Is That a Loophole I See Before Me?

It seems to me that as soon as a child is old enough to understand the concept of rules, he also discovers the concept of loopholes. Who of us has never played the old trick of waving your arms within millimeters of a sibling’s face while announcing, “I’m not touching you!!!” Or responded to a mother’s command to “Stop punching your brother!” by kicking him instead? I have vivid recollections of my mother warning me as she tucked me in bed, at the age of 3 or so, that I was not to put my feet on the floor until she came to get me in the morning, and then as soon as she left the room, jumping around from bed to desk to toy shelf to lamp to rocking horse for an hour – all without touching my feet to the floor. And of course, when she came back to check out the source of the thuds, I protested innocently that my feet had never touched the floor, just as she said. We discover very young that as long as we obey the letter of the law, we can often disregard the spirit of the law with impunity.

I had assumed that the discovery of loopholes would not happen until the child reached a certain age and developed some degree of vocabulary. However, my son, at the ripe old age of 15 months and with a vocabulary that consists entirely of the words “up” and “bye-bye”, proved to me yesterday that he knows exactly what a loophole is, and he’s not afraid to use it.

His playroom in our basement is basically a large open room on one side of a staircase, with a hallway on the opposite side of the stairs off of which are doors to a closet, a bathroom, a study, and a laundry room. The laundry room door doesn’t latch properly, so although he has yet to master the art of turning a doorknob, he knows he can open that door simply by grabbing the knob and pushing. He also knows that he is not allowed in that room. But yesterday, the temptation to explore was just too strong, and as I sat on the couch on one side of the stairs, I heard the creak of the door swinging open on the other side, so I said sharply, “No!” and he immediately came running around to me with a grin, as if to say, “See? I didn’t go in!” We repeated this several times until I decided I needed to sit in the hallway and keep an eye on him. He walked up to the forbidden door, and with his eye fixed on mine, reached one hand up towards the doorknob. I immediately scolded, “No! No touching!” and he pulled back his hand and shook his head solemnly, “no no no no no”. He thought for a few seconds, then he very deliberately put his hands behind his back, sidled back up to the door…and nudged it open with his belly, all the while grinning in triumph. I made an attempt to scold him again, but since I was literally rolling on the floor and laughing so hard I could barely get the words out, I doubt that the scolding was very effective.

So I suppose that the lesson to be learned here is that I need to be very specific about the way I express the rules to him, and that I need to teach him to obey the spirit of the law as well as the letter of the law. The other lesson, of course, is that my kid is already outsmarting me and I should be afraid for my future. Very afraid.

 

It's a Girl! I Think. Maybe. Unless It's Not.

Today was Rutabaga’s first ultrasound. Since I’m 13-1/2 weeks, there was quite a lot to see. Since I’m also 42 years old, today’s ultrasound was an “early screening assessment” to check for the likelihood of chromosomal abnormalities or other birth defects. So although they do take a look at the development of some of the major organs like the heart, brain, and spinal cord, and the placement and development of the placenta, the main point of the exam is to take a bunch of measurements of various body parts. Well, the main point for the doctors, that it. The main point for the parents is to get some cool photos to show off to all their friends.

(Come on, people. With an opening line like, “Today was Rutabaga’s first ultrasound,” you KNEW there would be pictures.)

So when the tech started looking around, she pointed out the heart beating, the face peering out at us, the wriggling little hands and feet. Rutabaga seemed to be posing for us as s/he looked up for a perfect profile shot, then turned to the side for a front view, then obligingly waved his/her arms around and kicked up his/her little feet. The tech got several good photos for us. But then she started trying to take measurements, and suddenly Rutabaga was not so cooperative.

The tech did quite a bit of poking and prodding of my belly, trying this angle and that, trying to nudge the little rascal into a better position. She tried tilting the table so my feet were up in the air and my head was hanging down – woo, head rush! (I could suddenly understand the attraction of gravity tables. I felt like I grew two inches just lying there.) She had me roll over on my side while she poked and prodded some more, and then had me roll back. Eventually, between her efforts and the efforts of the adorably pregnant doctor who came in afterwards (who admitted with a sheepish laugh that she did ultrasounds on herself on a regular basis), they managed to get some good measurements and determine that Rutabaga is perfectly healthy and well-developed.

But it got me to thinking: What more female behavior is there than to preen for the camera but refuse to have any measurements taken? Really, for a fetus that’s the equivalent of hopping on a scale. What woman wants to do that publicly?

So I am that much more convinced that Rutabaga is a girl. (You know, unless she’s not.)

One Man's Trash Is Another Man's Toy

A few nights ago the three of us went out to dinner. Ryan was generally very well behaved, but the service was a bit slow and at a certain point he started to get a bit restless. He wasn’t interested in anything more to eat, and I hadn’t brought any toys with us, so I gave him an empty single-serving plastic milk bottle and a crayon to play with. He was fascinated. He must have spent more than 20 minutes taking the top off the bottle, peering inside, dropping the crayon in, peering inside again, then dumping the crayon out on the table. Lather, rinse, repeat.

The most interesting thing was how intent he was on what he was doing. Sometimes when he plays it’s just random banging on things, enjoying the sounds he’s making but not really paying all that much attention. But he was very deliberately examining the bottle, figuring out that the crayon had to be turned the long way to fit inside the neck, discovering that he had to twist the cap to make it come off, and figuring out what angle he had to tip the bottle at to make the crayon slide out again. I could practically see the wheels turning inside his head. Earlier in the evening he had been paying attention to the other patrons, the servers walking by, and the ceiling fans overhead, but once he started playing with his milk bottle, he could have been the only person in an empty room for all the attention he paid to his surroundings.

I’ve said many times that he is really the master of finding amusement in whatever happens to be around him, and that night was simply further proof of that. He has fun exploring his toys, discovering what their various buttons do, how they come apart and go back together, and what you can do with them. But give him a simple milk bottle, or a box, or a square of paper towel, and he’ll examine it just as carefully. A box can be a hat, or a propeller, or a sled. Paper towels can be scrunched up, or torn apart, or used as a blanket. (Or eaten, but I try to discourage that.)

His favorite toy this week is not a true toy but a little brass bowl with a snug-fitting lid that he discovered on a storage rack. He discovered that not only does the lid fit nicely on top of the bowl, but since it has a little lip, the bowl will sit snugly on top of the lid as well. The set makes wonderful resonant cymbals when he clashes the two pieces together, or when he clashes either piece against some other object. Both the lid and the bowl spin nicely, and land with a resounding crash when he spins them on the top of the wooden toybox. If he turns the lid upside down on top of the bowl, it slides around with a lovely metallic swish.

