cut out. But mostly he rode it. At one point he insisted it needed a saddle. He went so far as to get a washcloth but the cloth kept sliding off the duck's back. Guess we have a new cliche.

The Boy's imagination actively blossomed during these two weeks. I know he's been dreaming and such, but this was the first time we could track his fantasies. I am really loving this. He's telling us about petting a buffalo and how Daddy rode it (I think that notion came from a dream). He played with carved ducks and declared the ducks were going to find water or grass or to ride the tractors. He had little stories about the horses and dogs. It was truly sweet.

I love listening to his voice. Matt claims he has a German accent. And, yeah, he kinda does. "Put zat ofver vere."

Swan Valley O-mok-see: Small Town Snapshot Sunday

A note: These photos are old and not that great, but they are a part of my family's history and I am proud of them ... especially Loretta.

My dear mother-in-law, Loretta, turned 70 this last month. She grew up in Swan Valley, Montana. Most people just call it The Swan. It's bordered by the Swan Mountains (Bob Marshall Wilderness) on the east and the Mission Mountains on the west.

Currently the nearest stop light is 70 miles away. The nearest gallon of milk is 25 miles away via winding roads and a seasonal choice of tourists or ice.

In the early 1950's folks in The Swan made up an arena near Liquid Louie's Liquor Lounge for rodeos and O-mok-see's.

O-mok-see's are basically horse games. Barrel racing, pole bending, something involving a watermelon and whatever was dreamed up in Liquid Louie's the night before.

Loretta's horse was Gibby. He was A Good One.

Loretta got the signal honor of riding out with the flag for The Swan's first O-mok-see.

Barrel racing. Note all the horses tied up to the right. O-mok-see's weren't and aren't just for girls. They do divide up into age groups, but on a horse, everyone has an equal shot at the prize.

And here is Loretta's granddaughter, Mariah, competing in this year's O-mok-see. She's followed Loretta in her love of working with horses and is something to see. This year she won a trophy (gold and sparkley) for the highest over-all points.


There's not a lot of "planning" that goes on in The Swan. If you're looking for something like signs to tell you that the school is ahead on the right or that this is the last gas station until Big Fork, you'll be disappointed. Usually someone has to actually die before warnings are posted. And even then ...

My point is that with all the live-and-let-live-or-die-or-whatever attitude, the O-mok-see is still a big part of the year. The people of The Swan get it together and rake the arena and water it down.

After the sister of the guy who is home from Iraq sings the Star Spangled Banner (quite well, I might add), you lean on the rails, watching the riders and eating dust. The folks next to you sitting on their coolers are critiquing the riders:
"Is that Debbie's youngest?"
"Yeah. Cindy. Looks like her mom, doesn't she."
"Yep; sawing away at her horse's mouth. Where does she get that from? Her dad doesn't do that."
"Well, her grandad did."

I love that.

Montana Tractors

The Boy loves tractors. Really, really loves them.

He's working on 22 months and can identify tractors by make. It's arresting and a little creepy to hear a sweet, lispy voice chanting "Case 560! Case 560!" as we cruise down the back roads.

When there is Sadness, The Boy doesn't often call for Mama. It's "Need John Deer!" Sometimes this hurts my heart, but mostly I'm pleased I can hand him a toy tractor and the tears evaporate.

In anticipation of our Montana trip, we've been talking up a visit to Unclejerryinmontana (all one word). Uncle Jerry has tractors. Several. Mostly John Deers. We thought it would be a veritable Boy nirvana.

On the appointed day, we hauled a couple girls, their horses and The Boy out to Unclejerryinmontana's place. All the way out to Jerry's was a sweet-voiced song from the back seat, "Unclejerryinmontana have John Deer tractors? Ride it? Unclejerryinmontana ride John Deer tractors?"

Yes, Uncle Jerry has John Deer tractors. Yes, you can ride them.

We got to Jerry's place and: Oh, look! There is a John Deer tractor! Can you see it? There it is! Come on, let's get out and ride them.

The ecstatically kicking Boy was hauled out and set on the ground. He had a clear path to the best of the John Deers.

And ...

He sat right down in the dust, picked up a rock and a stick and that was it.

