House Tour and other thoughts

You have become very verbal, and you get excited when friends come over to the house. While home for Thanksgiving my friend Julie came over and as you led her up the stairs to the playroom you pointed at the antique mirror on the wall that said "That's art. No touching." This of course was before you got so worked up over wanting her and my attention while she vented to me about something to do with her son that you pelted her in the head with a Lego and you and I had to go sit in the other room to calm our bodies and talk about what behavior is allowed and what isn't. Ah, Succotash. You are two! Sometimes so very two. But the wet kisses make up for it. 

I enjoy your house tours so much. A new possible babysitter came over to play and you were showing her all your toys. I still have to translate. "This is the Ama, and this is the baby, and this is Big Bird. There's a boat and an alligator and then there's the bus." (Your summary of Little People toys plus the plot of The Muppet Movie, which you call "puppets" and which you insist on watching almost every morning. Your favorite scene is the one with Steve Martin as the waiter. You've started saying "Steve Martin!" when you want to see it. And if I want to make you laugh at the dinner table, all I have to do is lean in conspiratorially and say "Sparkling muscatel. One of the finest wines of Idaho," and you crack up.)

While in general I prefer to keep your baby blog heavy on the charming things you do and how much I love you, but there is context in the world, unfortunately. I am still afraid of the pandemic, even as we have slowly learned to live within it. I hate seeing your smile disappear behind a mask. And as new words bubble up in your mouth every day, one time zone away words disappear from my mother's mouth at almost the same rate. This Thanksgiving morning, while we were happily ensconced in Marblehead ("Mahulhead!" you said for the first time, and also "I uv oo" which made me die), watching puppets for the ninetieth time and anticipating a low key dinner with Ginger and Brian and their friends Colleen and Christ and the good silverware because that's who I am even if I don't have time to polish it, my mother got up at six in the morning and went wandering outside in her pajamas in a light rain. Wandering is not unusual for Alzheimers patients, but it is hugely dangerous, and I am now triangulating safety measures for their apartment in hopes that Mom doesn't have to move to memory care for a few months longer.

I haven't entirely finished mourning the relationship I wish you could have had with my mother, Succotash. She was brilliant. Brilliant, and dry, and funny, and sharp, and her knowledge of decorative arts was encyclopedic, and she also drove me crazy and was rigid, maybe even more rigid than I am, and could telegraph her discomfort though a formality of tone that made me insane, and that I certainly do as well, which will probably make you insane. Selfishly, I also watch what is happening to her and worry about where you will be in your life when it happens to me. She's only 31 years older than me, which is long, but not that long. I can remember 31 years ago. 31 years ago I was 13 years old. Seventh grade. I remember seventh grade. And most of what has come between. In contrast I am 42 years older than you. Which means you will likely be much younger than I am now when you have to install baby locks on the doorknobs of wherever I am living, and persuade me to wear an ugly GPS watch so that you can track me on your cell phone, or whatever technology has supplanted cell phones in 30 years. 

I hate the thought of leaving you in only 30-odd years. For though Mom hasn't left yet, she is going. A word a day slips away, and I feel like I am watching her unraveling at the same time that I am watching and reveling in your coming together. I guess that's how it's supposed to go, on a macrocosmic level. Mom's time is almost past. My time is now. Your time is coming, is almost here. That's how it's supposed to be. But all the same, I wish you could have known her. I wish she could have known you. I wish, still, that there could have been more time.

25 Months!

A rough few nights for you, as you battle another cold, poor baby, and also I think get to work on your 24 month molars. But you've gotten much more conversational, and have been talking in your sleep. Last night at one point you clearly said "soccer ball" before rolling over and resuming snoring.

You are just at the moment of going from referring to yourself in third person to using "I." Sometimes you switch. "I see!" meaning "I want to see." "I see Mama! I see house!" = I want to see Mama, I want to go home. But when someone takes something that is yours, you get very upset and say "Succotash! Succotash soccer ball!"  

You are working out who owns what. What's Mama's and what's yours and what's Daddy's. You also rather charmingly have started saying "thank you!" when someone gives you something, be it dinner or a toy. Maybe I wrote about this already, but a week or so ago we were at the playground in Marblehead and you got very upset when I let a neighbor toddler use your travel potty. Later we debriefed about it and I apologized to you, saying that I didn't realize it would upset you to have someone else use your potty, that it was your potty and I wouldn't do that again. You considered what I said and then said "thank you." 

You have three giraffes, called Faffs, and one is the Mama and one is the Dada and one is the baby. You also charmingly use the "It's a" construction. "It's a baby faff." "It's a mama." "It's a Succotash." "It's a Succotash's." "It's a finished."

You like to choose your clothes now. This shirt, or this one? These socks, or these ones? We pick your jammies every night, but you aren't always that particular about your play clothes. But your favorite undies have cars on them. You know where the hamper is, and to put your clothes there when we get ready for warm water every night. You still need assistance getting undressed. If I get one of your arms out you can finish taking off a shirt, and while I suspect you could take your pants and undies off yourself, and I know you can take socks off, I think you prefer that I do it. "Mama do it. Go, Dada!"

You know the way home, and the way to the playground from school. You know where the red panda is in the Central Park Zoo, and where the penguin house is. You know that often guys play trombone or saxophone under the bridge with the musical clock on the way to the children's zoo. "It's a guys! It's a music!"

The world is largely divided into Mamas, guys, and Succotashes. Last night we spotted people puffing their way to the finish line of the NYC marathon in Central Park, and you pointed and said "Mamas!" There were lots of mamas finishing around then. Tougher mamas than your own. You have been in a mama place lately, which is tough on your dad, though he understands. You are of the opinion that Mamas nurse, and Dadas cook. And Succotashes eat! They also nurse. You are still a fan of nursing, though I've noticed you have started to forget about it when you are absorbed in something else. We went to play in the expansive firehouse playroom of a celebrity colleague of your mother's, and you had such a good time pushing his son around in a little sledge and trying on antique fire hats that you didn't ask to nurse once. 