Educational toys are all well and good, but I think sometimes he can learn more about physics and geometry and spatial relations by simply playing with trash. And the best thing about that is that we’ll always have an endless supply of it!

Pregnancy and Food

No, this blog is not about what you think. Yes, many pregnant women are obsessed with food (either because they want it all the time or because they never want to see it again), but this obsession isn’t with food that you’re eating, it’s with the comparison of the size of a developing fetus and various food items.

One of the things that isn’t much different between when I was expecting Ryan and this pregnancy is that I love to look on the internet each week to see what stage the baby is at. And my favorite part is finding out how big Rutabaga is now – specifically, which food item the fetus is compared to every week. The majority of the items are fruits, but there is quite a variety of food products used, from seeds to fruits to vegetables to seafood. I’m not sure who decided that food should be the standard of comparison, but dozens of websites use the same standard. This week being week 12, I am told that Rutabaga is now the size of a lime. Last week s/he was the size of a fig. In fact, for your reading pleasure, here is the progression of fetal-food comparisons week by week, starting at 4 weeks: poppy seed, sesame seed, lentil, blueberry, kidney bean, grape, kumquat, fig, lime, shrimp, lemon, apple, avocado, turnip, bell pepper, “large heirloom tomato” (apparently just “tomato” would have been too vague), banana, carrot, spaghetti squash, mango, ear of corn, rutabaga (!!!! Really!!), English hothouse cucumber (again, “cucumber” would be too vague?), head of cauliflower, Chinese cabbage, butternut squash, head of cabbage, four navel oranges (apparently they ran out of appropriate vegetables – also, at this point they begin comparing weight rather than length), jicama, pineapple, cantaloupe, honeydew melon, Crenshaw melon, stalk of Swiss chard (and we’re back to length again, for some unknown reason), leek, mini watermelon (many expectant mothers would disagree with the word “mini” by this stage), pumpkin, and finally, baby. Whew!

I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry after reading that list! The only problem is that now I can’t bring myself to eat a butternut squash or a pumpkin or a jicama without thinking, “Hey, this reminds me of an X-week-old fetus!” and then promptly losing my appetite.

But I’ll admit that it is a lot more fun to picture a tiny baby as being the size of a grape rather than the dry “3/4 inches” or the even drier “1.6 cm”. I can’t picture a length without physically spreading my fingers that distance apart and looking at them, but tell me “apple” and I know exactly how big you mean. Any woman who’s ever asked a hairdresser to take off half an inch and ended up scalped understands that everyone’s concept of a measured length is different. But a kumquat is a kumquat is a kumquat. I suppose that food items are universal enough that everyone understands them and can easily picture them.

So I’ll just have to avoid eating bananas, carrots, mangos, and Chinese cabbage for a few months. I just hope that no-one ever compares the size of my baby to the size of a bowl of ice cream!

Hello, Baby Bump, I've Been Expecting You!

I’m naturally a relatively slender person, but I have no muscle tone at all so I’ve never had what would be called a flat tummy. The gentlest way to put it is that I have a “softly rounded belly”. It was true before my son was born and it was definitely true after he was born. I got back to my pre-baby weight pretty quickly, but my figure was not quite the same shape. So with this pregnancy, despite all the conventional wisdom that second pregnancies show earlier than first pregnancies, I have been approaching the end of my first trimester with no noticeable baby bump, just my usual “soft roundness”.

Until this morning. I got undressed to hop in the shower, caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, and thought, “Where did THAT come from? It wasn’t there yesterday!” There was definitely roundness, but it certainly wasn’t soft any more. I went from zero to baby bump in literally 24 hours.

Which means I’ve hit the stage that every pregnant woman dreads: the “Is she fat or is she pregnant?” stage. The stage where your regular clothes are too tight but maternity clothes are still ridiculous. The stage where you discover tricks like putting a rubber band around the button of your jeans, through the buttonhole, and back around the button to buy you another inch or two around the waist. The stage where you wear long sweaters and leave your pants unbuttoned. The stage where you dig out every blousy, empire-waisted top and oversized sweatshirt in your closet. The stage where you borrow your husband’s clothes. The stage where you live in low-slung yoga pants. THE FAT STAGE.

Fortunately, I have one pair of jeans that has always been somewhat generous in the waist and is still comfortable. Unfortunately, they’re white denim so I can’t pretend I’m wearing a new pair of jeans every day like I could if they were standard blue denim. Anyone who sees me every day knows I wore the same pair of pants yesterday. (Fortunately, my husband and my son are the only ones who see me every day and neither of them really cares if I wear the same jeans for a month.) Also, white is not the most practical for wearing several days in a row when one has a 15-month-old who’s just learning to use a spoon and a cup. So yoga pants to the rescue! At least I can alternate the two until there’s enough laundry for a load – and it’s convenient that one pair is light and one is dark so whichever load is full first, that’s the pair that gets washed that day.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m very excited about my baby bump. As lousy as I feel when I’m pregnant, I’m delighted to look the part, and I love seeing physical evidence of the little life that’s growing inside me. I have several friends who have had babies in the past week or two, and seeing photos of them with their newborns makes me even more excited to go through the whole process again. I had wondered if going through it a second time would be less awe-inspiring, if I would be less amazed by each milestone because I’d seen and felt it before. But I’m still astonished at the miracle of procreation, and my heart still skips a beat or two at each new development.

Welcome, baby bump, I’ve been looking forward to seeing you!

There's a Day for That

Did you know that today (January 24) is Global Belly Laugh Day? Or that Penguin Awareness Day was last week? (I’ll admit to not knowing that penguins were, in fact, unaware.) You might have known that Talk Like a Pirate Day happens every September, but I bet you didn’t know that September also includes Be Late for Something Day (I suspect that was originally scheduled for August), Fight Procrastination Day (also originally scheduled for August) and Make Your Bed Day.

