Dogs

Ever since he was a year old, Thumper has loved dogs. He makes a beeline for every dog he sees, yelling, "Can I pet that dog?" at the owners. At the playground on Sunday, he convinced the owners of an ancient, wheezy pug named Maya to let him hold the leash. She agreeably limped around the playground with him. He had a conversation with a mom on the other side in which he gave her the impression it was his dog, telling her what the dog's name was, how old she was, and that she pants like that because she's old. I have known for a long time the inevitability of the question, "Can I have a dog?"

This morning, we had the following conversation:

"What kind of bug is that?"

"Some people call them roly-polies. Some people call them doodle bugs. I think some people call them potato bugs, too, but I could be wrong about that one. When I was a kid, we called them roly-polies. They're called that because they roll up into a ball when you touch them."

"What's a poly?"

"Nothing. I think it's just because it rhymes with roly."

"Yeah, it does rhyme. I hope it's not slimy."

"It's not."

"I don't want to have a snail for a pet."

"Yeah, I think a snail would be a boring pet."

"I would like to have a dog for a pet. I like my two cats a lot, but I like dogs, too."

"I know you do. Dogs are lot of work, though."

"Why?"

"Because they don't use a litter box inside like cats do. They go to the bathroom outside, but you still have to clean it up."

"I am definitely not cleaning it up."

"They poop on the ground, and you don't want someone to step in it, so you have to pick it up."

"Well, maybe I'll just have two cats, then."

I am amazed that the question was resolved so easily. I bet it comes back up again some day, though.

Huzzah! Also, Boo!

It wasn't as tough at the gym today as it was on Monday, and I was able to run continuously for a complete 5K. After Monday, I wasn't expecting to be able to do that for another couple of weeks, so that's exciting. I ran mostly on a flat incline, but I finished with a short sprint and felt good afterward. Also, I weighed in 2 pounds lighter than Monday, and despite what I said yesterday, I did not drink anything last night except water. I know it's only the middle of my third day, but so far I'm meeting all of my goals and exceeding my expectations.

Good enough.

Also, Jungle Java, our favorite indoor playground closed a couple of months ago. Thumper finally asked me today, "Can we go to the jungle place with the pretend animals on the walls?" When I told him it was closed down for good, he had a hard time understanding the concept.

"But we can go later."

"No, it's closed for always."

"But we can go to a different Jungle Java."

No, there aren't any other ones. That the was the only one."

I tried and tried to explain it, until at last he said, "I think Jungle Java is in jail."

Good enough.

Why I Have a Stop Sign in My Car

"I was a little mad because you took the water away."

"Yeah, I was a little mad, too, because you kept spitting the water out."

"Yeah."

"I keep telling you not to spit the water out, but you keep doing it. Do you have any ideas on how I can get you to stop?"

"Yeah. You should have a stop sign in the car. Then you could show it and say, 'Stop!' when I spit the water out."

"And then you'd stop?"

"Yeah."

"That's a good idea. Should we make a stop sign when we get home?"

"Yeah."

"OK."

Stuff and Things

Wow, it's been a month since I posted, and I left a vague reference to a curse word up as my lead title all this time. For shame.

Things are tough over here, but not absolutely horrible. I've not been to the gym, until today, for nearly a month. I've also been eating crap and drinking excessively. Coincidentally, I've gained 10 pounds. Yay!

Speaking of going to the gym today, it was almost an hour and a half excursion. I began to feel like Odysseus attempting to return home. The surprising rainfall amounts from (I think; I'm too lazy to look it up and confirm) Tropical Storm Hermine as she moved up from the Gulf of Mexico and across Central Texas flooded several roads, leaving our local YMCA completely inaccessible. We approached from one direction; the road was blocked. We took the long way 'round to approach it from the other direction; the road was blocked. So we chucked it in and went to the other not-so-local Y. I hope the building didn't get flooded; the boy starts a gymnastics class there next week.

A month off, and by the way, I could barely run for 10 minutes, let alone a full hour. I best get my act together if I'm going to run in Warrior Dash in November.