Daddy coaxed him over to the shop, but I think the realities of tractor were too much. They're awfully big and smell funny. The chug chug chug sound we make when reading tractor books aren't nearly the same as the 1960's diesel rumble Uncle Jerry's tractor makes.

Finally Matt climbed up in the seat and hauled The Boy after him. Before there was time to complain, they were chugging (but not "chug chug chug-ing") down the road.

The Boy was grinning broadly. And holding as still as he could. Perhaps he didn't want the tractor to take too much notice of him ... ? You never know when they're going to turn on you.

4th of JOO-ly in Swan Valley Montana: Small Town Snapshot Sunday

As we have every Fourth since Matt and I met, we trooped out to the Swan Valley parade.

It's a fairly loose organization. I'm never really sure who's in charge. Usually when you ask, someone says, "Go ask for Ed/Bob/Val."

Ed/Bob/Val is a harried looking guy who, in his heart but not in actuality, is carrying a clipboard and a bullhorn.

But, really, come on, the ones who are actually organizing are the Ladies. They've done this for 60+ years. They were in this parade. They shoveled their kids through it. They coaxed their grand kids. It's simple. It's not to be messed with. Get in line. Parade.

Everyone with a vested interest in the parade gathers in front of Liquid Louie's Liquor Lounge. (A watering hole my normally passive husband refuses to let me set foot in. I figure there's an incriminating picture of him posted behind the bar. Or maybe something indelibly etched in the Ladies ... ? Some days I feel like Bluebeard's wife.)

There is supposed to be a safety briefing, though I've never heard it. This year I asked around and the best anyone can figure out is that the briefing should cover what paraders are supposed to do if there is an emergency call immediately before, during or immediately after the parade. Since Hwy 83 is the only road through the Swan Valley, that's where the parade parades. All the emergency vehicles are in the parade. So, in case of an emergency, we all need to get off the highway so the emergency vehicles can go. Check.

By 11 a.m. we are assembled in front of Liquid Louie's waiting to go. I've never actually heard anyone actually say, "Okay, start." Someone does, I'm sure.

Marching at the head of the parade are currently serving and retired vets in uniform. They just kind of seem to go. Everyone falls in behind.

The most junior ranking person sets the pace by custom. No small feat when the other regular marchers are a Navy captain, a Marine colonel cum county sheriff, an Army major and a really senior Army NCO (he's the one out of step). But it's been a while since these officers have paraded (especially the Navy boys), so the junior guy is in charge.

Color guard riders with the US and Montana flags follow. It used to be better-behaved boys from a reform/boot camp down the way. But now it's usually the guys that have "worked on the parade." I'm not sure what the work has been (see: "Get in line. Parade."), but I don't doubt they did it. And they look good on a horse.

Then the kids follow on their horses. There is no little competition in decorating these horses. Every year, one of them gets first place for their efforts. We none of us are sure why the kid who is awarded first gets the blue ribbon. As my niece says, "All the horses look like the Fourth threw up on them." She's won first for several years and she doesn't know why. She figures it has something to do with the number of glitter spray cans she goes through.

The rest of the parade steps out in an ad hoc fashion. There are donkey carts, mule carts and trucks pulling flatbed "floats" with Sunday school kids clinging to it. The Shriners show up in their clown cars. The Corvette club makes a showing. There are flatbed trailers "floats" for the historical societies and the conservation district. The freshly polished ambulance followed by the fire truck coast down the road, half hoping for an emergency and half not.

One year some bar had a float featuring an old tin bath with a shirtless, grubby looking fellow in it. A miner? A ranch hand? Straddling him was a negligee'd lady "bathing" him.

Um. Yes.

A pocket of silence followed that one down the parade route.

Have I mentioned the candy? There's a lot of it. People (okay — kids) in the vehicles pelt bystanders with candy from Costco sized bags. If you aren't beaned by a jolly rancher or a tootsie roll on the Fourth in Swan Valley you weren't really participating. The Killjoy in me wants to make a new rule for next year: you have to apply to throw candy from your "float." Only six permits will be given.