There really is a day for everything. In fact, a little bit of research results in the following list of days for January alone:
January 1: New Year’s Day (OK, this one gets a pass)
January 2: Run Up the Flagpole and See If Anyone Salutes Day
January 3: Festival of Sleep Day, Fruitcake Toss Day, and Humiliation Day (wonder if the third is directly related to the first two?)
January 4: Trivia Day
January 5: National Bird Day
January 6: Bean Day and Cuddle Up Day (ugh, not a wise combination)
January 7: Old Rock Day
January 8: Bubble Bath Day and Male Watcher’s Day (this combination could go either way, depending on the subject)
January 9: Play God Day
January 10: Peculiar People Day
January 11: Step in a Puddle and Splash Your Friend’s [sic] Day (too bad National Punctuation Day isn’t until September)
January 12: Feast of Fabulous Wild Men Day and National Pharmacist Day (double whammy for those fabulous wild pharmacists!)
January 13: International Skeptics Day and Make Your Dream Come True Day (need I even say anything about the juxtaposition of these two?)
January 14: Dress Up Your Pet Day
January 15: National Hat Day
January 16: National Nothing Day

I think I’ll stop at National Nothing Day. If you haven’t gotten the point by now, you’re not going to get it: If you want to celebrate something random and nonsensical, someone else probably thought of it already and assigned it an official “Day”. You can celebrate an officially-recognized theme every single day of the year, if you like. The fact that there are holidays that even Hallmark doesn’t make cards for is mind-blowing to me.

So what is the point of all these “Days”? The point is that there is always something to celebrate. No matter what other lousy stuff may be going on in your life, there’s some excuse to be silly and to laugh and to celebrate. If you’re into food, you could celebrate ice cream sandwiches (August 2), or crown roast of pork (March 7), or pastry (December 9), or angel food cake (October 10), or even moldy cheese (October 9). Maybe you’re thankful for working people and would rather celebrate mailmen (February 4), or cosmonauts (April 12), or waiters and waitresses (May 21), or even ratcatchers (July 22). Maybe what will make you happy is celebrating something musical like kazoos (January 28), or saxophones (November 6 – sorry, Dad!), or barbershop quartets (April 11), or tubas (May 6). Or perhaps you just need something completely goofy like wiggling your toes (August 6), or hugging your cat (June 4), or rubber erasers (April 15), or butterscotch pudding (September 19).

Whatever it is that will get you out of your funk and celebrating, it’s out there. So go have yourself a good belly laugh today!! Don’t worry, you can get back to crying in a couple of days - Opposite Day is on Wednesday.

The Physics of Spoons

There are many processes in life that are so deeply ingrained in us that we don’t realize how complicated they really are. For example, a trained dancer who is asked to do a “triple time step” will perform a complicated series of steps without thinking about each separate part. To her, a triple is essentially a single action. To a dancer with less experience, the process consists of hop, shuffle, step, flap, step, stomp, reverse. To a dancer who is just learning the step, the process is something more like hop on your left foot, brush your right foot back and forth then step back and put your weight on your right foot, brush your left foot forward then step with your weight on it, step back onto your right foot, stomp your left foot on the floor, then do the whole thing all over again in the opposite direction. Put that way, it’s easy to see how complex the sequence is – at least, until you know it so well that you do it without thinking about it.

For a toddler, using a spoon is just as complicated. We adults don’t think twice about using one: you grab the spoon, you scoop some food onto it, you stick it in your mouth. Easy peasy, right? But if you watch a child who’s just learning to use a spoon, you realize that there are a lot of tiny picky details that we don’t even think about.

First of all, where you hold the spoon is very important. If you grab the very end of it, not only does it take a lot of coordination to scoop something onto the bowl of the spoon, but the slightest motion flings whatever is on the bowl up into the air and very far away from your mouth. You need to find that “sweet spot” where you have both strength and control. Short-handled baby spoons make this a little easier to deal with, at least, but it still takes practice to find that perfect balance point.

Next, you have to contend with the whole “angle of attack” thing. Gravity is not in your favor with most orientations. Sure, if we’re talking about cold Cream of Wheat or pudding, something will stick to the spoon no matter what orientation you hold the spoon at. Even something a bit soupier like applesauce or yogurt is pretty forgiving. But dry, unsticky things like peas or rice have an unpleasant habit of jumping right off the spoon unless the bowl is perfectly upright. And I don’t mean just upright when you scoop. It has to stay upright for that whole precarious journey from plate to mouth. That’s asking a lot of a child who six months ago could hardly sit up without assistance.

And then of course, you have the whole scooping action itself. You can’t just randomly jab the spoon into the food and hope to come up with something in the bowl. Unless we’re back to Cream of Wheat or pudding, the random jab maneuver is not likely to meet with a lot of success. The spoon needs to start off deep enough in the pile of food to get a mouthful on it, and it needs to move steadily enough to avoid dislodging its contents during the whole scooping arc. Again, peas and rice are not cooperative with this step of the process, and often result in an empty spoon reaching the mouth.

Impressively, most children do not seem to be particularly frustrated or disappointed by the empty spoon. Ryan, at least, enjoys chewing on the spoon as much as he does chewing on the food, so an empty spoon in the mouth is merely a mid-meal toy break. (It is also useful as a drumstick, thereby leading to another type of mid-meal toy break.) Nor is he bothered by the fact that as much food lands on his shirt and on the table as makes it into his mouth. Occasionally his hunger overtakes his interest in the spoon and he shovels a few mouthfuls in with his hands, but generally he goes back to working with the spoon again pretty quickly.

As I watch his skills develop, and as I watch his surprising patience and diligence in practicing and honing those skills, I am once again amazed at how quickly children go from not even comprehending how something is done to mastering it completely. Within just a few months, Ryan has gone from tottering a few steps to confidently running all over the house. He’s gone from staring uncomprehendingly as us when we talk to him to eagerly responding to verbal requests and recognizing names and objects. He’s gone from sitting back and watching other people show him his toys to actively finding things (toys and non-toys alike) to amuse himself with. And I can only imagine what changes are to come over the next few months. I can hardly wait!

What a Difference a Day Makes

Yesterday morning I got out of bed and wished I could turn around and crawl right back in. Or die. Either option was equally welcome. I was sick and tired and I was sick and tired of being sick and tired. I thought I’d had terrible morning sickness when I was pregnant with my son but for the past three weeks I’ve hardly been able to function. On a good day I managed a shower (but had to lie down and rest before I had enough energy to get dressed). On a bad day (which was most of the time), I spent all day on the couch feeling sorry for myself. Fortunately the basement is baby-proofed enough that I could let Ryan run around and keep himself entertained while I “supervised” from the couch. When I didn’t have the energy to stop him from pulling all the videotapes off the shelf, I’d put him in his playpen for an hour or two to give myself a break. Sometimes I’d crawl in there with him and just lay on the floor watching him and chatting with him. The poor kid obviously sensed my distress and would periodically tug at my arm or my sweater (OK, let’s be honest: my nightgown) to get me to sit up. I felt like a horrible, neglectful mother, but it was all I could manage to keep him fed, changed, and safe.