So yeah, I'm a fat lazy bastard. I'm way behind on a copywriting project. Like waaaayyyyyy behind. My wife is working most of the time and still under coal-to-diamond pressure to solve unsolvable problems for her family, with the people she's trying to help not always being so nice to her. I'm hosting play dates here tomorrow and Friday, and I haven't finished cleaning my house.

Hmm. What else? Oh yeah, I got peed on by one cat shoving him into a cat carrier this morning and scratched by the other. One has a chronic UTI problem that's getting beyond old and more than expensive. The other is apparently allergic to his own teeth and has a rare viral infection that gives him the permanent runs. I spent $375 to maybe, or maybe not, find solutions to these problems. I think I'll do the Happy Happy Joy Joy dance.

Oh yeah, and then, what with my wife working 14-hour days and burning out her brain cells and feeling guilty about it, and then burning out her brain cells again the next day and feeling guilty about it, we decided to just go ahead and close the door on the second child thing and cut out the stress of the whole "Now? Later? How much later, 'cause we ain't getting younger? Can we afford it? How much bodily damage will a second pregnancy do?" conundrum. Hasn't seemed to reduce the stress much, but it has managed to make me pretty sad. Maybe adoption? Probably not. Doesn't feel like the right thing to me. But little babies sure is cute...

And so then bitching about it makes me feel like I should say: I know we're blessed. The boy is a marvel, a wonder, a joy. He held court at the vet's office today, cracking up staff and customers alike. But also: even that, I mean, Lord, he just. Never. Stops. Talking. I can't think straight talking to the vet about this med for that cat, and that med for that cat, and how often and how much because he's chattering non-stop and asking questions peppered with "Why?" every 10 or so words and climbing on the stool when I told him not to because he'll tip it over and hurt himself and then he almost tips it over and I can just see the chipped teeth and split chin and I snap at him and the vet looks all uncomfortable and I'm feeling guilty again.

Wait, what was I saying? Oh yeah. Blessed. Wonderful. Lucky. And we are. But man. So much for not complaining.

Yes, We Read the Grinch, Too, Even Though It's June

This week, in addition to trying to control my calorie intake and workout every day and just generally try to be a better person, I'm trying to remember that despite the ear infections and Terrible Twos and tantrums and the retorts of "no, I'm just tryin' to do this" when I tell him to stop doing something and the several thousand times a day that I say, "Come on. Come on. Come on. Come on." and the throwing of toys and the bashing of various household objects with his officially licensed Texas Longhorns baseball bat, that doing this job really is fun and exactly what I wanted for my life.

Wow, that was a really long sentence.

Tonight, as I was reading him his bedtime books, I thought about what a strange and wonderful experience it is watching him turn into a real person. Anyone who sees my Facebook status updates knows I talk about him a lot, and post ad nauseum all the funny things he says and does as we go about our daily routine. He gets a lot of attention wherever we go. Just as a fer instance, we went jogging Saturday morning, and as we passed the tennis courts, he pointed and yelled, "I want to watch tennis!" So we paused and sat on the little bleachers with a couple of moms who were watching their kids receive tennis lessons. He had an entire conversation with one of the moms, completely independent of me, asking her name, pointing out what a funny name "Dixie" is, telling her his name and age, discussing the hummingbird on her shirt and what exactly a hummingbird is, telling her about his recent haircut and the birthday party he'd be going to later. She told him he didn't get a hair cut, he got 'em all cut, then snorted out a laugh and apologetically told me her humor was about at a two-year-old level. He told her Daddy cut his hair, and she said she bet I'd done it with clippers rather than scissors because that was a lot of ground to cover over his big ol' brain.

When the tennis lesson was over, and Thumper ran out onto the court to help the kids pick up balls and rackets, The mom asked me if he was really two, which we get a lot. She repeatedly marveled at how smart he was and how well he spoke, which we also get a lot. As often as I report encounters like this, and how often I'm reminded of how special he is and how lucky we are, it's still easy to forget and get bogged down in the challenges, the less pleasant aspects of taking care of him day after day.