You like to pretend to cook in the playhouse at St. Vartan's - pizza and pasta are your specialities. You are signed up for soccer class with other 2 and 3 year olds, which you adore (so far), and the young soccer guys who teach it are very kind and patient, and give you high fives. You are the youngest and the biggest, and you can actually kick a ball into a net, sometimes. 

This past weekend we busted out the vintage Fisher Price little people playsets, and you are now obsessed, vastly preferring them to the bulky, overscaled, nonchokable modern versions you already have. We brought back the Sesame Street clubhouse that was your dad's, and an airplane and vintage car and camper that were mine, and you spend many long minutes at a time moving people about. "Two Ernies," you point out to me. "Big Bird." We have started showing you vintage Sesame Street, which you like, but then you get bored after a while and want to make a play fort out of couch cushions, which you learned from Theo and Felix. 

You are asserting your autonomy more, and I am trying to notice how annoying it must be to have a bigger person wrestle you into a stroller or wipe your nose when it's not what you want. I do my best to collaborate with you, and most of the time it works. You climb into the stroller yourself, you tell me when you have to potty. You are as stubborn as I am, God help us. But you are your own person. I love you so much, and I love watching who you are becoming.

Phew

Hello sweet Succotash. I'm sorry it has been so long since I have updated your baby blog, but I have had my hands full attending to your baby self. No sooner did we get you sort of acclimated to your new school than you were felled by a heinous cold, which means that today we were sort of starting from scratch on the going to school front. You were very brave, though you did your best to persuade me that you were too tired to go to school and needed to take a nap first and also nurse and then probably go to the zoo to see more faffs.

"Faffs" are giraffes, and are one of my favorite Succotashisms. Tied with "toot toot," which is Succotash for train. In the mornings you get up and we read your toot toot, which is a Fisher Price flap book about various cars and trucks and trains and airplanes, which you like to read while on the toilet. 

My other favorite Succotashism is "hop," which still means rabbit. You are very excited that you and I are going to dress as hops for Halloween, and Daddy will be a "ca-ot." We will sneak back to Marblehead to trick or treat with our neighborhood baby friends, which I am looking forward to.

What else has happened? Your second birthday dragged on so long, with so many friends wanting to send gifties or otherwise wanting to mark the passage of time, that sometimes now when someone asks you how old you are, you say "thee." 

You are not thee. You are two. 

Other things: you love Muppets! We caved and showed you "The Muppet Movie" while home sick because we just couldn't cope and you LOVED it, especially the scene when Steve Martin serves Kermit and Piggy "sparkling muscatel - one of the finest wines of Idaho." This cracks you up enormously. You also love the Busby Berkeley style synchronized swimming scene in "The Great Muppet Caper." Now when you wake up in the morning, instead of craving Mr. Rogers you want to go read your toot toot and then watch "Puppets! Puppets!" 

You enjoy painting at school and love cars and love visiting other friends' houses and playing with their toys. Dev and Ravi have a car that you covet and love tooling around their apartment in. Cecily comes over and entertains you while her parents battle through their ugly divorce and we pretend not to take sides. Yesterday we went to Queens and played with Clara, and you most enjoyed a pretend suitcase of hers, which you would wheel behind yourself to the airport in their kitchen to go visit Poppop in Orlando. Then you would wheel it back and say "I'm back!" and be showered with kisses. 

You are officially three feet nearly two inches tall, so still tracking to be a tall drink of water. You have started shrugging your shoulders in a way that makes your dad worry you might have a tic. This is only for the last week or so, so I'm not worried yet. It could just be how you shake things off. We'll see. 

You still refer to yourself largely in the third person, though you have started saying "I." Like "I did it!" and "I back!" I will miss the developmental moment of you placing your hand on your chest with great gravity and saying your name to indicate that you want something or should have something or should do something. You'll say your name while waiting your turn with a toy suitcase so we don't forget you want to have a turn. You'll also say "hold it," which has largely replaced your pointing into the palm of your hand to indicate that you want to touch or handle or have something.

And you refuse to let me cut your hair. Your summer towhead is starting to darken at the roots, a deep auburn now that we are spending less time in the outdoors and the pool. I always wanted auburn hair. I never knew that I wanted to have it on the head of my growing baby son.

My growing two year old boy. I love you so. 

Growth and Change

My sweetest Succotash, you are now 23 months old, and when I ask you how old you will be on your next birthday, you proudly say "Two!" You have gone a couple of days in a row with no toileting accidents, though we do schlep your baby potty with us everywhere. But sometimes you insist on using the grownup one. You are definitely getting it, and I am so proud of you. 

Your grandparents Manamana and Pop Pop (you rechristened Greg on this trip) have been staying for several weeks now, and as I write you are off playing with them. They plie you with chocolate muffins and balloons and I think it's okay for grandparents to spoil you a little. We have made the abrupt turn to autumn that happens in New England, and I am trying not to flip out about our leaving for New York in two weeks and change. 

We lost our Milo dog. I talk about him still, and I've told you what happened and asked if you have any questions. You knew your dad and I were very sad, and you even sort of pretend-cried about it, not because you aren't sad I don't think, but because it was behavior you hadn't really seen from us before and you were trying to figure it out. Pretending is good for that. 

The other day you counted to six. Sometimes you miss "one" and you don't always seem to know that numbers your are saying might correspond to an amount, rather than an order to repeat, but it's still cute and also surprising.

We took you to see polo, and you are now obsessed with horses. Also "hops," which you still call rabbits, so into them that I decided you and I would go as matching hops for Halloween, and your dad is going to go as a giant carrot. 

The thing I admire most about you is your tenacity. When you make up your mind to do something, you get down to it and do it, You are really interested in practicing things (like throwing, or jumping, or climbing), and you do it until you figure it out. I feel like that has been your approach to toilet learning - you studied up, looked at the books, watched other kids, and then made up your mind that you were ready. We had a couple of bumps and crises of faith (mine, not yours), but now you are just.... doing it. You don't even want to wear a diaper for nap anymore, and for the most part you don't need it. 

