You know that you are suffering from world’s-most-photographed-child syndrome when you feel guilty about going two weeks without publishing new pictures of your child! What a little emperor I run the risk of creating over here…

Regardless, a sample pic is at right; more are in the Gallery. May everyone dream sweet dreams of buses tonight.

On the plus side, he spends much of his day standing, he walks with us, a push-toy, or the furniture often, he squats and bends down all the time, and he’s been a stair climbing machine. On the minus side, he still butt scoots and crawls a lot, he doesn’t stand unsupported or get himself to standing alone, we’ve struggled to get him to walk holding onto a common object, and he’s only let go to walk solo three or four times.

The first time he took some steps alone was was last Thursday. He and Amy were walking together, each holding on to a “hand” of Baby Bunny. Simon got so excited about his errand that he let go of Baby Bunny and went for it. Alas, he pitched forward and fell down, thus putting a strain on his previously perfect relationship with Baby Bunny.

Then Sunday night, he went to cruise from the ottoman to the couch. He was holding on to Dirty Dog at the time and I was reaching for Dirty Dog to provide a common object. Only I did not yet have a hold on Dirty Dog when Simon took three little steps to me. Since he wasn’t bent over or trying to run, he wasn’t leaning forward and he didn’t pitch forward; he walked just fine…for three steps. As he had no idea what amazing feat he had just accomplished, he was not even a little emboldened to try this new trick some more. He’s taken similar steps at least twice since: once for Matt and once for Amy. But he’s not wild about it, and once he realizes what’s going on, he sits himself right down.

I suppose I had to expect progress to come in, to use a cliche, baby steps, but man oh man oh man, these baby steps are  leaving me impatient and hungry for more.

“Bus. This the bus. The bus? Yeah, the bus. Whas zis? Bu-pu? Ooooh. The bus.”

There’s more going on here than this report may demonstrate. Owing to his emerging fascination with all things wheeled, I picked up Happy Baby Things That Go at Borders Sunday night. I knew he’d like it, but I was and am truly delighted at how much he likes it.

His first order of business was to frantically turn pages looking for anything bus-like, to emphatically point to all these vehicles, and to emphatically proclaim “the bus” with a slight lisp at the sight of all of them. Once he calmed down, he began flipping between the inside cover page, where miniature pictures are located, to the page where each miniature’s respective full-size counterpart was located. He’d point to the small tram, call out “the bus!”, then flip to the main page in the book, point to the bigger tram, and explain that it, too, was “the bus.”

His second order of business was figuring out what all these non-bus buses were. Like the big passenger airplane. “The bus?” “No, honey, that’s an airplane.” Simon now calls this the “bu-pu”, either his attempt at saying “airplane” or “Airbus”, but we’re thinking he doesn’t know about brand names just yet. And what about the farm bus (tractor), or the sea bus (boat), or the rotorcraft bus (helicopter)? Matt and I easily spent thirty minutes saying the name of each item over and over and over again.

By the end of the evening, Simon could point to the rocket, the airplane, the motorcycle, the helicopter, and-of course-the bus when asked. Two days later the sight of the book still brightens his eyes and deepens his dimples, to say nothing for how much it makes Matt and me smile.

The only real new words he says are baby, bunny, Bubbie, and bus. Added to the old repertoire (yes, no, mama, daddy/yagi/papa, cat, dog, light, ball, what’s that? and a few others that enter and exit his lexicon), we have a regular rotation of about 15 words. Probably average for a boy his age in terms of expressive language.

His receptive language, though, has developed much faster. About a week ago, Matt had Panda Bear, Panda Bear, What Do You See? open to the back page, where the gallery of animals described in the book all appear. We read this book pretty often, but it’s not a daily standard like Goodnight Moon or My First Mother Goose. So when Matt asked Simon to show him the sea turtle, I thought he was joking… until I saw a little finger hover over the sea turtle. In turn, Simon showed us the black panther, the red fox, the panda bear, and the sea lion, then got stumped by the water buffalo and began pointing at random.