So that's what I was thinking about while I read him his books. Because I've read all of those books so many times, I began changing We're Going on a Bear Hunt up a bit to amuse myself. I sang the first two sentences; he turned and gave me the Upraised Finger of Discipline, that I apparently use on him, though I'm not aware when I do it, and said, calmly, "No, you don't sing it. You just read it." I began reading from where I left off, and he said, "No, you missed some words." So I started over. Then I began changing some of the words. I turned the thick, oozy mud into thin, squeaky mud. I turned the whirling, swirling snowstorm into stinking, creeping smog cloud. At each point that I wandered from the printed text, he patiently brought me back, explaining that it wasn't woods, it was a forest, it wasn't a squeaky, wooden door, it was a narrow, gloomy cave.

And my heart grew three sizes that day, swelling with love for this remarkable, adorable, maddening kid who knows much more than he should, and who is, after all, only two, and is exactly where he should be, doing what he should be doing, just as I am.

The Conversationalist

"Hey, what are you eating?"

"A piece of gum."

"Why?"

"It makes my breath smell fresh."

"Daddy, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"It smells like mint, so when I chew it, it makes my mouth and my breath smell like mint."

"Daddy, I have no idea what you're talking about."

We Never Had a Chance

"Katie Wilso gives hugs and kisses to everyone."

That's what we had to work with. He told us that after we picked him up from Kids' Night Out at the Y last night. We tried to figure it out.

"Is Katie Wilson one of the Y ladies? Did she give everyone hugs and kisses?"

"No. Katie Wilso. Those are from Mungo's words."

We tried and tried. We asked him lots of questions. We had no idea what he was talking about.

Turns out, Mungo's been teaching the boy Gaelic phrases. Apparently, something like "Kay hee wilto" means "give me a kiss" in Gaelic. No wonder we couldn't figure it out.

What Was the Score, Anyway?

It's late on a Saturday night/Sunday morning, and I'm blogging again to stay awake for a bit in the hopes that maybe I won't dream about work all night. Here are some random thoughts presented in a disjointed and aesthetically displeasing manner:

Farewell to another season of football ushering. It was a good time. It occurs to me that while it's true that supervising new employees each week who've never worked a game presents challenges, supervising returning employees who've grown comfortable with their position and their supervisor presents challenges of its own. I love working football, but I can't say I'm sad to see the last home game of the season come and go.

Maybe next season I'll write notes so I won't forget to tell them things during briefing.

The French professor who forced Aerie and me to like each other died suddenly. Three years ago. I've thought of him periodically in the years since we lost contact, and I Googled him now and again. It turns out he died more than a year before I wrote this, in which I should have featured him more prominently. He had a laugh that could send birds fluttering madly from the trees and make strangers many yards away jump in alarm. He, like the incomparable suttonhoo, lived life in a way that I admire, with art and books and food and travel as his meat and his bread. He was a joy to spend an evening with, and the world is not a better place with him gone. Bonne nuit, Monsieur le Docteur.

Well crap, now I'm feeling sort of morose again, as I was last night when I heard about the good professor. Uh, hmmm, a cute toddler anecdote... OK, here are some thoughts on the toddler:

I don't know where he learned it, but he likes to clasp his hands together next to his cheek and declare, "I'm the cutest boy."

Cooking has become one of his favorite pastimes. "We can cook," he says. "If we want to. Come on! Sit on the carpet?" He says that a lot: "Come on!" And I realize that I say it a lot to him. His has more enthusiasm, though, and mine has more exasperation. So I sit on the carpet, and he cooks for me. He makes meatballs of the many marbles, golf balls, etc. in his toy collection, or cracks plastic eggs left over from his Easter basket. We make "vegeble beef soup" and cakes and cookies of all sorts. Strings become noodles. "I'm a good cooker," he tells me, and he is. "I'm Iron Chefing."

If the language he uses reflects the language we use, I think we can be happy with our efforts. While I'm not so proud of the "dammits" he throws around, I think Aerie and I can be proud that he often uses "please" and "thank you" unprompted, that when I drum or play the piano or the harmonica or the "phylozone" with him, he tells me "That's a great song, Daddy! Good job!"