Fun-stifling, I know, but I'm concerned. I have visions of deer and other varmints coming out after dark and scraping up the trod-on, rolled-over peppermints and saltwater taffys from the road. These sugar-starved critters have the potential to either make some one's obituary a real laugh riot ("Ed was impaled by his loosely installed gunrack after leaving Liquid Louie's parking lot in his 98' Ford 4x4. Reaching an estimated speed of 85 mph, Ed hit a two point buck which failed to yield the right of way. The buck, who also died in the crash, was later found to have his front teeth glued to the asphalt by green apple Laffy Taffy.") or they will go on a 10 mile wide, sugar-fueled rampage resulting in ripped out window screens, savaged planter boxes and flat tires with double tooth marks.

(Now there's a sentence to be proud of.)

As the procession ends, the highway is again open to through-traffic.

This is my favorite part.

There's usually less than a mile back up. Most locals know the parade is blocking the highway. Most locals are involved in the parade, I guess. Anyway, some folks in the back up are angry. Some are impatient. Some are from out of country and have no idea what we are doing and why. But the best, and most common, are the people who act like they are the final feature of the parade. They wave and smile and wish us a Happy Fourth. What great attitudes.

I throw candy at them.

Montana Grumps. Yargh.

Okay, I'm griping. I've fought it for days.

We've been here in Montana 10 days now and, excepting the second night, The Boy has managed to avoid sleeping until 11, 11:30. I no likin' this.

Between his whimsical sleeping hours and the neighbors' dogs sleep has been elusive for Crabby Moms Like Me.

Yargh.

Today at naptime, after slamming his head into my braces One More Time, I opened the door and handed The Boy to Daddy.

There was no napping this afternoon. But Daddy was dealing with it and I stayed downstairs. Fighting guilt.

This evening, back to Daddy. The Boy and I are sick of each other and that's okay.

I don't think Matt was up there 15 minutes when he smuggly tip-toed out of the room and gently shut the door.

Yargh.

On the other hand, it's just after 8 p.m. and this is the first chance Matt and I have been able to to have an adult conversation in three days. So fine. Be smug.

But not too smug.

Montana Therapy

Okay, so it's been a whole month.

The best way I can sum up is to say that The Boy is flexing his Opinion Muscles. This seems to affect everything from naps to eating to going down for the night. Since everything that happens between eating and sleeping is really a placeholder, you can imagine that it's been a bit ... unpredictable ... around Ye Olde Homestead.

The best solution is to pack up and hie out for Nonnie's place in Montana.

Because I value my husband's and The Boy's life, The Boy and I flew. The Husband drove I-90 with the two dogs and all the stuff. Packing for one, single kid requires twice the car space that travel did previously. We bought a Thule thingie.

(In case you care, the Thule can carry the stroller, packback, The Boy's clothes, some of our clothes and the dogs' stuff, too. This left room in the car for the dogs, two coolers, my clothes [medium bag]. Matt's clothes [gargatuan bag plus two smaller bags], The Boy's food [allergic to everything fun] and all of Matt's accessories [iTouch, gps thingie, road food, cell phone, Blackberry and don't know what all, plus the chargers and other accoutrements].)

The flight from Seatac to Missoula is on an airplane. Not a jet. You have to walk out on to the tarmac and then up some stars onto the plane. This was a real hit as we could touch the wings and the propellers and all.

Once on the plane it was not good. But just for a bit. I don't know if it was the abrupt transition from Out to In or the change in accoustics or if it was the collective displeasure of 50 people seeing a not-two-year-old getting on the plane.

All was well when we brought out the Stihl catalog. Everything is always better when you can loose yourself in selections of chainsaws and leafblowers. Try it sometime. You'll see.

Because Nonnie's house was full (the Gareth family beat us to the good bedroom) we stayed out at the Rich Ranch. The Boy could be a free-range kid and look at the farm equipment — sorry, ranch equipment — and visit the mules and find all the sticks and rocks any boy could want.

We've been busy and it's been hot. I'll fill in the details next entry. Catch-up entries are always dull. I'm done with this one.

Did I Miss "The Moment"?

The Boy twanged my heartstrings today.

As I gave him a bath in the kitchen sink (how much longer will I be able to do that?) we worked our way to hair washing.

This is a tough move. No one likes it much. I plant the well-wrung washcloth over his eyes to try to keep the water out. The rinsing water is warm and precision-poured from the houseplant watering can. But there still is soap, tension and confusion.

In the middle of all these manouvers, The Boy very gently touched my wrist and said, "Please don't." His words were clear. His inflection was almost pleading. It scared the heck out of me.