Wow! My boy has been paying more attention than I gave him credit for. In fact, once I started to pay attention myself, I could see that Simon is increasingly absorbed by the details in books. He loves the butterflies in Peter Rabbit, the little house on the hill in Each Peach Pear Plum, and the glowing embers in Bear Snores On.

It’s not just a matter of adding vocabulary words, either. He’s clearly got a better memory and a better grasp of grammar then he did only a few weeks ago. It used to be that when someone made for the door to leave, Simon would wave bye-bye. Then he began to wave as soon as keys and coats were picked up. But last week he began waving at my mother as soon as she said she should get going and before she got up or did any of these things. Matt and I also made the terrible mistake of mentioning Molly and Grandma by name on days when Molly wasn’t coming and Grandma was off on vacation. Both times he went to the window and looked out, eagerly awaiting their appearance coming up the front sidewalk and visibly disappointed when they were absent. The age of spelling out key words has dawned.

Simon also getting better at telling us what he wants using non-verbal gestures. Last week, on a day that Simon slept in unusually late, I told our sitter Laura (Molly’s replacement last week while she was away at camp) to expect to him to eat lunch late. As Simon has been cutting his two-year molars, Laura didn’t think much about the fact that Simon had his fingers in his mouth. After waiting for Laura to take the hint, Simon opted for a more direct route: He pulled up on Laura’s jeans, dragged her into the kitchen, walked (holding on to her pants-no news here) all the way to the high chair, then turned around and lifted his arms to be picked up. That got his point across quite effectively!

The very next day, at nap-time, my mom sat down in the glider with Simon to read some bedtime stories. Simon fussed, so mom reached for a different book. Again taking matters into his own hands-literally-he leaned against the glider’s footrest and pointed up meaningfully to his crib. He didn’t want to read; he just wanted to sack out. A point made all the more clear by the fact that his afternoon nap stretched to three hours.

These advances, small though they seem on the surface, are making our days together easier and more enjoyable in equal measure. It’s less of a strain when Simon can tell me what he wants and when he understands more of what I say. And as someone who finds beauty and interest in the small details of nearly every aspect of life, it’s enthralling to be able to share some of these with my young son.

Toy shopping is proving no easier. The difference is that while I have more or less made my peace with what’s sitting in my cupboards, I have much less confidence in what’s sitting in Simon’s toy chests.

At the most basic level, I strongly prefer toys the encourage use of imagination, that foster peace and cooperation, and that do not reinforce rigid gender roles. One day in the future, Simon will ask for or bring home a toy gun or tank, and on that inevitable day all my strongly held convictions will be put to the test. Until then, though, we’re keeping to the wholesome set.

I’m also not fond of the toy that is glorified branding. Why, when I’m shopping for a one and a half year old, am I besieged by commercial characters? Why is everything Dora this or Elmo that? Simon doesn’t watch (much) tv; he doesn’t know who these characters are. No offence to Sesame Street, but I’d just as soon have my blocks and crackers Elmo-free right now.

Another source of consternation is all the lights and bells and whistles on today’s toys. Study after study shows that the best toys for kids are the plain ones. Blocks, dolls, and balls are hard to beat. Toys that flash and buzz not only require less imagination and grow tiresome quickly, but they also spoil kids for the good toys. Despite pediatricians’ near unanimity on the subject, the aisles of stores like Toys ‘R Us are stocked with heavily branded multi-sensory attacks. Nearly everything I want is special order.

And then there is the issue of where materials and labor are sourced. If you buy plastic toys, you are purchasing something that’s a petroleum by-product and that is destined for a landfill. If you purchase wood toys, you have to be careful lest you contribute to deforestation. If you purchase toys made overseas, you have to worry about labor conditions and the environmental impact of shipping. If you purchase domestic toys, you better be rich.

