Kid Amnesiac

As a native English speaker, I think it’s my right to coin new words. I think it’s everyone’s, actually. English’s flexibility and accommodation of new words is part of its inherent character.

On the other hand, it really helps if the new word being coined has a clear meaning. Simon, bless his heart, has contributed the following to the mother tongue: “Nokay.” Like “shalom”, which means both “hello” and “goodbye” in Hebrew, “nokay” has several meanings. These include:

• Absolutely! Yes!
• Sure, fine, I have no better suggestion
• I’d rather not, but I will if you insist
• I’d rather not, and will fight you to the death if you try to make me

You can see where this might cause some trouble.

“Nokay” has been around for a week or so. In the beginning, it was reserved for the middle meanings, and Matt and I found it a clever and cute coinage. A typical dialogue might go like this:

“Simon,” do you want to have a grilled cheese sandwich for dinner? we’d ask.

“Nokay.”

We interpreted this to mean, “I’d rather have cookies for dinner, but grilled cheese is fine. Just don’t expect me to get super excited about it.” It seemed to us that, in two syllables, “nokay” met an unmet linguistic need.

Within the last two days, however, “nokay” has also come to mean “yes!” as well as “no! no! no!”, and things have gotten heated as a result. Here’s an [abridged] dialogue from yesterday:

“Simon,” do you want to go to the park.

“Nokay.”

“All right honey, let’s walk to the car.”

“Nokay” [Simon walks to back yard] “Simon go to kitchen.”

“You want to play in the kitchen in your play house?”

“Nokay.”

[I take his hand to walk to the play house. Simon collapses in a heap of sobs.]

“Simon, what do you want to do?”

“Simon play in kitchen.”

“You want to go inside then? To the kitchen?”

“Nokay.”

“All right, honey, let’s go inside.”

[Simon collapses in a heap of sobs.]

“Simon, do you want to go inside?”

“Nokay.”

“Well, inside is up these stairs. [the deck stairs]Do you want to go up these stairs?”

“Nokay.” [I take his hand. He collapses into a heap of sobs.]

“Simon, where do you want to go?”

“Downstairs. Simon play in kitchen.”

“Well, honey, the kitchen is up these stairs, and to get to the basement, we have to go inside, too. [There is no kitchen in the basement, so I’m ignoring that for now.] Let’s go up the steps.”

“Nokay.”

[I head towards the steps. Simon collapses into a heap of sobs.]

“Simon, would you rather go to the park?”

“Nokay.”

“Okay.” [no more “honey” at this point] “Let’s walk the car.”

[Simon collapses into a heap of sobs.]

“Would you rather play here on the sidewalk?”

“Nokay.”

And on, and on, and one, for what seemed like forever. In all, a full hour of the time he had between nap and dinner was spent—or wasted, depending on your persepective—trying to figure out what he wanted to do.

At first, I was eager to blame “nokay” for our failure to communicate. But in hindsight, I think “nokay” may have summed up Simon’s feelings exactly. Is seems to me that what I witnessed was the classic tension between Simon’s desperately wanting to assert himself and make a decision and his inability to do so. If I’m correct, then “nokay” can best be defined as “I don’t know what I want, and whatever you guess will be wrong.”

Which is fine as far as information theory goes. But it’s sure not going to help me help him figure anything out!

Whether due to laziness, habit, or our own preferences, Matt and I have whittled down Simon’s reading list to a group of rotating favorites. Accordingly, it’s not just reading that is part of Simon’s nighttime ritual, but reading a select group of familiar books.

By now, so much time has gone by that  Simon knows a handful of books really well. He probably has done for months now. What’s new is his ability to “read” along with us. This began around the New Year with Moo, Baa, La La La, a rhyming Boynton book about animal sounds.

“The Cow says…” I read, and then pause.

“Moo” says Simon, taking his cue.

“The sheep says….” I  continue, voice trailing off.

“Baaa” bleats Simon, regular as clockwork.

And so we read the entire book together in a call-and-response fashion. Listening to Simon’s sing-songy “meow” is a highlight, as is his “nie” for “nay” and his attempt at a decent “oink.”

Evenings spent reciting Moo Baa La La La is how reading went from being a comforting ritual into an engaging game for us; it was the beginning of storytime transitioning from a solo to a sweet duet.