Give me a 21 month old NOOOOooo! (*thrash flail*) any day.

So now what? He's already confused me. If I said "Please don't" to him, I would expect him to stop doing whatever. Now he's asking me very politely to stop.

Of course, I went ahead and finished rinsing. I did the whole, "Mama's got to get the soap out or your eyes will hurt," but I don't think he bought it.

I wonder if I will look back on this as The Moment Where It All Went Wrong ... ?

Didi Joins the Family

The Boy has a doll. Didi.

At the Parent/Toddler class we took this winter, there was a tub full of baby dolls. One day Myles got into it, pulled out a likely looking one and hauled it around for an hour. I watched through the window as he carried it on his hip and patted the back of its head. He offered it some rice puffs and read to it. Then he very gently laid it down and put a paperback book "blanket" over it and patted it good night.

Okay.

So the next time I was at Baby Basics (better known as "the Used Baby Store") I found a nice blue-eyed doll ($6!). It doesn't "do" anything. It requires no batteries. Its eyes don't open and shut. It doesn't pee. That was 2-3 months ago.

This week, Didi was officially noticed and made a permanent member of the entourage. Didi eats with us and travels with us and sleeps with us.

Come on, Myles, it's time to eat.
"Didi eat, too?" in a sweet, wistful, high-pitched voice.
Sure.

Didi sits in my lap (or Grandma's) while Myles works on his spoon skills. Occasionally Didi gets a bite of something. I draw the line at blueberries. Milk is okay. Yoghurt I have to think about.

Come on, Myles, let's go get some food for dinner.
"Didi come, too?"
Sure.

The other day he was almost asleep in the car when, WHAM, he was bolt upright and patting his chest. "Didi! Didi!" So I fished around in the back seat (while driving — you learn to do this) and set Didi in his lap. The Boy snugged Didi across his legs and shoulder and immediately fell asleep.

Didi is better than Santa Claus for encouraging good behavior.
"Hmm ... Didi is too close to the stove while I am cooking. You should take Didi to the couch where it is safe."

"Look at how quietly Didi is sitting. I am happy he is letting me talk on the phone."

What really gets me misty-eyed is watching Myles be "Didi's daddy." It really is a testament to Matt's dad skills. When Myles is intentionally playing with Didi, he holds the doll so carefully. He reads to it and shows it his treasured tools.

I give him feedback, "Oh, Myles, you are so gentle. You are a good daddy." Myles gives me a winning smile and scuttles out of the room chanting "Didi's daddy! Didi's Daddy!" And thumps Didi's head against the wall on the way out.

Car Dishwasher

Oh, The Boy is terribly smart.

Yesterday as a "reward" (and because my car was dirty) we went through the car wash.

This was a new experience and a pretty loud one. He handled it just fine. The guys who brush the car before the chain carries you away were having fun with him; making faces, tapping on the window and "brushing" him.

As we advanced through the brushes and sprays I dictated the work process. "The car wash guys are brushing our car with soap. Now the brushes are whirring ... whirring and flicking off the dirt. Here comes the water. Etc, etc, etc."

As we neared the end, The Boy pops up with "Dishwasher!"
Yes, Myles, it's like a dishwasher for cars. It's a car wash.

"Car dishwasher!"
Yes. A car wash.

"Caaaaar dishwasher!"
Good enough.

Later that evening he had the brush and pan out "car dishwashering" the dog's crate. Good man. Good transfer of concept.

Enforced Coffee Klatch

The Boy is 20 months and trying 2 year old behavior on for size. It's an adjustment. We call them "Developmental Moments."

But then he goes back to being his usual darling self.

One of his new "demands" is that he gets to drink his morning juice while sitting on the windowsill. The other is that I drink a cup of coffee with him. And, you know, I can do that.

It has to be coffee for me, though he has juice or milk according to today's preference. Sound effects are also required: *Slurping noise* "Ahhh ... "

Really. How long is he going to want me to sit with him?

I tell you, I can see the future and it's not that far off. On the other hand, there are fewer diaper changes in it.

The Power of "Please"

Louder is better. Right?

So we're working on "please" with "thank you" hard on its heels.

(And at this point I have to question why it's so important that we say "please" all the time. Is it training for when it's actually important? When is it actually important? There's something wheedle-y about non-stop "please-s." And some sort of expectation of entitlement. I need to think about this.)