All of these issues came to a head the day I first went looking to buy a train set. That must have been two months ago or longer, and yet we are still train-free. Why? Because I am paralyzed by indecision, that’s why.

Trains pass the ethical test just fine. What could be more wholesome? I think trains are cool, and while they are most often found in boys’ playrooms, I also know several girls who play with them. And hey, he’s got a toy kitchen, so I’m giving myself a bye.

The issue is which set to get. The optimal train is made of wood from well managed resources, comes from a carefully supervised factory, doesn’t include any lead paint (needless to say), and-ideally-costs less than a full pay check.

Well good luck with that! I found a Scandinavian set that is now made in China, an English/American set that recently had lead paint issues, one European set that would cost me several pay checks and another that uses sturdy cardboard (yuck!) for the tracks.

Looks like we won’t be getting a train until I decide whether I’m compromising my principles or my wallet. Or both.

This has to be the Y chromosome at work. We have one toy car in the house, one simple train, and no buses, trucks or planes (yet). He’s only got two shirts with wheeled vehicles on them, and both of these owe more to Mondrian than a monster truck rally. He has one set of books about fire engines and trucks, a hand-me-down from his cousin Ben, and we only just got them out a couple of weeks ago.

It’s as though the love of buses and trucks were encoded in his DNA, and something just triggered the bus-loving gene. Really, it’s the only plausible explanation.

About a week ago, Simon saw a toy dump truck at my mom’s house. It was love at first sight, and he played with it for longer than any other toy there. At about the same time, he started to get more interested in the Big Fire Engine, Big Race Car, and other Big Vehicle books he got from Ben. His love even extends to the page in Hippos Go Berserk where eight hippos board a Greyhip bus. He will flip through the pages front-to-back and back-to-front in search of that page, then emphatically point to the hippos in the bus to make sure we join him in his excitement.

But nothing in the world compares to the joy of seeing a bus go down Bardstown road. When that happens, Simon starts to talk a blue streak and gesticulate wildly. I’ve taken to walking him down Bardstown road instead of through the neighborhood because he’s less likely to resist being in the stroller if he is surrounded by trucks, motorcycles, and the like. It’s our little compromise: I relinquish my love of quiet nature walks in exchange for Simon giving up his rage against confinement and letting me stretch my legs.

At our playgroup on Friday, Simon once again sat outside the play area for much of the time and entertained himself on the shop’s front steps. Every time a bus roared down the street, he’d get excited. Then he tossed a ball down the front steps, watched it roll into the street, get hit by a bus, and fly a full block ahead, and he was in sheer heaven. It was the happiest I saw him all day, and that Friday Simon ate a cupcake, a chocolate kids’ Cliff bar, and a piece of apple strudel. (No comment on the nutrition here. I sort of lost track. In my defense, the cupcakes were for a birthday and he also ate plain yogurt, grilled cheese, fresh fruit, and sag paneer that day, so it wasn’t a complete bust.)

Clearly Matt and I have some shopping to do. And I have to say, I’m crossing my fingers that if we indulge his love of trucks and buses he might just forget about that other great love…

…the love that dare not speak its name…

… the motorcycle.

Simon is just now getting old enough to play with another child, and Sophie is just now getting old enough to adjust her level of play for a younger toddler.

The two of them shared a snack across the kitchen island from each other, then set off to play like mad. It’s the most interactive (and hilarious) I’ve ever seen them. They laughed until they were too tired to stand, and Simon even got a kiss!

Twas a lovely way to start off the month of June and get our album off to a happy start.

This may carry over to footedness as well. I’ve noticed that when Simon goes to “walk” up or down stairs (when he no longer needs help, I’ll drop the quote marks), he raises his left foot first. I haven’t consistently done all the usual tests or done some of the tests at all. We haven’t, say, seen which eye he stares through a tube with.