Well, anyway. That's enough of that. As I've mentioned, he's brilliant. He's beautiful. I love him. Yadda yadda yadda.

OK, I'm in a better mood now, and I think I can go to bed.

Gorillas Touching Socks

So I've kind of fallen off the Weight Watchers dietary wagon lately, but I'm still working out, so that's good. In fact, I jogged outside today for the first time in a long time. The boy's got a bit of a snotty cold that I didn't think the gym child care ladies would appreciate, so we jogged the four-mile neighborhood circuit this morning instead. Apparently all the working out on the treadmill is getting results; the last time I ran the circuit, I was walking three and jogging seven out of every ten minutes. Today I jogged the whole thing without stopping, and knocked six minutes off my best time. Maybe I should start thinking about finding a 5K or (gasp!) a 10K to start training for.

And when I was dressing the boy to go out on our jog, as I pulled his socks on, he said to me, "There's no gorillas touching my socks." Not sure that I heard him correctly, I asked, "No gorillas touching your socks?" "Nope," he said. "Not today."

Yes, It's Barney. Shut Up.

Rodius (singing): "Looky, looky, it's a cookie, cookie! Cookies are wonderful things!"

Thumper: "Fun!"

R: "What?"

T: "Wonderful fun!"

R: "Oh, is that how it goes?" (singing) "Cookies are wonderful fun!"

T: "Daddy no sing..."

I Don't Yell at Him in Front of Her

My mother had many kind things to say. It's fun to be the object of lavish praise!

The Proof Is in the Pedal

He really can pedal a trike. And no, I'm not sure what he's talking about. The exact transcript is, "Where's Daddy...? No, I won't... But it's closed. It's closed. See the man, either. The man, either. The man and the truck. How did that happen? Where's the truck and the man?" I think he's pondering where the neighbor across the street is. When last we were out, yesterday evening, he was outside examining his truck after getting hail damage repaired. And today, he wasn't there, and his garage was closed. That's my best guess.

Climbing Songs for 20-Month-Olds

The Alphabet Song (Abbreviated)



Baa Baa Black Sheep



The Alphabet Song

For Grandma

So, this tiny, little spider climbed up a water spout. Then what happened?

Tales From the Playground: Welcome to the Real World, Kid

It was a rough afternoon of difficult life lessons for young Thumper today. We went to Jungle Java later than we usually do. School was out, and the joint was chock full of kids. Older kids. He climbed up into the big playscape, but immediately looked like he regretted the decision. One boy sprinted past him, giving him a push that was almost subtle enough to go undetected. Almost.

Thumper lost his balance, jumped up, looked right at the kid, and said, "Soddy! Soddy!" Now, I say "I'm sorry" to the boy if I accidentally bump into him or step on his toes. I make him say "I'm sorry" when he gets a little too rambunctious during play and clubs me in the face with a toy. We say we're sorry. This boy that pushed him down, though, looked right at Thumper and didn't say "sorry." He didn't say anything at all. So Thumper turned, looked at me, and burst into tears.

Back on solid ground, Thumper picked up a toy from the toddler area. Eventually he dropped it in order to concentrate more fully on flirting with a pair of moms. A little girl, about his age, picked it up and brought it over to him. When she held it out, he took it and, filling his daddy with pride, said, "Tank you, baby!" A few minutes later, he carried it back over to her. He held it out. She took it. And she walked away. He turned and looked at me, not bursting into tears this time, but clearly thinking, "Well, why do I have to say it, then?"

Regaining his courage, he climbed back up, once more into the breach, as they say. Jungle Java is big on hanging, padded cylinders. They swing. You run through them like you're running football drills, I guess. Thumper came around a corner just as another boy was using one of the cylinders to pretend he was a champion kick boxer. He smashed the bottom of the cylinder into Thumper's face. Down he went. Up he jumped, yelling, "Soddy! Soddy!" And again, no "sorry" was forthcoming. And again, Thumper burst into tears. It wasn't so much the injury as it was the injustice.