The next book Simon learned to “read” along with me was I Love You, Goodnight, an amazingly sappy bedtime book I was a little embarrassed to buy and am a lot embarrassed to love as much as I do. This book depicts a mother mouse telling her child how much she loves him (or her, the gender is never stated).

“I love you like I love blueberry pancakes,” she says.

“I love you like I love strawberry milkshakes,” he counters.

“I love you like frogs love flies,” she offers.

“I love you like pigs love pies!” he replies.

The similes stretch to vines loving [to kill, I always add] trees, mice loving cheese, wind loving blowing, plants loving growing, boots loving to splash in puddles, and [teddy] bears loving kissing and cuddles. Starting about six weeks ago, Simon took over everything after the “I love you like” part. He stumbles a bit on the boots line, and his bear loves kisses more than cuddles, but all the rest is there. Pigs, pies, frogs, flies, even the “win loves bwowing” part.

And even though I know he knows it, and even though I know kids have great memories and do things like this everywhere, every line he repeats feels momentous to me. I must say “that’s great!” and kiss him ten times before we close that book.

In just the past week or so, Simon has raised the stakes and tackled My First Mother Goose, or “Mommy Goose” as he calls it. He knows who likes their Pease Porridge hot and who prefers it cold (Matt and I fill in family names for the “some” in the rhyme); he can recite “One Two Buckle My Shoe” through the nine-ten line with very little prompting; and he fabulously knows that when Wee Willie Winkie runs through the town, it’s because “eight o’clock is bedtime.”*

Avid readers that we are, Matt and I are delighted to see Simon take pleasure in literature. It is such a fantastic thing to share, and such a lovely way to end our days together. It is also one of the very few things that makes me look with happy anticipation to the years ahead of us, when Simon and I can share more favorites, rather than look back and lament all the time gone by.

More than any of that, though, it’s a perfect illustration of how mundane things can seem so extraordinary when you watch a child learn them, and how they can indeed transform into something seemingly miraculous when that child is your own.

*I just learned that in the original the children have to be in bed because it’s after ten o’clock. Simon must never know this!

That’s how my day began yesterday. I heard Simon wake up and call out for me, same as usual. But when I opened the door to his room, he said a very cheery and polite “Good Morning” instead of his usual litany of needs. (“I need drink of water. I need baby cakes. I need George.  I need down.”)

Such a splendid way to begin the day. These little social niceties are having a big impact on me.

Born to Run

Who would have thought that after so many months of not walking that controlled falling would hold such appeal? Simon just loves to run.

He likes to run down long hallways, opposite any direction we ask him to move in, and down any ramp or incline. We’ve at last gotten running into the street and in parking lots under control, and that’s a huge relief to my psyche. It’s been replaced, however, with a love of social running, which is whipping my cardiovascular system into better shape.

Simon looks up at me, screams “Go, Mommy, Go!” and bounces up and down while I run. Then he runs to follow me, and we meet up at our destination. No sooner have I drawn to a complete stop than Simon is shouting out again, “Go, Mommy, Go!”

The first five times I run across my kitchen or basement or down the length of my driveway, I am charmed. The next five times, I am slightly less charmed. By the twentieth trip, Simon is still in the thrall of running, and I am getting tired of it. To say nothing of just plain tired!

But the joy on his face when he screams “Go, Mommy, Go!” demands that I run. The sound of him yelling “Go, Simon, Go!” and the sight of his hair flying and arms flailing as he pursues me propel me forward. I can’t quit on him.

Nor, really, can anyone else. Last Friday Molly ran a dozen or so laps in our basement. She tried to get Simon to move on to Ring-around-the-Rosie or basketball, but he ignored all that and called out “Go, Molly, Go!” endlessly. He’s also run my poor mother until I’ve heard her explain that Bubbie can’t run any more and seen her come upstairs looking flushed.

Yesterday all this running further escalated. We were at Seneca Park, which is encircled by a running track. Once Simon saw it, he was on it and there was no turning back. Literally there was no turning back. We tried to get Simon to run back to the middle of the track or to turn around and run back towards our car, but he insisted on running forward around the track and through various groups of serious runners—always with me a few yards ahead. He’d periodically approach to give me a hug, but once he broke off our embrace he met whatever suggestion I had with the same reply: “Go, Mommy, Go!”