I am trusting your innate curiosity about places and people to welcome our arrival in the city, and hoping that watching you discover and learn will override my still irrational anxiety. I don't know what I'm so anxious about. But I think your dad is too. He has applied for a job at MIT, just in case, so that if need be we can just shut down the while NYC side of our lives and hunker down in Marblehead where we are safe.

You are a little person. You hate onions and sometimes get too much food in your mouth and spit it out on the floor, which drives me bananas. You have the best smile in the world, open-mouthed with delight, or wrinkled-nosed, and I love the sound of your giggle most of all. You strike me as essentially happy. Because you wake with a big smile on your face, now I do too. What a gift you are, you bundle of love revealed.

And another thing

 Lately when you've been saying "Boob! Boob!" I will prompt you to say "please?" with both the word and the sign, and you started with signing but now you will say "Peez?" and it is pretty much the cutest thing I have ever seen in my entire life.

Update

Oh my gosh, Succotash, yesterday you didn't have a single accident. Holy guacamole. It's only been a week! And that's with both sets of grandparents here, and a hurricane (well, sort of), and also you have a raging sinus infection, poor baby, which is doing no favors for your sleep. 

I could not be more proud of how hard you are working. You are my determined little person. I am so proud and impressed with your ability to make your mind up about something and then drive yourself to do it. 

Right now I'm supposed to be writing a novel while you play at the beach with your dad and Manamana and Pop Pop (you have rechristened Manamapa and he's really taken to it), but I wanted to take time to note your success.

You can also count to three, and sometimes four.

You have also taken to saying, halfway through nursing, "other side," and then switching boobs.

Also "I helpful" when you put your blocks away.

Your pediatrician in Marblehead, who Daddy and I like to joke enjoys starting with the worst case scenario ("here's why it could be nose cancer") before working his way back to "he has a cold," asked you where your other ear was, and you said "Here" and pointed. Then he asked how many ears you had, and you said "two." He was pretty impressed.

"He's talking more," your dad informed him.

"I should say so!" said Dr. Shin. 

Changes

 It's been a rough tossing and turning couple of nights for Succotash, with lots of nursing and waking up saying "Mama!" and "Help!" and last night a couple of "noo noo!" Which make me worry that you have had bad dreams. Though in the morning all seems right with the world. Clearly a lot of language synapses are firing all at once, but then, maybe something else too.

This morning you climbed down from the bed where you were reading books with your dad while I went to the bathroom. You came over to the toilet enclosure and said "Potty. I sit." You started to sit on the floor and added "Poop."

"Would you like to sit on the toilet?" I asked. You nodded.

So we took off your jammies and your wet overnight diaper and put your potty seat on the toilet. Then we got comfortable and read "Where's the Elephant?" and asked dad to bring your favorite lift the flaps Easter book, and we spent a long time lifting flaps and saying "hop!" and "egg!" and "carrot!" 

You peed a little. Grinned, and said "pee!" We agreed this was amazing and then went back to our Easter book.

And then, lo and behold!

"Tinkle tinkle toot!" I said, which is what happens in one of your potty books, and which always made you crack up. Your whole face lit up. I told you I was proud of you, and then you reached back and flushed!

WHOA!

I sent you to school in a diaper, but with some training pants packed just in case. I'm curious how it's going at school today.

My big smart growing boy.

Also, for posterity, in case I didn't write it down yet, I will also note that the other day you were reading The Snowy Day, pointed at a traffic light, and said "Car. Stop."

I have told your Aunt J that in light of these two developments I am preparing your application materials for Stanford. 

Twenty Two Months

Almost 2! And feeling your toddler oats a bit. But last night you finished eating your dinner - with your own spoon - climbed down to look at your book, pointed at a picture of a traffic light, and said "Stop." We told you yes, that's right, and you said "Car. Stop."

Your dad has concluded you are a genius. And I think rightly so. 

I don't know how tall you are, but your uncle Eli remarks on it every time he comes over, and he comes over every week. You are well over three feet, but we won't learn how far over three feet until your 2 year old appointment.

You love "hops," which are bunny rabbits, and you have a couple of stuffed ones and also a ride-on that was sent to you by my old whinnie horse before he had to "move to a pasture." You like to put your feet on the front wheels and feel them roll along your soles. You also love to play car in the breakfast table (just like I did, and apparently just like Grandpa did). Actually you love to play car anywhere. Car! You love cars. 

You love Mr. Rogers still, and now ask to read the same Mr. Rogers book about making friends over and over and over again before you fall asleep. Last night you wanted to put your own pajama pants on, and only needed a little help. I was very proud of you. I'm also delighted that you have gotten good at saying "help" in addition to signing it. Your brain is clearly processing a lot of speech, as the past couple of nights you have actually talked in your sleep - not just "mama" but also "help" and "hop" and "sit."

We have three more weeks at Harborlight, which is staggering to me. We are rushing headlong into the future.

Yesterday we drove into Boston to see some friends in the Public Garden and you were enthralled by the tall buildings, pointing out the window, waving at the people in the street, saying "hi!" "Building!" "Tall!" You were interested in the park - "pool!" you said when you saw the duck pond - and you coveted the silly balloon hats people were selling. You and I shared some soft serve - you had chocolate, I had vanilla, and we went back and forth trading licks. Watching your wonder at a world outside of Marblehead made me feel a bit better about what lies in store when we go back to New York. I am afraid, but I find courage in seeing that you are unafraid of anything. 

My brave baby.

More words!

 "I sit," sometimes announcing that you will perch on this stool or this stair step. 

"Mama sit," patting the kitchen stool next to your tower so that I will sit by you while you have a snack.

"I tired!" Repeated last night in the shower after a long day playing at school, and then at the pool, and then riding in the launch to pick me up at Menage after a Wednesday night sailboat race. I loved seeing you both in the boat coming to get me. You were surprised to find me on a sailboat in the middle of the harbor, but only mildly.