But yesterday afternoon, all that changed. I had a doctor’s appointment in the morning, and when I told her all my woes she gave me a prescription for Zofran. I had my doubts as to how helpful it would be, since my sickness was not only nausea but light-headedness, shakiness, and exhaustion, but I figured that even if it only took the edge off it would be a move in the right direction.

Oh, ye of little faith. Within an hour of taking the first pill (and it wasn’t even a whole pill, it was half a pill!), I felt like a new woman. Instead of lying miserably on the couch, I was sitting up. Instead of staring unhappily around the kitchen and being repulsed by the thought of food, I eagerly ate two servings of hearty soup. My husband and I were sitting in the study and for some reason I laughed at something, and he turned to me and said, “That’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh in weeks.” And I realized that he was right. I’d been trying to put a good face on things, but I didn’t realize how miserable I’d been (to myself and to those around me) until I was back to my old self again.

I did sleep late today, but when I got up I had breakfast, I took a shower (I didn’t even take a nap afterwards), I brushed my hair, I took Ryan shopping, I made myself real food for lunch, and then – wonder of wonders – I cooked dinner. I even tasted it while I was cooking it. And I’m even looking forward to eating it! I’m not ready to run a marathon or anything, but the fact that I’ve been upright for more than 8 hours in a row is nothing short of a miracle.

Only a little more than twenty-four hours ago, I was prepared to endure this pregnancy, to merely get through it - to enjoy it in theory but not in practice, so to speak. I am, of course, absolutely delighted to be expecting another child. This child was just as hoped-for, just as prayed-for, and just as longed-for as our first child. But the thought of feeling the way I did for nine more months (or even nine more hours!) was almost more than I could bear. But the relief and the joy of feeling healthy enough to truly enjoy and appreciate the miracle of another child growing inside me is almost more than I can bear in a good way.

What a difference a day makes.

Every Rutabaga Is Different

[The blog entry is dedicated fondly to my college advisor, Dr. Russ Camp, who taught me not only that every rutabaga is different, but who also taught me the "Linus Pauling Song", which is sung to the tune of "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" and includes the immortal lyrics, "Glory glory Linus Pauling, glory glory peptide bonding, glory glory polypeptides, that do the twist to form proteins, rah rah rah!" And a special shout-out to fellow alumni and now professors Dr. Craig Story and Dr. Dorothy Boorse, both of whom carry on in the tradition of Dr. Camp.]

When I was in college, one of my biology courses included a lab session in which we determined the enzyme content of a rutabaga. Each student was given a rutabaga to process and analyze. Naturally, at the end of the lab all the students compared their answers and immediately went into a panic because our results were all over the map. But the professor reassured us that we hadn’t necessarily screwed up the experiment; it was just that “every rutabaga is different.” And for the rest of our college careers, that phrase became our class motto. Any time something came out in a way we didn’t expect, we’d explain it by saying off-handedly, “Well, every rutabaga is different.”

I’ve been out of college for twenty years (gulp!), and I still catch myself using that phrase now and then. In fact, I’ve used it several times lately in reference to my second pregnancy. I find myself thinking, “By the time I was 9 weeks pregnant with Ryan, my pants were tight. Is something wrong with this pregnancy? No, it’s just that every rutabaga is different.” Or, “I never had trouble with food tasting funky with my last pregnancy, why do so many things taste weird this time? It must be because every rutabaga is different.”

I think the fact that symptoms can be so different from pregnancy to pregnancy is God’s way of preparing a mom for the fact that her children are likely to be completely different from each other, as well. My husband often found himself comparing our son’s development with that of his older daughter: “Rosemary used to squirm in the bathtub just like that!” or “Rosemary pulled herself up at the same age!” It bothered me sometimes, because I wanted to say to him, “He’s not Rosemary! He’s his own person!” But I realized that he was just recalling her childhood with all the joy and excitement with which we were both enjoying Ryan’s. And I have no doubt that I will do exactly the same thing with this new baby: “She’s squirming in the tub just like Ryan used to!” or “He’s pulling himself up just the same way Ryan did at that age!”

And I’ll just have to remind myself that this new baby isn’t Ryan, she’s her own person (or he’s his own person). After all, every rutabaga is different.

The Morning Sickness Diet, or, What Can I Eat Today That Won't Make Me Throw Up?

Ever since Ryan was born – actually, ever since Ryan was conceived – I hoped that my next pregnancy would be less fraught with morning sickness. I read all kinds of articles in hope that someone would tell me that second babies cause less morning sickness. And I found articles that said exactly that. I also found articles that warned the exact opposite. I spoke to friends who had subsequent pregnancies with symptoms nearly identical to their first pregnancies, and to friends whose pregnancies varied wildly from child to child. So I had no idea what to expect from this pregnancy.

Until I hit the 6-week mark, at which point my body totally rebelled. I was nauseous morning, noon, and night. Not only did I have bionic nose, but I developed an aversion to many smells. One night my stepdaughter made Brussels sprouts and I actually went outside and stood on the porch in the freezing cold air to escape the smell (actually, the fresh cold air felt wonderful). I borrowed my husband’s toothpaste one morning and gagged as soon as the toothbrush hit my mouth. The mere thought of the grilled chicken that had gotten me through my last pregnancy made my stomach roil. I spent my days lying on the couch and praying that this stage would be short-lived.

Fortunately, things eased up just a tiny bit at the 8-week mark. I still have nausea on and off through the day, but it’s a bit less severe. And I’ve even discovered a few foods that I can manage to get down. It’s rather an eclectic menu, though, and consists mainly of starch and dairy. Come to think of it, I think it consists entirely of white and beige foods. Here’s an example of what I had to eat today: For breakfast, I had a piece of toast, which I washed down with a vanilla Ensure. Around lunchtime, Ryan and I shared some vanilla yogurt and I had a bite or two of his grilled-cheese sandwich (white American cheese on white bread, of course). This afternoon, I had a coffee-flavored Ensure and shared Ryan’s string cheese. And for supper, I think I might be up for a handful of elbow noodles and a glass of milk. Oh! I almost forgot that I had an afternoon snack of a couple of Christmas cookies (one shortbread and one M&M – and the M&Ms were green and red, so it wasn’t a completely white and beige day).