I assumed pretty much until Friday that this was just a stage he was going through. After all, at a year he did everything with his right hand. But Amy informed me at our session on Friday that handedness can become evident by around 18 months, and that Simon’s nearly uniform preference for his left side may well indicate that he’s left handed. In other words, while it would not be surprising if he switched hand dominance in the next few months or even years, it’s more likely that he’s a lefty.

I’m torn on this. On the con side, there’s the fact that while we no longer “beat” left-handedness out of people or consider it a sign of evilness or sorcery, it’s still easier to be a righty in this world. Whether you are sitting at a dinner party, learning to write, or using shared office and school equipment, it’s inconvenient to be left-handed.

On the pro side, it’s one more thing for me to have fun researching, and if it sticks around, it might make Simon a more formidable opponent on the tennis court. Or in the boxing ring, but I can’t bring myself to even imagine that possibility.

And why might Simon be a lefty? I don’t think anyone really knows, but every theory out there has some support in our situation.

• Maternal age: Left-handed children are much more common among older mothers. A 40-year old woman is 128% more likely to give birth to a left-handed baby than a woman in her twenties. I was nearly 37 when I had Simon. This may be because of an increased likelihood of having a difficult pregnancy or arduous delivery. It could also be because older moms are more likely to have varying hormone levels during pregnancy, and left-handedness may be triggered by testosterone.
• Genetics: Left-handedness runs in families. My father (born, notably, to an older mother himself) is left handed, as was my maternal great-grandfather. I’m not sure about the Whitworths, but I seem to recall a mention of lefties in their ranks, too.
• Gender: Males are much more likely to be left-handed than females. Simon is a boy all right. His current obsession with trucks, busses, and anything loud with an engine is making that quite clear each day.
• Birth order: Lefties are much more likely to be first-born or sixth born or later. Hormone fluctuations are more common in first and late pregnancies than middle ones. Simon is my first born.
• Brain damage: Let’s hope not. But there is also a correlation between brain trauma suffered in utero or during a difficult birth and left-handedness. Similarly, a disproportionate number of people with mental retardation are left handed. Simon D-celled a lot when he was being born and gulped down amniotic fluid during delivery, but I don’t think any of that amounts to brain damage. I’m going to pretend I didn’t find that tid-bit! Some studies list trauma such as difficulty breathing at birth as a cause of left-handedness and a sign that there are “pathological” left-handed people who are separate from “genetic”ones. This does make me wonder if Simon’s early need for oxygen might constitute mild damage.

Other than that last point, it’s all good. In fact, at least one professor who researches the topic argues that left-handed people historically accomplish more than their right-handed counterparts and that their brains are structured differently in a way that widens their range of abilities.

Having a little genius on my hands sounds swell and all, but there is a significant catch. IF Simon inherits my handwriting abilities; and IF we adjust my handwriting for being male and left-handed; THEN we have Ivan Goldstein’s handwriting on our hands, which may well be the worst handwriting recorded in history. (Mine is a close second; and is equally bad in English print, English cursive, Hebrew, and cuneiform. I have yet to find a written language in which my hand is legible.) Therefore, any left-handed-related increase in Simon’s academic abilities will likely be offset by his teachers’ total inability to decipher his scrawl.

Then again, he may start using his right hand tomorrow!

The results have been mixed.

The train table has been a smashing success. We put all his favorite toys on it, and Simon spends literally hours playing standing up. Yesterday was our first full day of all-standing play, and he capped it by sleeping for 13 hours straight last night. Good boy! Better still, he frequently drops objects, then bends over to pick them up again. Amy has suggested we do this for him to get him out of his single, Frankenstein-like standing pose. And best of all, Simon will periodically break out into a dance while standing. If his bouncing, fist pumping, head shaking moves cracked me up when he was sitting, the addition of some hip action has sent me into uncontrollable gales of laughter.