"House"

"Tree"

"Book"

"Ah-er" (otter, for the little stuffed animal that has joined us in the big bed the past several weeks. Sometimes Otter also needs nursing, and you will hold him up to one boob while you are on the other, and it is basically the cutest thing possible.)

"Smooch!"

"Balloon"

"Walk"

"Boat"

"Iss Uth" (Miss Ruth, our neighbor)

"E-i" (Uncle Eli)

"Enny" (Jenny, Eli's girlfriend)

"Bine" (Brian, your godlessfather)

"In-gee" (Ginger, your godlessmother)

"Chas" (Charles!)

"Harp"

"Cracker"

"Goggles" (!)

"Trash"

Signs for "please" and "thank you," largely when prompted. Also putting dirty clothes in the hamper with great excitement. 

Jumping up with two feet together, and finding things to jump off of as practice for the "bi bo" (big board, the diving board at the swimming pool)

Though general term of approval is still "Guck," which we joke means "Good AF"

Rainy Day

 I am supposed to be working, Succotash, but I am so tired. Even though we both slept well last night. It was actually kind of wonderful, now that the AC actually works up there, to be almost cold and cuddle up with you under the comforter. I can still clearly conjure the sensation of your tiny baby feet pressing under this one rib on my right side, and I enjoy feeling your growing toddler feet kneading me in a similar way as you sleep. Sometimes your eyelashes flutter against my neck as you dream.

So it's time for me to turn my attention to the next book. Past time, really. And if I were good I would also turn my attention back to your baby book, which was so unceremoniously cut off when we fled the pandemic. I want to write in it about what happened, and fill back in all the milestones that I have been tracking for you on this blog. Who knows what will happen to this blog, after all, though I am hoping your father might print it up for our bookshelf as he did with Incremental Degrees. I know I'm going to devote all of September to caring for you, and shepherding our move back to the big city. I am anxious about it, though I have no idea why. I'm afraid you won't like the change, but given how beautifully you have been doing in your new toddler classroom it's entirely possible that I don't give you enough credit for being adaptable and curious about new experiences. I'm sure the anxiety is all mine. But anxious I am.

You said many new things this weekend - Gingee (Aunt Ginger), "front pocket" for your overalls, "tree." I'm starting to lose count, which is pretty exciting. "Pool," "big board." You want sailing again, and it went mostly well, with only some meltdown in the last fifteen minutes or so. You had much more fun at the pool. 

So. Why am I having so much angst about working today? I'm reading a primary source, and I'm thinking, and fretting. Perhaps I've forgotten that this is just my process. I think and fret for a long time and then there's a flurry of productivity. And I guess if the manuscript is late, then it's late. We shall see.

Mainly I feel poised on the edge of a precipice, anxious about moving forward, afraid of the sound of wind in my ears as I fall, with my arms around you trying to keep you safe.

New Sign

 I almost forgot - you have added a sign, that is a finger pointing into the palm of your hand, which means "I want to play with that." You see basketballs. Point at basketball, point into palm of hand. Another kid playing with a bike? Point at bike, point into palm of hand.

You also say "ball" a lot, and "bah ball" for basketball. 

And while you and I both had croup you discovered the pleasures of vintage episodes of Mister Rogers. You especially like the jazzy musical interludes, to which you often dance, bopping your head in rhythm. You are less interested in the industrial films, which show how blankets are made, or dolls. (I never knew what a pro-American industry bent Mister Rogers had until now.)

Birch Class

 A big weekend for you, my Succotash. We just had a four day long visit with another mother and toddler, younger than you and less verbal. For the most part it went well, but you are still learning not to shove in the chest when you want more space, or whap over the head if you want his attention. You shared all toys, your stroller, many clothes, and your parents' attention, and overall I would say you did very well, but given that you are 1 3/4 years old, "very well" still means it often was a challenging time. But they have rolled off in one piece, and this morning you ventured, with lunchbox and backpack with changes of clothes and galoshes and a blanket for nap, into your toddler classroom for the very first time.

I was very proud of you. You recognized which door to go to, and greeted your teacher, and walked in straightaway with your eyes on an activity that you wanted to do. I think I was worrying about it, because last night you slept comalike either curled into my armpit or sprawled in the bed like a sea anemone while I lay awake staring at the ceiling until around 1:30 in the morning, worrying about everything and nothing. I hit it all - your grandmother, our move back to the city in September, your aunt, the day you were born and all that happened, the book that's about to come out, our apartment, the value of our apartment, the installation of a temporary wall in our apartment, how you will adjust to our apartment, how you will sleep in our apartment, if it's even worth having a temporary wall if you're just going to sleep with us, potty training, how to join the playroom at Scandinavia house, the book I'm about to try to write, the dealie I have to fix on the boat, how full the bilge is on the boat, and on and on and on into the darkness. It had been awhile since I lay awake like that, tabulating my anxieties. I wasn't aware that I was worried about your starting a new classroom at school, but the relief I felt as you walked inside tells a different story.

You are talking more too - "school," "bear," "this is," "that is," "that truck," "I uv" (I love you), "baboo" (booboo), "waffles," "buh bo" (big board - the diving board at the pool, with which you are obsessed, and which you have jumped off once, with Daddy's help, giving me a heart attack, and which you are practicing for by finding manageable curbs and jumping off them with a look of sublime bravery and delight), "boob," "good Daddy," "Daddy! Daddy!" (shouted down the stairs if L goes down to let out Milo while we are getting dressed). You share your mother's reticence about getting out of bed in the morning. You don't like to be rushed. You want your snuggles and maybe a book and to just take it easy for a bit - the toddler version of wanting to linger over your coffee before starting your day. 

You are also taken to squatting pretty predictably and being aware when your baby bowels are moving, which makes me think potty training for real might be coming up soon. I'm hoping Montessori will do it for us. But time will tell. 