But to please Grandmas — and QFC clerks — everywhere, we're learning to say "please."

Two immediate results:

1) There is some toddler logic applied that if "please" is the magic word, then the desired result will be achieved when "please" is said loudly, repeatedly and as distinctly as a 20 month old palate will allow. Right?

Driving downtown just after a nap with a baggie of chex mix (commonly referred to as "O's") provided a chance to test this hypothesis.

Yeah. It works. But I had no idea I tuned him out so much while driving; a little freaky there.

2) My mom had her first ... I don't know what a good descriptor is ... Deviant Grandma? Siding with the Grandson? Betrayal of the Eldest Daughter?... moment.

Myles was with me at Grandma's asking for treats — O's probably — and I said no. We were going home, he had already had a lot of O's, and there is a reason we call chex mix "colon blow." But Mom gave me a look that was both pleading and placating saying, "He said 'pleeeease' ... "

I can't fight the both of them.

My Hanger-on

Yesterday, Grandma bought The Boy some clothes (on sale!). As The Boy is currently into counting, we spent last evening handing him the clothes one at a time while he counted. Big fun at the Old Homestead last night, let me tell you.

This morning the clothes are still on their hangers. The Boy has taken it into his head to hang them on the counter. He's been at it about 6 minutes. I'm staying out of it. He's busy. And ... heh heh ... maybe he'll be one of those strange kids that hangs their clothes up. Ahhh ... What a lovely dream.

Okay. It's 10 minutes later and he's asked for help. The clothes, including the "Daddy shirt" and the shirt with the wrecking ball, are swaying gently from the counter's edge. He is so proud.

Addressing The Weenie

It has to be addressed. I have birthed a boy and, apparently, weenie fascination come with the package.

I decided on "weenie." "Penis" is correct and proper, but 1. it sounds like something that should be held in a pair of tweezers and 2. there's something too prim about the word. Weenie it is. For now. I'm sure he'll find other words for it later.

So when he found said weenie, I gave him the word and he was fine. Every diaper change is now occasioned by a cataloging of the body parts that are usually covered by a onesie.

"Belly button!"
Yes, Myles, that's your belly button.

"Butt!"
Yes, Myles, that's your butt.

"Weenie!"
Yes, Myles, that's your weenie.

He's also working on his adjectives: "BIIIG tractor! ... tiny tractor ..." "BIIIIG dog! ... tiny dog ..." and, inevitably, "BIIIIG weenie! ..." and so on.

Today, his fascination for saws joined us on the diaper table. The ever-present cooking spoon served as a "saw" this morning. "Table. Cut." "Wall. Cut." "Weenie. *sawing action* Cut."

I want props for not taking a picture at this point.

Simple Pleasures on a Rainy Day

The Boy took over the laundry basket today. It was by turns a boat, Daddy's truck and a bath tub. The difficulty was that he can't sit in it and push it. (And I'm not volunteering.) He can, however, tip over and thump his head in it.

As the morning wore on, it became a storage locker. Now there is a water bottle, a dish towel/blankie, a soft block, a book and "coupons." During his nap, I cleaned it all out. After the nap, there was a certain amount of grumbling as he toddled around the house re-collecting every single thing I had put away. Good recall, anyway.

A missed photo opportunity today: Myles shuffling through the kitchen in my shoes, carrying a "purse" and Didi the baby doll. Couldn't get to the camera fast enough. That would have made a great shot to show his first prom date. Or if he decides to do something foolish, like run for public office.

Window Washing

Finally, I had the energy to wash the refried beans off the kitchen window and the dog schmertz off the back door. Myles helped the best way he knows how. (See photo.)

Sneezing this morning five times. One right after the other. After the second ker-choo he smiled up and asked, "Moh? Moh?"

In the past couple weeks he's begun comparing and contrasting. Things he has learned:

Dogs don't brush their teeth, but they do blink.
Everyone he knows has a butt, but lawnmowers don't.
Helicopters are way better than single prop airplanes.

From the back seat of the car I hear, "BIIIIIIG TRUCK! tiny truck. BIIIIG BUS! tiny bus."
But today it was, "Uncle [Gareth] tiny butt. Daddy tiny butt. Mama BIIIIIG butt!" Thanks, kid.