Basketball has been a modest success. He likes the game and can certainly get the ball in the hoop, but he’s not ready to post up Mr. Fundamental (that’s Tim Duncan, by the way) or drive to the goal just yet. The goal (no pun intended) of this game is to see if we can get Simon to stand unsupported without realizing it. To date, we’ve managed a barely there lean against an adjacent table while putting the ball in the hoop, but he hasn’t gone totally solo yet. Still, I’m buoyed by the progress.

As for the sand and water table, I’m beginning to wonder if the engineers were drunk when they designed this sucker. The pitch must have gone like this: “When kids play in water, they make a mess. When kids play in sand, they make and even bigger mess. Let’s combine the two so the kids can be covered in wet sand that will stick to their skin and clothes and get all over the house, too. It’ll offer all the mess of a trip to the beach without the scenery. Perfect.”

Perhaps this will get better when Simon has a better idea of what to do with the thing. For now, his play is mostly limited to throwing water out of the table, throwing sand out of the table, throwing sand into the water, and eating the sand. On the plus side, Simon enjoys it and it keeps him standing, so we’re not giving up on it just yet. On the minus side, at his present rate he’s going to go through fifty pounds of sand in about a week.

Pictured at top right, my beautiful boy shellacked with sandy concrete.

Our good intentions never materialized into more play, though, because neither Matt nor I could figure out how to work and find playgroups at the same time-especially when it was dark by five, too cold or wet to go out most days, and we saw few other children when we did get out. As a result, we all watched fall and winter go by from the confines of our cozy little bubble.

Then, about a month ago, I got to the chapter on 18-month-olds in Touchpoints, and good old T. Berry hammered home the point that at this age, regular play with peers becomes important. I heard T. Berry loud and clear, but I still couldn’t figure out how to do this when I work 10-3 or so four days a week while Simon is home with a sitter. It seems to me that working full time with Simon in day-care or working no-time with me available mid-day for play groups would both allow for more peer play than our otherwise ideal present arrangement does.

The final straw came two weeks ago when Simon was evaluated by his physical therapist for First Steps. Amy offhandedly commented that if Simon were in day-care with a bunch of kids literally running him over, he’d be up and walking by now. At home with us, he’s just not feeling the pressure.

Amy didn’t say this to criticize me. In fact, she quickly added that First Steps goes to day care centers all the time, and that those kids can have their own issues crop up. “Believe me, she said, my new one starts day care in a few weeks, and I’d be happier doing what you are doing.”

Perhaps she saw the fear in my eyes and that’s what prompted her confessional. I’ll never know, but I do know that her assessment made me seriously question whether I have been doing right by Simon for the first time in a long, long while. Would he be better off in day care? If I’m going to be home, do I need to be home full-time so we can get out and join play-groups? Am I enjoying the convenience and luxury of my work arrangement at his expense? The thought, code as it was for “Am I a bad mother?” set me on edge.

Thankfully, I don’t hear that voice in my head very often. Equally thankfully, summer has arrived, making it easier to get out these days. I took Simon to a play group last Friday and managed to appear chipper enough even though I am a full decade older than most of the other moms there. Simon got into the swing of things eventually, but he spent the first forty minutes literally holding on to my shirt and watching the others play from the sidelines. That, too, was dispiriting, but in keeping with his shy demeanor at playgrounds this spring.

Finally, two of the other six kids left, and Simon warmed up enough to sit in the sandbox and make a happy mess. He also managed to play ball with a boy his age and climb up and down the stairs a bunch of times. Baby steps all.

But he was happiest with me and one of the other moms, and I realize that from now until preschool in the fall I will need to heed the wise T. Berry and not just read him and make excuses. It’s not just that I think Simon needs the pressure to walk, but also that if does get up in time for preschool, it’s going to be a rough first week if he’s totally unused to being surrounded by his peers. It’s great that he loves adults so much, but the kids will outnumber the grownups at KI preschool! So the new rule, no excuses, is playgroups twice a week. Whatever inconvenience this brings me should be more than offset by quieting the questioning voice within.