This is how I found myself with an excited but tired little boy over a half mile from our car. Having Gone, Mommy, Gone! that far, it was time for me to Go, Mommy, Go! all the way back to car—as fast as possible—so I could retrieve Simon and Matt.

There are worse things I could do than run a mile. It was probably even good for me. But next time, I’m thinking it might be nice if I wear something other than jeans, a hoodie, and Mary Janes while I’m at it. Then again, I’m just grateful I wasn’t wearing three-inch heels. It could have been A LOT worse.

“Thank you” and “I’m sorry” might be the four most important words in English. Simon is a little young to understand why these words are so important, but I’ve decided to establish the habit now and worry about comprehension later. To date, we are having more success with expressing gratitude than we are remorse, which kind of makes sense when you figure Simon has a hundred things to be thankful for every day but very little to feel sorry about.

Saturday Matt and I (bravely) decided to embark on two commercial ventures that typically result in tears: we had his hair cut and we shopped for new shoes. Both ventures proved to be unexpected opportunities to flex the thank you muscle.

The haircut was a revelation. We’ve had three cuts before, all at a big place 25 minutes from the house that specializes in children’s hair. He was completely hysterical the first two times; we stopped the third cut just before hysteria arrived. This time we decided to cut short our misery by 40 minutes and go the place about three blocks away where Matt gets his hair cut.

And he was great! He sat in Matt’s lap the whole time, watched Cars on our portable DVD player, and never cried once. After 25 minutes, Tammy held up the mirror to show him his new do and—God as my witness—Simon smiled and said a bright “thank you!” Huh. I’m beginning to think that Cookie Cutters, which seemed like such a great idea at the time, may have overstimulated Simon before the cut began.

Feeling lucky, we decided to go shoe shopping later Saturday. Our last attempt also involved a fair bit of tears. This time we had to promise Simon that if he’d try on shoes, he’d get to go “up, up, up” (the escalator) and also run up and down a ramp at the mall. He must have thought this a good deal, because he did sit down, he offered up his feet to the sales clerk to try on shoes, and he told us that he liked one of the pairs we tried. When we got up to pay for them, Simon turned to the sales clerk and said another cheerful “thank you!” before heading to the escalator.

Success! Alas, “I’m sorry” has been trickier. Simon threw a toy at my face in frustration last week, the repercussions of which were immediate. I took the toy away, sat him on the bed, and explained that we weren’t doing anything he wanted to—or anything at all for that matter—until he said he was sorry. He wailed pretty good, and I patiently told him that he didn’t need to be so upset, but that he did need to apologize. This set off a spell of angry crying, to which I responded that he could be angry all he wanted, but that we still weren’t going to leave the bed until he apologized. It took a good 5-10 minutes, but we did get there.

Now yesterday Simon took a swing at Matt when he thought Matt was taking something from him. Matt immediately confiscated the desired objects (pennies of all things) and demanded an apology. Simon cried. I entered the room after a bit to reinforce Matt, and Simon was in stonewalling mode. It took at least fifteen minutes and much, much crying before the necessary “I’m sorry” was extracted.

At times like these, Matt and I both struggle with knowing what the best course of action is. Simon did not set out to harm us either time; he acted in careless frustration the first time and misbegotten self-defense the second. Matt, in particular, was worried that we were making a mountain out of a mole-hill.

I see his point, and my insistence did drag out the unpleasantness considerably, but it seems to me that (1) Now is the time to work on this; (2) it’s important for Simon to understand that you must apologize even if your actions were not intended be harmful; and (3) we are teaching him how he must treat us, and doing so in a way that models the behavior we want to see him display.

If that means a few more standoffs lie in the future, I can live with that. In the meantime, I’m just feeling pretty good about those thank yous.

Someone forgot to tell Simon that Friday the 13th is bad luck; he had one of his happiest days ever, the credit for which is due to Molly and Sophie.

Molly came over yesterday morning to tape Simon for a class she’s taking about language development. Her spring break was this week, and Simon was out of school for teacher training, so the timing was perfect. I had feared a repeat of the shunning Simon doled out when she showed up during winter break, but thankfully yesterday played out in a polar opposite fashion.