Every once in a while, I can get wild and crazy and manage a few bites of squash, or some soup, and Spaghettios with franks are still a good bet most of the time (although everything from a can tastes a little funny this time). So I’m fitting in the vegetables and protein wherever I can. It isn’t easy, and it isn’t fun, but when I’m at the end of my rope, all I have to do it look at my precious little boy and I remember the prize at the end of the journey. And that makes it all worth it.

Snowmageddon

Last night when I went to bed, I peeked out the window and watching the falling snow swirling in the air, hurling itself at the trees, whisking past the fairy lights hanging from the eaves, drifting past the dark cars in the driveway. This morning when I got up, I peeked out the window at a silent, white world. The drifting snow had sculpted itself into fantastical shapes, disguising the familiar objects in the yard, covering the landscape with swirls and cones and angles.

I love snowstorms. Of course, I don’t love digging out from under a foot of snow, or scraping a thick layer of ice off my car, or driving on ice-slick roads. But I love the blustery sound of the wind during a storm and the blanket of silence afterwards. I love watching the snow dancing on the wind in an intricately choreographed ballet. I love hearing the first peeps of the birds as they emerge after the snow ends, huddled and fluffing and eagerly seeking out food. I love the flash of a bright red cardinal against a pure-white snowbank. I love the icicles artistically dripping from power lines and eaves and car antennas. I love the squeak of damp snow under thick-soled boots. I love the wet thump of clots of snow sliding off a roof into the bushes below. I even love the pure, clean, cold smell of the air after a snowstorm.

By the end of the winter, I’ll be as sick of snow as everyone else, longing to see some green leaves peeping through the dirty gray slush. But now, right after the very first big storm of the season, I love it. The first storm of the season, to me, is like a dish of cool, icy sorbet to cleanse your palate. It perks up your senses, it cleanses and purifies, it readies you for what is yet to come.

So today, I will enjoy the snow. I will wait for the sun to sparkle on the ice and dazzle my eyes with its splendor. I will snuggle with a cozy blanket and a mug of steaming coffee and listen to the whistle of the wind. I will watch the birds storing up for the storms still to come. I will be thankful for my cozy house and my full refrigerator and my shoveling husband.

And a few months from now, when we’ve had a dozen storms like this, when we’ve dug out from under more inches of snow than I care to count, when we’ve risked our necks driving through white-outs and skidding over black ice, when I’m thoroughly sick of the nasty white stuff, I’ll look back at what I’ve just written, and wonder, “What the heck was I thinking back in December?”

I'm Making a List, I'm Checking It Twice

Christmas is a little over a week away, and I’m suddenly realizing all the things I need to get done between now and then. So, as I often do in this kind of situation, I’ve made a list. Actually, I’ve made a whole bunch of lists.

The first list is a list of everything that’s on my calendar for the next few weeks. Saturday Herb’s daughter flies in, Sunday we’re reading in church and then hosting the family Christmas party, Tuesday we’re having dinner with friends, Thursday we’re going to New York, Friday we’re coming home and then going to the Christmas Eve service at church, Saturday we’re having Christmas morning at home then heading to my grandmother’s for the afternoon, and Sunday we’re celebrating Herb’s birthday. So just having all that in writing is helpful.

Next, I have a list of all the different tasks I need to work into the schedule on the first list. I’m baking cupcakes, making Christmas cookies, shopping for last-minute Christmas presents, and wrapping presents, so I’ve scheduled all those chores in between the things that are already on the calendar.

Third, I have my shopping lists. One for groceries that I need to pick up before Sunday’s party. One for ingredients for my cupcakes and cookies. One for gifts I can’t get until shortly before Christmas. And one for the gifts I can get as soon as I can find them, if only I could find them.

Lastly, I have my prep lists. I have a list of everything I need to be sure gets done before the party on Sunday: cutting up garnishes, preparing appetizer trays, chilling soda in the cooler, clearing Ryan’s toys out of every nook and cranny in the house. I have a list of the things I need to bring to my grandmother’s on Christmas Day. I have a list of things I need to have ready for Herb’s party the day after Christmas.

Now, if only I could remember where I put all those lists…

 

You Never Forget Your First Kiss

First kisses are magical. I still remember my very first kiss. A good friend of mine that I had a terrible crush on had escorted me to my big sophomore dance and he kissed me goodnight when he brought me home. It was kind and sweet and genuinely affectionate, if not exactly romantic.

I remember the first time Herb kissed me. It was after our first “real” date, in the parking lot of Café Escadrille in Burlington. He held my hand as we walked back to our cars and I’ll never forget the thrill of standing on my tiptoes as he leaned down to kiss me. It was also kind and sweet and genuinely affectionate, but completely romantic and sexy as well.

And as of yesterday, I have one more perfect first kiss to add to my list. Ryan and I were visiting my mom, and she and I were sitting on the living room floor as he happily toddled back and forth, bringing us his various toys, when out of the blue, he casually marched over to me, planted a big wet kiss on my cheek and solemnly announced, “Mwah,” before wandering away to find another toy. It was the off-handedness of the gesture that made it so sweet. He didn’t hang around waiting for applause or approval or even acknowledgement from me, he simply expressed what he felt and went on with his day. But the sweet gesture of affection brought tears to my eyes with its simplicity.

I love how affectionate Ryan is these days, and especially how casual he is about it. Some children give someone a hug and then look expectantly around for praise. But Ryan simply loves people, especially his family. He often runs up to Herb or me and hugs us in passing before going on his merry way. It’s quite common for him to suddenly begin patting one of us on the back as we’re holding him. He squeezes me around the neck as I carry him up the stairs, or he gives Daddy a playful pat on the head when he’s sitting on Daddy’s shoulders, or he’ll lay his head down on the shoulder of whoever’s carrying him. I don’t think he does it in deliberate imitation of us, because when he imitates us he almost always looks to one or the other of us for praise and approval. He’s simply showing his affection in the most natural way, by physical contact.

And oh, how sweet it is.

Christmas Then and Now

Last year was Ryan’s first Christmas, and although being only six weeks old, he didn’t appreciate it much, it was extra-special doing all the Christmas things that parents do with their children.