Bops

 There are two baby bunnies in our back yard, one with a tiny white spot on his forehead (Spot) and the other, smaller, without (Not Spot). I haven't seen them for a couple of days, as we had a heat wave and then the chill gray foggy weather more typical of New England in the early summer. But when they were regularly appearing as tiny handfuls of brown fur munching the clover or snack on the flowers your dad planted in our former tomato patch, you get very excited and would point at them and say "bop!" So we now are in the habit of referring to rabbits as "bops." We point to bops in your books, and to bops on your pajamas.

Your favorite books right now are a tossup between this inane Easter book from Fisher Price that I find sort of bizarre and offputting, and a series of charming realistic stories of everyday life from the Montessori toy company that I've subscribed to for you. Not every item they send is a hit (ring sorter? No thanks, says Succotash), but your love for the books and felt balls (which we now refer to as "indoor balls") is worth the price of admission. When we read the one about going to the doctor for a checkup you touch your leg where you had to get a booster shot, just like the toddler in the book.

I am writing this waiting for a call with a speech pathologist, as your school still wants us to have intervention for you, despite the fact that you have been adding a couple of words nearly every day, and I have now lost count, I think, of the words that you will say. You are also getting quite good at signing, and while there are still times when you seem frustrated at not making yourself understood, I definitely feel like we are having conversations now. You get home from school and climb into my lap for nursing and snuggles and I ask you about your day. Did you play in the gross motor room? You nod. Did you read books? Nod. Did you play with Saorise? Pause. Head shake.

My very favorite thing is your smile. You have an open-mouthed smile of delight that makes me feel like my entire body is light up with Christmas lights. A point, a smile, and "bop!"

More Words

A catalogue of current Succotash communiques: 

"Rock!"

"I did it!"

"I unno"

"Want that."

"I llll" (the part in your "Who Says I Love You" book where it's your turn to say "I love you!")

"Ummmb" (umbrella)

"Up!"

"That"

"This"

"Truck!"

"Duck!"

"Guck" (all of the above/general approbation)

"Duh duh" (dog)

"duh pp" (dog poop, which you are very good at helping us find, and very good about not picking up)

"Hi!"

"Bye!"

"Woof"

"Water"

"Tuh" (towel)

"Baaaa" (as in sheep)

"Muh" (moo, as in cow)

"Berries"

"Yes"

"Moon"

Signs:

hand on cheek = I want to sleep

hands on both cheeks = I  REALLY want to sleep

fingertips touching = more please

desultory fist = help me

clapping hands = total approval!

smacking Mama's chest insistently = nursing!

patting chair in study = nursing!

pointing at something, then putting finger in mouth = I want to eat that

waving = bye bye

increasingly insistent waving = I am ready to leave now

arm wave from elbow = I want us to sing "The Wheels on the Bus"

hands up, exaggerated shrug = beats me

shaking head = no thank you

nodding and smiling = I know that nodding means yes but I'm just playing

point over shoulder or at door = that thing we saw earlier

happy stamping feet = I helped plant the clover seeds 

angry stamping feet = I am so mad!

finger behind ear = I would like some water please

finger pointing at ear, then away = I hear something!

helping self to hem of Mama's shirt = still more nursing

Words!

 I have faith, Succotash.

This weekend you started saying "hi!" You even said it in a voicemail to Nana and Granpa.

Also this weekend, you said "baa baa baa" when we were discussing a sheep, you said "bye" to Miss Ruth, you said "Ba" when indicating a ball and also a balloon. You have said "Tuh" while pointing to a towel. And you are signing for "help" all the time when you need it, though you sometimes have to be reminded to do so.

You: ARRRRRGGGHHH!

Me: Do you need help? Help?

You: *desultorily makes sign for help*

Me: Okay. 

You consistently say "woof woof woof" when we look at or talk about dogs. You make the "more" sign when you want nursing, which is pretty much all the time. Stressed out? Nursing! Tired? Nursing. Wanting snuggles? Why not nursing? How about if you're feeling good? Nursing! Quick snack? Nursing. Thirsty? Nursing. Bored? Definitely nursing, plus book. 

Also your babbling is sounding very much more like speech. Instead of "buh buh buh" we are hearing "ish blah bither? Thuh thuh. Bla?"

You also like to point at stuff and say "this!" or "that!" Which can also be "dot," when pointing to the polka dot on the sheets. 

All of which is to say that I have faith in you. I always do.

Second Shot

 Oh my little stampy-footed baby! You are picking up a few more words and signs here and there - signing "help" is by far the best one, and you look so irritated when you have to resort to it - and you are more than three feet tall. 

I have just gotten my second vaccine shot. 

I am parked on the sofa today taking it easy, hoping I escape the side effects. I am thinking about you, and your sweet baby cheeks, and your stampy little feet, and the face you make when you are teething, with your lower lip tucked under your upper one, and your brown eyes wide. I am still nursing you, in part because you are a nursing superfan, but mainly because there now seems to be solid evidence that doing so will impart antibodies to you from my vaccination. I am going to nurse you until they have a vaccine for toddlers. With any luck that won't be too long from now.

I feel like I can glimpse the end, and a new life. 

I wonder how we will tell you about this time, when you are older. I wonder what we will say.

What I know for sure is, today, for the first time, I am beginning to feel the loosening of the grip of fear for the first time in over a year. I am so grateful that we have been able to keep you safe, and happy, and growing, even if it does mean that sometimes, when you are frustrated, you have stampy baby feet.

End of April

Most wonderful dear Succotash, it's been a busy couple of weeks. Right now your are at Montessori, where you picked a dandelion and presented it with great pride to your teacher, and also you carried your stuffed otter inside the back of your t-shirt and showed it to your babyfriend. Outside the cherry blossoms burst out pink in just the past week and are already starting to drift down into the grass like soft pink snow. On Saturday the tulips in the garden were all closed tight when we got up in the morning, but while you and your dad paid a call on Miss Ruth and I lazed in the deck chair under the cherry tree, drinking coffee and listening to the cardinals shopping for a condo in the hemlock trees, the sun kissed them open one by one while I watched. Over the years the red tulips have cross-pollinated with the few rogue yellow ones, and so now they all have deep yellow cups inside their red petals.