We talked about Molly coming over Wednesday and Thursday, and he clearly understood us this time. After breakfast and a bath, when we told him that Molly would be arriving shortly, he sat on our couch in happy anticipation for fifteen minutes or more. No books, no music, no toys, no TV, just looking out the front door waiting for Molly.

And when she did arrive and knocked on the door, Simon broke into a huge smile, squealed, greeted her enthusiastically, took her hand and led her to a favorite toy, and then immediately turned to me and said:

“Goodbye, Mommy. See you, Mommy.”

When I didn’t immediately take the “hint”, Simon took matters into his own hands—literally. He grabbed my hand, said “Mommy walk,” hustled me to into the kitchen, and added for good measure, “Mommy go to kitchen.”

Hey, I know when I’m not wanted! It was thirty minutes before he was willing to share Molly’s company with me.

In case a morning with Molly wasn’t treat enough, he then got to have dinner with Sophie.  Simon thinks everything Sophie does is wonderful. When she runs, he runs. When she squeals, he squeals. When she puts her hand in his water, he doesn’t care, and when she spits milk all over his face, he laughs and waits for more.

Last, he talked about Sophie all the way to dinner, and then after dinner talked about her some more.

“Sophie come to park,” he’d say.

“That’s right,” we’d reply. “We’re going to the park, and Sophie is coming with us.”

None of this is particularly new, except Simon had never said her name before tonight. Just in the last two weeks or so he has begun to name his classmates, specifically Lola, Greta, Rachel, Bela, and Baron. Then last week he called Leah by name. And now, last night he managed the name for his oldest and dearest friend of all.

It’s hard not to feel like a new era is dawning, the era of real interactive play and friedships. I can’t wait to see more, and I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be a great summer.

The last few days have offered up a glimpse of spring. I can see buds on a smattering of trees, a few early-bird jonquils have bloomed, and the last two days have been warm. This is different than saying spring has arrived, though, because the forecast is for cold weather later in the week, most of the trees are still bare, and the closed jonquil buds lining my sidewalk remind me that true spring is still weeks away.

In a similar vein, the last few days have offered up plenty of glimpses of Simon as a boy and some careful reminders that he remains—for a few months yet—a toddler.

He’s getting much better, for example, about brushing his teeth at night, eagerly asking for his toothbrush and giving it the old pre-school try. That seems big-boyish to me. But then I have to do the real work, his toothpaste contains no fluoride because he eats it, and his favorite toothbrush has a giant Tigger handle. That’s a clear indication of toddlerhood.

His verbal skills continue to advance at a rapid clip, and sometimes he says something in a tone I can only call teenaged.

“Simon, do you want to go to a park?” I ask brightly.

“Uh-kay” he replies, with a practiced nonchalance.

Then he asks me to carry him down the front steps and I am reminded that the teenage years are over a decade away.

At home Simon eats in a high chair pulled up to the kitchen island or in a booster seat at the dining-room table. When we are out, however, he has begun to resist the booster seat and the high chair in favor of sitting down like all the adults—there’s that glimpse again— only to inevitably spill or drop things when he can’t easily reach the table—and here comes the reminder.

Two nights ago, my girl-crazed son preened and showed off as best he could for the daughter of friends, who is five months older than he is. We were at a restaurant, and he stood up on his seat to be “tall”, leaned back against the booth in a studied pose that recalled  James Dean, and pulled out every trick in his arsenal of charm to get little Leah’s attention. I thought I caught a glimpse. By the end of the night they were playing Ring-around-the-Rosie beside the table, and Simon was squealing with joy. Thus came the reminder.

And the piece de resistance of glimpses? Simon’s teachers sent him home today with two pictures of him “dancing” with his classmate Rachel. Their arms are wrapped around each other in one picture, Simon’s low and Rachel’s high across each other’s backs, and in the other they have arms wrapped around each other on one side and arms outstretched with hands clasped on the other. It looks for all the world like they are ready to take off in a fox-trot, and the teacher even captioned it “Shall we dance?”

It was a short leap from this picture to envisioning Simon at cotillion in sixth grade. Except I don’t think they have cotillion any more, and by then Rachel would likely be taller.