Twenty Months
Wombat, you are twenty months old and change and I have been remiss. So what have you been doing these last four months? Let's begin in the now:
This morning you slept in until 8 a.m., and although that would have been enough to set a thousand victory flags a-waving, you also said "I love you" and then punctuated a mouth-kiss by saying, "Kiss Mama! Yaaaay!" Even if I hadn't already felt close to death because of this stupid summer coldbeast, I still would have clutched my heart and seen my life flash before my eyes in that singular moment, for it surely was the culmination of everything that has come before.
And speaking of "everything," most of what you encounter these days is "yay"-worthy. "Bus! Yay!" "Two cats! Yay!" "Read a book! Yay!" Even when you're scared or unsure it's still "Yaaaay!" although your face inevitably betrays what lurks in the soul of the littlest yes-man. That you're trying so hard to make the best of a less-than-ideal situation, though, is further proof you are your father's son. That and the eyebrows and the dents that form above the corners of your mouth when you smirk.
But with an attitude like that, everything is opportunity, everything an event--life projected onto the bigscreen, in digital surround and with all-caps subtitles. We don't just eat dinner, we have "DINNERTIME!" We don't just play with puzzles, we have "PUZZLETIME!" We don't just squash around on the Playdoh, we have "PLAYDOHTIME!" And now that you've discovered what fun your junk can be, we can't change your diaper without it turning into "PEEPERTIME!" and I'm sorry if that's embarrassing, but how do you think I feel when we're out in public and you're sticking your hands down your pants and yelling "YAAAAAAY!"? (I supposed this is what has replaced sticking your hands down my shirt and yelling "Boobies!" and didn't Dr. Phil once say bad habits aren't broken, just replaced with new ones? And didn't I just say you were your father's son?)
Yes, last month you were weaned while I was away for a weekend, and although it was a loss for us both, we're fine now. You occasionally say, "No boobie! Boobie no!" and I occasionally have the urge to plug your screamhole with a deflated teat, but overall the transition was smooth, although not without tears (mine) and a little bit of bribery. (At the end of our last nursing session, I told you "all done" and then distracted you with a fruit roll-up, which we bought in bulk for your birthday and are still working through, so help me Costco.)
As the boobies went the way of the dodo (see what I did there?), so have most of your signs too, and I'm especially sad to have lost the one for "fish," which you never did with less than full-bore enthusiasm, wagging your bladed hand back and forth like you were fanning a nascent campfire on which to cook a plump side of salmon. A few signs linger yet, the most consistent among them being "all done" and "more," although when you sign you also say the words at the same time (albeit not always in English: "Motto!" you say, bouncing your fingertips off each other; "Oshimai!" you insist, waving jazzhands.)
We get the most of "more," though--"more outsidetime," "more peanut butter," "one more story"--and it's been especially cool to watch your vocabulary flesh out beyond concrete words to include concept words, like "new" and "hot" and "other" and "nice" and "right t/here." It's like you've opened a beloved hardcover that yesterday was just a standard four-color picturebook to find it has transformed overnight into a touch-and-feel pop-up with a sound card and embedded LEDs. Your flat world has become round; a twister has plopped you somewhere over the complete double rainbow.
The language explosion blew the lid off of absolutely everything during your seventeenth month, and although you've taken leaps and bounds since then, you still have some curious lexical quirks that require translation. "Shoes," "socks," and "shirt" are "yous," "yocks," and "yurt," and "green grapes" are "deen dapes." "Grandpa" sounds a whole lot like "diaper," "milk" is somehow "meeto," and "same" has morphed from "mwee" to "weemah" to "weem." But every day it seems you're getting a tighter, firmer grip on the language the rest of us speak (at home, anyway) and we can finally say, unironically, "Use your words," and expect a result more satisfying than a frothy raspberry. At last count you could say more than 350 words, but we stopped counting two months ago. "Mo-mo" has become "good morning," a spitty rattle in your cheeks has become "eggs," you can say the names of the animals instead of just mimicking their sounds, and sometimes "Mama" is even plain old casual "Mom."
You know your letters, numbers, shapes, and colors. When you're playing by yourself, you sing "Twinkle, Twinkle" and the whole Alphabet Song and "Baa, Baa, Black Sheep." ("Weem!") You can count objects up to ten in English and Japanese. You know all the actions to "Ito Maki Maki" and you turn your arm into a trunk for "Zousan." You take a stab at spelling, but no matter what the letters are you always say, "B-O-E spells...'Mama!'" which isn't quite right, my dear, but then you say things like "Bye-bye, little red car! See ya!" that leave us reeling. When did all this happen? While we're sleeping do you steal away like the Twelve Dancing Princesses except instead of taking your ballet shoes to a magical netherworld ball you take your thinking cap to night school?
Oh, but you're still a baby. When I pick you up from daycare and strip the snotty Bib of Shame from 'round your neck, in three seconds flat you turn my sexy but tasteful, trendy yet timeless, carefully-thought-out outfit into a giant bogey rag. (Okay, so maybe it's just the shirt I slept in the night before, but still.) You are a baby because you need me to wipe your nose. You are a baby because you eat dinner from a highchair. You are a baby because even though we took your crib rail off when you learned to climb it, it's still a crib. You are a baby because you poop your pants. (As much as I look forward to the end of the Diaper Years, I do see the many benefits of a well-made Pamper: for instance, you conclude Ring Around the Rosies with such force and such joy that I wish I too was wearing such cushy underthings and had only a foot and a half to fall; surely no one else is having as much fun as you anywhere in the world at that moment.)
You are a baby because you make me feel old and young at the same time.
You're a baby because I'm still (mostly) "Mama," just like the first time you said it, almost a whole year ago.
PEPPERTIME, mwahahahahahahaha! Funniest thing ever.
Also, this is incredibly sweet and touching.
Not braggy or show-off-y at all. I think it would be weird if you DIDN'T post these kinds of updates. But then, I also have an amazing 20-month-old, so ... :)
I loved this. I miss that kid (and you guys). Come visit already!
My heart just exploded. That is all.
(Well, also: "Flowers in the Attic"? HAHAHAHAHA!)
Your boy is all kinds of awesome. So glad you posted this. If moms can't brag, who can?
Oh, Wombat. You little bug, you. I love you so!
And HAHAHA, re: "Yay!" Sam's big word nowadays is "Wow!" Everything is "Wow!", even the things that terrify the bejesus out of her. "Wow!" to the vacuum at the car wash, which she is PETRIFIED of. "Wow!" to the cow at the farm, which she loves. "WOW WOW WOW!"
You have such amazing, beautiful pictures of precious wombat. (AND OMG you own a VC Andrews book? Isn't it a little early for wombat to learn about incest? :)
The casual "mom" kills me. Theo does it too and I'm all NO NO NO I'M MOMMY. MOM-MY. MOMMY.
I'd love to see him and Theo play together. Man would they have a blast.
Books--You mean because he doesn't have a sibling yet?
Good Lord woman, your posts about your son make me want a baby like no other! Perfectly documented!
;) I have to admit (with shame) I was actually thinking about rereading the VC Andrews oeuvre a while ago, but was too embarrassed to check them out of the library. I think I wore the cover off my copy of “My Sweet Audrina” back in the day.
Lovely. See! I never did things like this for Charlotte and should have. He is a lucky boy and you are a lucky mama.
Your kid and this post just melt my heart.
(Also, for some reason you are blocked at work! I can get almost every other blog and website I read but for some insane reason yours has been denied by the TV network Powers That Be. I have the option to send a request for why I need to access it during work. I'm still working on an excuse...)
Oh, I love this one...
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