Then, to cap off the afternoon, he spun and spun in circles, got dizzy, fell over, and bashed his cheek into a chair leg. That's going to leave a mark.

And so the lesson of the day was: Mama and Daddy make you say "please" and "thank you" and "I'm sorry." And in return you get squat. Welcome to the real world, little man.

ALMOST

I just don't think I can gamble on this. Before we got married, I told I, Rodius we were NOT going to talk about having children for at least 5 years. And we didn't. Then five + more years passed (with some discussion) before we decided to see what our combined DNA would produce. And he's just amazing. Perfect. Okay, so the doctor today says tight Achilles tendons may be the reason he walks on his toes half the time and he may need PT, but he's still just utterly mind-blowing.

Last week sometime, Thumper wanted Mama to wear his bike helmet. He likes to get others to put things on their heads. Almost anything can be a HAT. The helmet has straps with buckles and Thumper is very aware of the importance of BUCKOS (seat belt, high chair belt, etc.), though his PENGOS (fingers in this case, but also penguins) struggle to make the buckles work. So, we were practicing. I'd encourage the boy to keep trying, telling him he almost had it while trying hard not to help him too much. Yay! Good job! when he lined the two pieces up. And we'd start all over again. ALMOST, ALMOST, he'd say, squinting and focusing on getting those two floppy pieces to fit together.

Saturday, I made some vegetable rice. Rice is on Thumper's Top 10 List Of Things I Won't Refuse For Lunch. But, it's a really messy food to hand to an 18 month old. Regardless, rather than taking the clean route and feeding it to him, I put it in a bowl and handed the boy a spoon. He took the spoon and began chasing the rice around the bowl, telling himself ALMOST, ALMOST until he got a few grains onto the spoon and into his mouth. How the @#$%^ does he do that? How does he make these connections so quickly? Maybe this is old hat to you Two-And-Three-Or-More-Kid parents, but I'm just blown away. He gets the concept of almost....

Back on to that schedule of acceptable conversations, though. I, Rodius and I decided not to discuss a second mini-me until the first was at least a year or so old. Biological clock ticking and all that crap, the longer we wait, the more chance of complications or issues. My 36 year old ovaries aren't getting any younger. But I, Rodius had the boy saying SISTER to me tonight...

Life is ALMOST perfect. I shouldn't gamble. I'm really not that lucky and history dictates that the proud often fall. I'm shamelessly proud of our perfect little boy and terrified of losing that. I don't deserve what I have now....what happens if I ask for more?

A Winter Wonderland

When I woke this morning, there were these strange growths depending from the bird feeder. They look familiar; I feel like I should know what they are, but they are such a strange sight 'round about these parts.




And even though Armageddon has apparently come to the region, and the roads are a certain death trap, young Thumper correctly answers the question, "Where's Mama?"

I Don't Think He Can Pronounce Hussein, Though

I seriously did not teach him this. To the best of my knowledge, Aerie did not teach him this.

The boy says, "Ooooooooooh, Bama!" He's been saying it for months, since before the election. Sometimes he'll repeat it if we've been talking about Obama, but often he says it without context, with no Obama references in conversation or on TV. Out of nowhere, he just says, "Ooooooooooh, Bama!"

Mungo has convinced herself that she taught him to say, "Oh, bummer!" in her heavy South Boston accent. She tells people the story of us being in the car, and her saying, "Oh, bummer!" about some such or other, and him repeating it. But I was in the car. And I remember quite clearly telling her that he'd been saying "Obama," and that I wasn't sure where he picked it up. Probably from the TV (pronounced "TB" in Thumperish). And she said, "It sounds like he's saying 'Oh, bummer!'"

But it ain't "Oh, bummer." It's "Obama." I've never made a big deal about it with him. I've never pointed out Obama on TV and made him say it. As far as I knew, it was just a word he picked out of the ether without having any clue what that word signified.

Until today.