Your Nana and Grandpa came for a visit, which was tough, as Nana's Alzheimer's is really getting hard on her. Hard on us too, who love her. I am having trouble letting go of the fantasy I had of the relationship you might have had with her, had things been different. But things aren't different - they are as they are. She loves you, as best she can, but you will have to learn about her brilliance and humor and insight from the stories I tell you, and from her writing, and from pictures of her, rather than from herself. Over the course of the visit she forgot my father's name. She was embarrassed. It's the disease, I told her, not you. Nobody thinks it's you. I feel like she is in there, trapped behind a haze of confusion and worry and fear. She cares very much for your development, and for your schooling, and for your overall wellbeing. While here she talked a lot about her will. I think she is worried about dying, but when I asked her "Mom, are you worried about dying?" she claimed she wasn't. Always big on deflection, my family. I have your dad to thank, I think, if I am better able to confront my feelings, and better able to validate yours, than I would otherwise have been. 

While they were here you had your first stomach bug. You were restless and moving around and driving me nuts one night, so I got up to rock you back to sleep. I jostled you over my shoulder and a veritable river of vomit came out of your poor mouth, launching us into a twelve hour odyssey of not keeping down either breast milk or water, and powering through many changes of clothes and sheets for you and me. We also had our first rush to the pediatrician. They finally guessed it must have been food poisoning. The night before we had all had fresh scallops your dad made for Grandpa's birthday, and you hoovered down a ton of them. Every last one of them came back up that night. My poor baby. 

We also had you evaluated for early intervention for not talking yet, and learned you qualify for services. I discovered that I thoroughly hated having you evaluated. They were perfectly nice and professional, but I couldn't stand having strangers Zoom in and demand you perform little tasks and then pass judgement on you with only a couple of minutes of watching you and not actually knowing you at all. I was surprised, how much I hated it. Your dad is uneasy about involving the state in our family life, and upon reflection and discussion with other parents and friends we have decided to forego intervention for now and give you a little more time. The truth is, every single toddler we know, most of whom are older than you, isn't talking. No one has been a toddler in a pandemic in which everyone wears masks over half their faces before. You spend half your time at school, where you can't see anyone speak. You understand everything, you can follow multi-step directions, and you are getting good at expressing what you would like to have happen - climbing into your stroller and saying "walk!" or bringing us our shoes and hats because you want to go play outside. Right now I choose to have faith in your native intelligence, and in changes in the offing when you move up to the toddler room this summer.

Anyhoo. Those two things, plus visiting high-need grandparents, and also revisions due on mama's book meant for a somewhat stressful couple of weeks for your loving parents. But now the flowers are blooming, last night you and your dad and I had dinner on the porch at the yacht club, in a few days we will have our second vaccine shots, and the boat will go in the water. I cannot wait for a lazy summer with you, watching you grow and explore and change and maybe, start talking? Soon? 

I can't wait to hear everything that you have to say.

Easter!

 Oh Succotash how much I love you. Easter last year was a nonevent, as you were only just sitting up and we were hunkered down in a house under construction and starting to figure out that the pandemic wasn't going to end any time soon. It was pretty awful, all things considered, and that's why this year was so wonderful.

It was warm and sunny. We dyed eggs outside at the picnic table, with you and your dad wearing giant aprons. Then you were playing ball with Grandpa when you noticed something mysterious hanging on the fence. You pointed it out to us, and it turned out to be a small plush Easter basket with paper grass and a plush bunny and carrot and egg and chick, and a couple of chocolates that you didn't know what to do with and small Fisher Price piglets and bunnies to go with your farm animals. We suggested it had been brought to you by our garden rabbit, who you have been observing lately though the windows. When we told you this, you got very excited and pointed at the shrubs where we usually see her. I love the idea that you think maybe your Easter basket came from our garden rabbit.

Then we went to your new friend Edie's house. She's only a little older than you, but she can say "Chaw-wuls," which is adorable. I have a couple of great pictures of you looking grimly determined as you collect plastic eggs in your basket, and then looking askance at Edie and Ronan as they raid your basket in the playhouse of Edie's fort. 

Then we came home and got Milo to take him for a very slow, desultory walk around the block. The air was soft and salty, reminding me that I need to make arrangements for the sailboat to be launch in a month or two. 

I love the proliferation of small plastic Fisher Price animals taking over our house. They appear in singles and groups, on the kitchen counter, in the study, along the windowsill. I spy a lamb and two piglets outside on the boxwood hedge. 

We are still worried that you're not talking all that much. But over the course of the weekend, you said "light" and "lamp" and "out" and "Milo" and "Nana" and some approximation of your name. Oh! And you climb into your own stroller now, and the other day when you did so you said "Walk!" And you have said "hi," and "hi Mama." You also tipped over your standing tower and bled all over everything, and also had your first stomach virus with amounts of vomiting that were nothing short of cinematic, and which we found terrifying.

All in all, a busy end to your time as a seventeen month old person. In three short days, you are one and a half.

44

 I'm waiting by the door for you to come home from school, which has become my habit since the fall. I don't always know that I am doing it, but then I find myself skulking around there, peering out the door looking for the car.

We have a new SUV, which you think we got for you because it is a big red truck (your very favorite), but which we actually got for you so it was easier to get you in and out, and will be easier to carry grandparents and your expanding array of stuff as you get bigger and bigger and bigger. Today I am 44 years old. This day last year we were freshly hiding out in a pandemic and also you ate your very first avocado puree. The pictures of you show you smiling, covered in green goo, and then trying to share it with Milo. You are still my little baby. Now you are almost a boy, and you run and play and investigate and take things apart and continue to stubbornly refuse to speak only in zombie grunts even though we can tell that you understand virtually everything that is said to you. I have to watch myself and try to stop swearing so much. Mama cusses like a sailor, Succotash.