We got him some festive Christmas outfits:

We took him to see Santa:

 

We even took him to see the production of “It’s ChristmasTime!” that we usually perform in (we weren’t in the show last year but Ryan’s cousin Kayla was):

 

We told him how Santa would come down the chimney and put treats and goodies in his stocking:

So this year, we’re doing those things all over again. He has another festive new outfit this year (and oops, apparently Mom does not):

 

We took him to see Santa, but since last year he seems to have developed an irrational fear of beards, so we were not successful in getting a photo (so far; the season is still young).

We knew he would be too wiggly to sit through a performance of “It’s ChristmasTime” even though Mom and Dad performed in it again this year, but we did manage to wrangle him a cameo appearance in one of the scenes. Unfortunately, we weren’t able to manage photographic evidence (flash photos during a performance are a big no-no), but we had a number of family members and friends in the audience who got to see it in person.

And we’ve been telling him stories about Christmas. He has a beautiful little board book with the story of the first Christmas that we can occasionally get him to sit still long enough to read a page or two:

And he’s actually noticing the Christmas decorations this year, unlike last Christmas. Fortunately, he’s still much more interested in the giant Nutcracker than he is the glass ornaments on the tree:

He’s even left the poinsettia alone since we got it home. Since he shredded several leaves in the car on the way home after we bought it (I still underestimate how long his reach is!!), I guess he figured he’d done enough damage.

But most of all, I’m looking forward to seeing his face on Christmas morning. I know he won’t care about his presents for their own sake, but it will be a morning with Mommy, Daddy, and his sister, all sitting around paying attention to him, and it will be a morning filled with tearing wrapping paper, shredding tissue paper, good crunching sounds, and boxes of all sizes and shapes. And then the afternoon will be spent with more family, more paper, and more boxes! And the next day there’s even more family, more paper, and more boxes! It’ll be about as much joy as one little boy can handle.

 
 

Family Portraits

When Ryan was 6 months old (which was very conveniently right around Mother’s Day), Herb took him to a professional photographer and had a bunch of fabulous photos taken of him:

A month later, we were all in California for Herb’s daughter’s high school graduation, so we went in and had a whole bunch of family photos taken:

And since he recently turned one year old, we decided we definitely needed to get a set of official one-year photos taken, so the other day we packed him up and did another photo session.

I’m not sure how well-behaved most one-year-olds are at that sort of session, but I must admit I was both impressed and proud at how cooperative Ryan was. Sure, he was interested in the camera and the lighting umbrella and would have preferred to wander around the studio to sitting still and posing, but all in all, he was smiling and cooperative and extremely well-behaved. And the resulting photos prove it:

It’s amazing to me to see how much he’s changed in the last six months. He’s turned from a baby into a big, grown-up toddler right before our eyes. He’s developing his own unique personality and charms. He’s still happy and social and playful and curious, but in a much more mature way. He really is a little boy and not a baby any more. I’m so grateful that we live in an age where photographs and videos are cheap and easily obtainable, so I can be reminded of each different stage as it quickly slips by. When I look at him and find it hard to remember when this independent little boy was still a helpless baby, I can look back at my photo albums and remember those precious moments. I can watch an old video and hear how his baby laugh grew into his big boy laugh. I can watch how his play has developed, how his skills have improved, how he’s changed physically and emotionally and socially and intellectually.

But above and beyond photos of him alone, I love watching how the family photos change over time. The changes in Herb and I aren’t quite as obvious (or as flattering) as the changes in Ryan. We may have gained a few pounds, added a wrinkle or two, and gotten a bit grayer, but we’ve also grown to be an even closer, more affectionate, more bonded family. And every moment that family is together is precious.

Eau Christmas Tree

I love the smell of Christmas trees. To me, the smell of pine sap is the smell of Christmas. I love the way the smell lingers on my hands the day we pick out the tree and my hands are covered in sap from turning each one around to make sure it’s perfect. I love the way the needles in the vacuum cleaner shed the smell every time I clean for weeks after the tree is gone. I love the lingering essence of pine that hides inside the boxes of Christmas ornaments, releasing their sweet fragrance of Christmas past the next year.

We always had a real Christmas tree growing up. My father petitioned for an artificial tree every year - after all, in a household of women, he was the one who wrestled the tree onto the top of the car, sawed off the stump when we got home, hefted the thing inside the house and into the tree stand, and wrestled it back to the curb after the holidays were over. But the rest of the family was bound and determined that Christmas isn’t Christmas without a real tree. Herb and I have already had the real vs. fake discussion several times. Artificial trees today are much more realistic than they were when I was a little girl. Many artificial trees can’t even be distinguished from live trees by visual inspection alone. But the nose knows. No fake pine spray can take the place of the smell of genuine pine boughs. I’ve admitted that I might be willing to have an artificial tree as long as we have real pine boughs adorning the mantelpiece, and a genuine pine wreath on the door, so the house will still be filled with the smell of Christmas. But given my druthers, I’d still choose a real live tree over an artificial one any day.

That decision was anchored even more firmly in my mind this afternoon. Ryan and I went to Herb’s work to have lunch with him and to admire the holiday decorations in the building lobby. The company tree echoes our own, being decked out in dozens of brilliant cardinals along with long strands of artificial cranberries and sprays of various kinds of berries and grasses. The tree itself is artificial but beautiful and full, and I never would have guessed it wasn’t real except for the absence of scent. It’s very naturalistic and very lovely. But it doesn’t smell like it ought to.

Then when we came home, I bundled Ryan in quickly through the brisk air and as soon as the front door swung open, we were greeted with the warm, welcoming smell of Christmas tree. It filled my heart with a sense of coziness, warmth, home, and holidays. I could practically feel my blood pressure dropping and my heart rate slowing. Just that quick scent of pine relaxed me to my core. That is truly the scent of Christmas.

Guilt Trip + Cuteness = Marshmallow Mom

Herb often teases me that I’m a complete pushover when it comes to Ryan, and that’s probably somewhat true, even though I try to be hardnosed when necessary. But how can any mother not succumb to the combination of cuteness and guilt? And Ryan has certainly mastered both.

Just a short while ago I was putting Ryan down for his nap and he wasn’t really ready to go, and as I headed out of the room and told him, “Have a good nap, I love you,” and blew him a kiss, he said through his snurfling and tears, “Buh-bye!” and gave me a pathetic little wave. Now, I’m pretty sure that wasn’t deliberate emotional manipulation, but between the laughter and the guilt, it was all I could do not to run back into the room and sweep him up in a big hug, because I am, admittedly, a marshmallow.