While we were waiting for our car to be serviced, he was getting restless. We played in the playroom, and he was bored with that. We'd wandered around and flirted with the staff, and he was bored with that. He was busying himself climbing into and out of and into again one of the waiting room chairs. I handed him a special inauguration insert from the local paper. I pointed to the picture on the front and asked him, "Who's that?"

"Obama!"

I'm telling you, that boy's a genius.

And that's all I have to say about the inauguration. I could say that I recorded Obama's speech, thinking that I'd show it to Thumper some day. What day, I don't know. But someday. I could talk about getting chills. And getting choked up. And wanting to think this was a new beginning, a new day. But I can't say it right. And it's all been said already. And I don't want to talk about the doubt that comes right behind the hope. So instead, I'll just say it like the boy does:

Obama!

Fetch. Also, Noisy.

I tried to teach the boy a scaled-down version of catch this afternoon. I rolled him the ball. "Roll the ball!" I said. When it gently nudged his foot, I said, "OK, now roll me the ball! Roll it! Roll me the ball!" while making various gestures indicating motion in my general direction. He looked at me. He looked at the ball. He looked at me. "Roll me the ball!" I encouraged.

"Ball?" he asked?

"Yes, ball. Roll me the ball!"

"Danku!" he said, picking up the ball and carrying it over to me.

"Thank you!" I said. "OK, I'll roll you the ball!" And so forth, and so on. I affected my most enthusiastic tone. I rolled. I encouraged rolling. When he accidentally dropped it, I praised him shamelessly. "Yay! Good roll!" To no avail. My first game of catch was really a game of fetch.

"Danku!"





I vacuumed today. The boy lost his mind. I guess that's testament to how rarely I vacuum. I think the last time I did so, his grandmother (affectionately referred to by the boy as "Mungo") was here, and she took him for a walk outside while I cleaned. That may have been as much as 6 weeks ago. It's amazing how much stuff he finds to eat on the carpet.

So I vacuumed. He freaked out. I only did one room. I stopped frequently to reassure him. "It's OK. It won't hurt you. It's OK. It's just noisy. It's not going to hurt you." And then I vacuumed again.

By the time I finished the one room, he was sobbing. And shaking. Seriously. Visibly trembling. I reassured him again. And for some reason, of all the words I used, he latched on to "noisy."

"Nosy?"

"Yes, it was just noisy. It's not going to hurt you. And it's all done."

"All done?"

"Yes, all done."

Etc., etc. So for the rest of the day, he's periodically looked toward the closet where the vacuum is stored. "Nosy? All done?" He said it for Aerie when she got home, too, and it seemed apparent that "Nosy?" is about the cutest damn word he's ever squeaked out. I think I'll torment him again tomorrow with another room. I'll tell myself I want to desensitize him to the vacuum so that it doesn't traumatize him so much, but really, I just want to talk about the Nosy some more.

All done!

Synchronicity

Thumper used to know trucks. Cars and trucks. We see them on our jogs all the time, and "Carsh!" he says. "Tuck!" he says. Then I took him to the UT campus, where there are buses, buses everywhere. "Tuck!" he said. "Bus!" I said. "Tuck!" he said. "Bus!" I said.

And now there are no more trucks. A pickup goes by. "Bus!" he says. "Truck!" I say. A delivery van goes by. "Bus!" he says. "Truck!" I say. An 18-wheeler roars past. "Bus!" he says. "Truck!" I say.

But today, we went to the Austin Children's Museum. They have a whole new exhibit on transportation that features the back half and engine of a Cap Metro bus. "Bus!" he said, spinning in circles and pointing frantically. "Bus!" "Yes," I said. "Bus!" He ran up to perfect strangers, kids and adults and anyone he could find. "Bus!" he said, pointing and pointing. "Yes," I said. "Bus!"

And when he'd worn himself out, I carried him back to the car. Just as I was unlocking the door and dropping the diaper bag in, a Cap Metro bus rumbled towards us. "Look, Thumper," I said, pointing. "What's that?"

He looked at the bus. We looked at each other. A beat went by, and we both smiled. It was a good joke. "Bus," we said together. "Bus." And then we laughed.