My parents arrive next week, and they will be seeing you for the first time since we left Texas last March, and fled straight into pandemic. There's a scene in the 1993 film Jurassic Park - a classic now - in which a girl and her brother are in an SUV that's attacked by a Tyrannasaurus, and their car gets flung into a tree, and then they have to escape the SUV and it starts to fall down the tree after them, and they have to climb quickly and with focus down the tree to escape, and it's just one thing after another after another and when the girl finally gets out of the tree and is safe on the ground she throws her head back and screams at the top of her lungs. I remarked to your dad that I suspect I will do something similar, when I get the vaccine finally, whenever that should be, after coping with my head down and keeping you safe and growing and cared for and doing my job after this year is over.

Basketball

 Whose kid even are you? A couple of weeks ago we were at the playground in Salem Common and you spent an inordinate amount of time watching some dude shoot hoops. I didn't think that much of it at the time.

Then last week at school your teachers reported that you found a baby-sized basketball in the gross motor room and spent the morning tossing it through some rings that hang from the ceiling. And you loved the basketball so much that you took it back to your mat to nap with it.

They sent a picture as proof.

When we told this story to Manamana and Grandpa Greg, they got so excited that they overnighted you a Little Tikes plastic basketball hoop and ball set - precisely the sort of object I pledged never to own - which is at the moment erected in the study where I can see it from my desk. YOU LOVE IT. We have raised the net just enough that you can tip the ball into it from your baby hands, and you spent the weekend practicing throwing the ball up to reach it. You've gotten pretty close too. You harangue any adult within finger-grabbing distance to throw the ball in the hoop for you to watch. And then, this weekend, your dad and you and I were playing with it in the kitchen and you made like you were going to pass me the ball but then you didn't. You actually faked me out, Succotash. You're not even one and a half. This is troubling on so many levels.

Today you brought your home basketball to school to show everyone. Grandpa Greg has it all worked out that you will play point guard for Harvard for all four years and then decide not to go pro but instead to do graduate work in Roman architectural history before going on to med school. So. No pressure. 

Your father and I are now wondering if this is going to be a passing mania that is over in two weeks, or if it is a harbinger of years of sitting in bleachers. I guess time will tell. 

Seventeen Months and one day

 Have I written about your obsession with umbrellas yet? We have a cabinet in the dining room, a built in meant to hold dishes, and we have ceded the lower portion of it to you for your entertainment during mealtimes. In this cabinet we keep a few board books, a stuffed wooly mammoth that I got on a trip to Spain like six years ago, some bells, several rolled up placemats, and, crucially, like six different folding umbrellas.

You love umbrellas.

I think you love how they change shape, and you love the different bright colors. You love to hide underneath them, or behind them, or sit in them like they're a boat, or make a sort of barricade out of three or four of them. You like to open the blue one, and then the plaid one, and then the one with smiley faces that we don't know where it came from, and have me hold one and your dad hold another while you hide under a third. Your favorite item to cuddle while riding in the car is the hot pink one with the duck-head shaped handle. You have gnawed off some of the paint off the duck bill, which is probably not great for you, but hopefully it won't have any lasting effects. I have seen you drift off to sleep in your car seat, one baby hand resting lovingly on the duck umbrella.

You still aren't in your language explosion yet, but I feel like it must be coming any day now. 

Right now you are at school, and I am missing you. 

And that is where things stand, one month before you turn one and a half.

Child Labor

Your very new most favorite activity is washing the dishes. Well, sort of. It's standing on your new toddler kitchen helper tower thing at the kitchen sink and playing with the water, filling cups, pouring cups out, filling salad bowls, dumping salad bowls down yourself, and then eating dinner in wet sweatpants and no shirt.

That's not fair - you are actually getting quite good at keeping the water in the sink while you play. But given that we are still on a two showers a day schedule - instituted when your poor baby nose had chronic sinusitis and the steam was the only thing that would really help - and all you do in the shower is play with water and the sprayer and cups of various sizes and with different holes in them - your dad and I are very amused that you can't get enough sink time. As a corollary to this newfound enthusiasm you have also been introduced to mopping. You are a fan. It's no vacuuming, but it's close. 

This morning as we readied for Montessori you lobbied to play in the sink, but instead settled for watching me make you a cream cheese and mango-peach jelly sandwich while toying with a measuring spoon. I told you you could take your measuring spoon to school to show everyone if you wanted to. You were very stoked at this, keeping tight hold of it as I pulled on your sweatshirt and socks and sneakers, and when we put on your coat as I bundled you out of the car. When we got to your classroom you held up your measuring spoon in triumph, and Miss Paula asked if you wanted to go show it to Miss Kerrie. You dashed into the room, going UH UH UH and brandishing your measuring spoon, eager to share your discovery with everyone.

Still not a lot of talking, but I have lost count of all the words you can understand and identify in pictures. You've got all the words in the "101 first words" book your grandmother sent, and then a whole bunch more besides. You are usually able to make yourself understood with gestures and points and grunts and sign language. When we read the word "mittens" in Goodnight Moon you sweetly touch the tips of your index fingers together and then look at me to see if I saw. 

I did.

Iono

 We are halfway through our second week of deep winter and no Montessori. Upstairs I can hear you objecting to having your diaper changed, for even though we have begun discussions of what potties are, and have a few books about it, potty training is still a largely hypothetical concept for a boy not quite one and a half years old. As you yodel your objections I want to note something funny that happened yesterday on the back stairs.

We were getting our coats on and getting ready to do something, or go somewhere, or something, and you were a couple of steps up on the deliciously forbidden back stairs of desire, lounging with the smugness only a toddler who has pushed a boundary can express. You had two peanuts in your hand. You threw them in the air and one when skittering behind a box on the landing by the back door.

"Oh no!" I cried. "Where did you peanut go?"

You turned your palms upward in an exaggerated shrug and said "Iuuuhno."

I laughed out loud.

"Did he just say "I don't know?"" asked your father, who was standing by the coats getting his warm stuff on.

"Did you just say "I don't know?" I asked you.

You smiled, did your theatrical shrug again, and again said "Iuuuhno."

Your dad picked you up and said "Are you just going straight to complete sentences and skipping words?"

You giggled, obviously pleased with yourself. 