I often refer to him affectionately as my “drama llama” because he’s so good at turning on the waterworks at a moment’s notice. When he wants me to take him out of the playpen, he never just reaches up his arms, he reaches up his arms and gives me the most pathetic pout and/or wail that has ever been seen or heard. That sad little face breaks my heart, just as it’s intended to. Those beautiful big eyes welling up, the chubby pink cheeks streaked with tears, the rosebud lips turned down into a wounded pout…that’s an arsenal that no mother can resist. I know he’ll be just fine if I say no, but then I’ll have to deal with the image of that tragic face burned into my brain, along with the corresponding guilt that I caused that “tragedy”. The fact that five seconds from now he’ll be distracted and happy and the tears and pout will have vanished is of absolutely no account.

Above and beyond the guilt trip, though, the adorableness factor definitely comes into play. A pouting child can be extremely unattractive when said child is sour and self-centered, but Ryan has such a sweet nature that even when his pout is a bit selfish it’s still rather endearing. Knowing that his sweet dimpled smile is hiding underneath the sad expression is that much more of an inducement to try to bring the smile back into view. And of course, the fact that even when he’s angry and pushes me away, two seconds later he’s grabbing me around the neck so tightly that I can hardly breathe is in his favor. He’s becoming so affectionate with people that he knows, especially Mummy and Daddy, that I can hardly bear to give him any reason not to show that affection.

Fortunately, I have known enough spoiled, selfish, over-indulged children that I’m not afraid I'll start giving in when I shouldn’t. When Ryan is a little older and I’m able to explain the concepts of “no” and “not right now” to him, it will be easier to refuse him things, and I’m sure I’ll do it much more often. But for now, he’s still relatively spoil-proof, so I plan on taking advantage of that and giving in to the puppy dog eyes whenever I can. It’ll keep us both happier.

Who's Watching the Baby?

Ryan definitely wins a gold star award for surviving the past couple of weeks without having (or giving anyone else) a nervous breakdown. Since Herb and I are both performing in the Reagle Christmas show, Ryan was with a babysitter for several evenings last week, all day last Sunday, every night Monday through Friday this week, and all day on Saturday and Sunday. A good bit of the time, he’s been with one of his grandmothers or his aunt and cousins, and at his own house, but he spent several times with a less familiar sitter, or being passed between two different sitters, and once he spent most of the day at the theater being watched by a bunch of different people. So when we got home at the end of yesterday’s performance, it was no surprise that he was starting to have a bit of a meltdown. All of the sitters were great with him, but I think he was just relieved to finally be with Mommy and Daddy.

He was so happy this morning to play with me in his playroom. A few times I went into the study to check my e-mail or into the laundry room to do something, and he immediately protested. Normally, I’d let him yell for a few minutes but after the week he’s had, I immediately went in to show him that I was there. And above and beyond reassuring him, I had missed playing with him so much! The past few mornings, even though I’d been home, I was so busy getting ready for the show and getting ready for the sitter that I hadn’t been able to play with him as much as usual, so having the chance to just relax and enjoy his company was a real pleasure.

There are days when I want to tear my hair out because he wants my constant attention, and sometimes I feel like I never have a second to myself except when he’s napping. But mornings like this morning remind me how much I enjoy being with him and just watching him play and learn and explore. He spent the morning marching around the basement with an old red bucket he’d found somewhere. He swung it back and forth for a while, giggling as it pivoted on its metal handle. He spent some time picking up various small toys and carefully dropping them into the bucket, then taking them out and strewing them all over the floor. At one point he even put it on his head like a hat, and then slid it down over his face and sang into it, chortling at the funny echo it made. If he’d been with a babysitter, I’d have missed that charming moment!

But at the same time, I know it’s good for him to spend time with other people. There will be times when we have no choice but to leave him with someone else for a while, either someone he already knows (like a grandmother or an aunt or a sitter he’s familiar with) or someone who’s a stranger or nearly a stranger to him (like a new babysitter). So we need to teach him that he’s okay when someone else is with him and Mommy and Daddy aren’t around. And he needs to learn that sometimes Mommy and Daddy go away for a while but that we’ll always come back, and that he’ll be well taken care of until we do.

So I guess the bottom line is that as difficult as this past week was for him and for me, it’s been good for him to learn that it’s okay when someone else is taking care of him. And it’s definitely been good for me to learn that it’s okay when someone else is taking care of him. But I’m still happiest when the someone taking care of him is me.

Opening Night! It's Opening Night!

Tonight is opening night for the Reagle Music Theatre’s annual production of “It’s ChristmasTime”! This is my third year performing in the show (I missed last year because I was busy giving birth and all that), and it has really become one of the main kickoffs of the holiday season for me.

The first time I did the show, Herb and I had only been dating for a few months. He had done the show a number of times previously, and really wanted to perform in it that year, but he admitted that the rehearsal schedule for the two weeks before the show and the performance schedule for the two weekends of shows was time-consuming enough that he didn’t want to do it unless I did it with him, since otherwise we wouldn’t be able to spend much time together. So I agreed, and dug an audition piece out of my repertoire, polished it up, and proceeded to totally plotz over it. Herb kept assuring me that I’d be fine and I shouldn’t even worry about it, but being the somewhat tightly-wound person that I am, I drove myself crazy, and then after the brief (probably about 60-second) audition and the official nod of approval, I wondered what I had been so nervous about.

For first-time performers, there’s an awful lot to learn. Some of the Christmas carols are familiar, but some are new and even the familiar ones are often unfamiliar arrangements or unusual harmonies. Some of the numbers have a bit of choreography, as well: step-touch here, raise your hands there, turn out to the audience on this word, turn off your candle on that. Nothing too complicated, but one more detail thrust into a brain that’s already full to overflowing. And then you need to know the order of the numbers and what you’re wearing in each – including shoes, hose, jewelry, and props. Herb made me a CD of a pervious performance and I kept it in my car at all times, listening carefully so I could pick out the correct harmony line and be sure I was singing what I was supposed to be. Herb reassured me over and over that it was okay if I forgot some of the words, and that people would nudge me into the right position or whisper the upcoming choreography if I needed it, but I was determined to get everything right all on my own. (Of course, I screwed up all over the place, but at least I made the effort. And Herb was right, nobody noticed.)

And yet, somehow I was able to get past my nerves and apprehension and enjoy being on stage with Herb. The singers are paired off for many of the numbers, and it was always reassuring to have my hand firmly tucked into Herb’s, knowing he’d be sure I was in the right place at the right time. I could see how much he was enjoying being on stage, and his pleasure made me enjoy being on stage, too. I remember watching him during a few of the men’s numbers and just enjoying his calm stage presence, listening to his wonderful voice and watching him come alive with the audience’s reaction. I fell even more deeply in love with him during those shows, if that was even possible.