"He can say that, but he won't say 'up?'" I remarked.

Later, at dinner, as you slowly fed yourself pieces of cut up portobello mushroom and sundried tomato pizza with a side of shelled edamame, much of which you moved piece by piece into your water cup (another new phase, which we idly wonder if it might be evolutionary, given the abrupt appearance and singular focus you bring to the enterprise), we laughed over the fact that your first sentence, rather than being "I love you," is "I don't know."

Also, you've finally dropped the morning nap and are sleeping sometimes as late as six thirty in the morning. It's a whole new world. 

A Snowstorm is Coming

 And this morning when I dropped you at Montessori your friend Saoirse was so excited to see you she jogged over, baby ponytail on top her her head trembling with excitement, and waited for me to undo the baby gate to let you in. When the gate was gone she reached out her hand for you. You took momentary shelter in my shoulder while I peeled off your winter coat, but then you tentatively reached your own hand out, and took hers.

I love you so much I sometimes feel like I'm going to explode.

Also I time our getting ready in the morning to the progression of the Duke Ellington playlist on Spotify. By the time we got to "Take the A Train" we need to have our play clothes on and be almost ready to go downstairs and make your lunch. I've started singing "So, we'll take the A train, it's the quickest way to get to Harborlight! So, let's take the A train! It's the quickest way to get to school! If you take the A train, you'll go play with all your friends. So, we take the A train! It's the way we get to school!"

Snowy Day

 This morning we sat together looking out the third floor window at the freshly fallen snow over Stacey Street. We like to look out the window in the morning and name the things we see.

"Uck!" You said, pointing with excitement at a white pickup truck with a snowplow attached and some fetching flashing lights on the roof. "Uck" means both "truck" and "duck" at the moment, so I said "That's right Succotash! It's a white truck. Look at the snow plow. It's moving the snow." You were nothing short of rapt.

The other day for the first time you were old enough, and Milo felt young enough, for you to play together. You tossed a fuzzy bedroom slipper for him and he gamboled after it, playing in a way he hasn't been up for in a long time. You were delighted, and squealed and flapped your arms in excitement, and threw the slipper again. Then when I said "Milo says woof woof," you said "woof" and smiled. 

You have also said something like "umreah" while playing with one of your umbrellas. Umbrellas are your favorite. You use a large black one that I got at the Guggenheim gift shop one suddenly rainy day in Manhattan years ago as a pretend vacuum cleaner, sweeping its tip over the floor with singular dedication and focus. You also like the rainbow one your father got you for Christmas, with your name embroidered on it. But your very favorite is the hot pink one mini one with the duck head handle that we keep in the car. "Uck," you say when I slip it onto your lap. You pet the duck head as you drift off to sleep on our drive to Beverly for you to go to Montessori. I rather love that your snuggle transitional object is a hot pink duck umbrella. You love the duck face, and you love the bright color when we occasionally have to open it over your head. You throw your head back and smile up into the bright pinkness with delight. 

You know lots of words that you can't say yet, like parts of your body (feet, arms, tummy, head), items of clothing (shirt, hat, pants, socks, shoes), colors too I think. You know the names of all your teachers and classmates in Willow room. You say "Baa" when we play with little toy sheep, and you've tried to say "moo," but you know which toy is a cow and which is a pig and which is a sheep and which is a horse. I mean, I know everyone learns these things, but it still astonishes me. When we were reading a book I pointed at one part of the page and said "there's the mama," and you pointed at me. Then I said "there's the daddy," and you pointed to your dad. And then I said "And this is the baby. Who is the baby?" and you pointed at yourself. Mindblown. You have a concept of yourself. You have a self. 

And that is where things stand, at not quite 16 months. 

New Day

 You are at school after growing a new molar and powering through your second cold, and where you reportedly know all the other children's names and all the teachers' names too. You have started identifying other mamas and daddies and babies in your books, and other dogs like your dog, and you know which are the chickens and the cows and the horses and pigs for your play farm, and you have discovered that letters actually stand for something, and we think maybe you have put together that your name has something to do with the letter C.

And while you were at school, Biden and Harris were sworn in, and the long national nightmare might... maybe.... be over.

Your father and I still feel tense and afraid. I hope you haven't noticed. All I want in the world is for you to feel safe.

For you to be safe.

All I want in the world.

Reminder

 You will get home in about ten minutes, and I just thought I would remind you that you fill my heart with light and joy and just thinking about you makes me smile. Sometimes I want the whole world to go away so that I can bask in you. I miss your baby cheeks and your kicky feet and even though you got me up before 5 this morning (why, Succotash, why?), I cannot wait to see and hold you again.

Only ten more minutes.

Do all mothers secretly feel this way? Or only ones as old and desperate as I was? No matter. Soon I get to see my baby, who is a toddler now, and that is all I need.

Coup

 Yesterday, the control of the Senate flipped to the Democrats, you said the word "bath" and pretended to give your stuffed sloth nose drops, and right-wing extremists invaded the Capitol building in Washington and tried to stage a coup. Well, sort of. Mostly they just wrecked stuff and took selfies and scared lawmakers and were too stupid to actually have a plan. They didn't even hack the House speaker's computer while sitting at her desk. Morons. Fortunately the work of certifying the electors continued into the night, as you slept for three hours all by yourself on your own mattress before deciding at ten that you would rather sleep with me after all. 

You made little shouts to indicate this preference. But you weren't upset, I don't think. I think it was baby for "HEY. MOM? ARE YOU IN HERE?" [pause.] "MAMA?" [pause] "I'M AWAKE AND YOU CAN SNUGGLE ME IF YOU WANT." 

The reason I think this is because I tried to wait a bit before going to you - it's hard, Succotash - and when I finally climbed down next to you I could swear you giggled like you had just gotten away with something. 

Anyway. Democracy remains in effect, only two more weeks before the worst president in American history is finally booted out of the building, and you are picking up words left and right. And you are very brave, practicing sleeping in your own bed. 

I am proud of you, my favorite baby. And so glad you are unaware of the wider world this year.