And so now, after doing the show a few more times, I still get that new-love flutter in my heart when he catches my eye and takes my hand before we make our first entrance together. I still beam like a lovesick teenager when he puts on his sunglasses and grins impishly at the audience at the beginning of “Little Saint Nick”. And my heart still melts as he interacts with the children who come onstage for the sing-along. I remember the first time I saw that and I thought, “I wonder what he’ll be like with our children?” Because now I know exactly what he’s like. And it’s even better than I’d imagined.



The Stockings Were Hung by the Chimney With Care

I love Christmas stockings. I don’t mean the actual, physical stocking that you hang by the chimney on Christmas Eve (although I do like those an awful lot). I mean the stuff that stockings get stuffed with. I love choosing stocking stuffers for other people, and I love opening my own stocking on Christmas morning. In fact, if I had to choose between getting a Christmas stocking and getting presents under the tree, I think I’d pick the stocking.

My mom was always the best stocking stuffer, so I’m sure that’s why I love stockings so much. There was always a predictable group of categories of stuff that would be in my stocking every year. Without fail, there was always a new toothbrush, a few pairs of earrings, a package of underwear in pretty colors or funny prints, silly socks, toiletries like scented hand lotion or fancy chapstick or bright nailpolish or lipstick or bath beads, some kind of goofy desk toy, a crossword puzzle book, a calendar, a daily planner, a CD or two, some nice pens and pencils, fancy tea or coffee or hot cocoa mix, some kind of unusual snack like freeze-dried pear slices or gourmet trail mix (once it was even a tin of octopus meat) and a few handfuls of the recipient’s favorite kind of candy. Mom kept a “Christmas box” under her bed year-round and picked up interesting things she saw whenever she happened across them. The whole collection probably cost less than 20 bucks, but digging into that stocking was like opening a treasure chest.

Of course, she had the advantage of stuffing stockings mainly for girls, which I think is a lot easier. Females of every age tend to appreciate toiletries more than males do, and most men don’t get excited about cheap jewelry. So when I look for ideas of what to stuff Herb’s stocking with, it’s not quite so obvious or easy. Sure, I can buy him a can of fancy shaving gel, but he doesn’t use hand lotion or bubble bath. He’s not even a big candy eater so filling out the empty spaces in the stocking with extra handfuls of candy isn’t such a winner. He does love hot cocoa, so I always have to include a handful of single-serving packets of the darkest, richest cocoa mix I can find. And a few nice pens are something he enjoys. But with all his electronic gadgets and devices and online sites, he doesn’t use puzzle books or calendars or daily planners. He doesn’t even use CDs anymore, since downloading music is so easy and convenient. So I really have to dig into my creative brain to find things that interest him. I can occasionally figure out electronic things like a thumb drive or a certain type of cord or connector or even a gift card for some mp3 downloads, but that takes a good bit of sleuthing and a lot of hoping that he won’t buy whatever it is for himself in the week before Christmas!

But this year, I get to do a stocking for Ryan. And even though he is technically male, he’s young enough to not really fall into the “hard to buy for” male category. In fact, he’s about as easy to please as is humanly possible, since I could fill his entire stocking with crumpled up newspaper and he’d think it was the coolest thing on the face of the earth. I’m sure I’ll end up including some boring practical stuff that he doesn’t really care about like socks or a pair of mittens, but I can probably do a sweep through the dollar store and fill his stocking with things he'll love for less than 10 bucks. A few plastic measuring cups, a wooden spoon or two, a colander, couple of cheap saucepans and I’m done! Find that hard to believe? Just check out this video and you’ll see how easy it is to keep him amused with a few kitchen implements.

And of course, the crowning glory of his stocking will be the Clementine tucked into the toe. In his opinion, that’s even better than candy!

Tick Tock Clock

Ryan is truly the “strong, silent type” in that he doesn’t say much yet. I’m pretty sure I’ve heard “up” in the right context, and he does say “ba ba” when he waves goodbye. But other than that, the only “word” he says is “K”. Now, that might not seem like much, but when you hear it in context, over and over again, it becomes very obvious that “K” is his way of saying “clock”.

We have a wall clock in our living room that chimes on the quarter hour, and Ryan has always been fascinated by that clock. He likes to watch the pendulum swing back and forth, he likes to watch the second hand makes its sweep, and he LOVES to hear it play its song. In fact, if he’s in another room when it chimes, he’ll often stop what he’s doing and run over to look at it, often repeating, “K! K! K!” as he watches. If he happens to be in the basement playroom and he hears it chime, he’ll point up the stairs and excitedly announce to whoever is in the room with him: “K! K! K!” And anytime we go past it, whether we’re on our way upstairs for a nap or bedtime, or we’ve just come in the door from a shopping trip, or he’s simply marching around the living room, he casually remarks, “K,” as he passes by, just to let you know that the clock is still there.

But what really impresses me is the fact that not only does he know that specific clock is a clock, he also has a clear understanding of the general concept of “clock”, enough that he’ll point to a clock in a strange place and announce, “K!” He seems to understand that a clock is big and round, and hangs on a wall, and has markings around the edge, and has hands that move. Yesterday we were with my mom at the doctor’s office, where each cubicle has a large blood pressure monitor mounted on the wall. The monitor has a large round face, hash marks and numbers around its edges, and a hand that points to the numbers. Ryan solemnly marched from cubicle to cubicle, pointing at each one and informing everyone within earshot that it was a “K”. We’ve been in offices and restaurants and stores with all shapes and sizes of clocks, and he unfailingly points to every clock within sight and proclaims it a “K”. On several occasions he’s repeated, “K! K! K!” in a place where I was sure there were no clocks, but whenever I followed his pointing finger, darned if there wasn’t a clock tucked away somewhere.

He’s even able to apply the concept of a clock to a timepiece that doesn’t quite fit all the general criteria. The other day he pointed at Daddy’s wristwatch and announced, “K!”, so he obviously understands that being big and hanging on a wall are not crucial to making something a clock. Of course, he occasionally points to a picture hanging on a wall, especially if it has any kind of a circle motif, and pronounces it a “K”, so the concept isn’t perfect, but for a one-year-old brain, it’s some pretty impressive deductive reasoning.