Kid Amnesiac

Thursday night we had dinner at Jim and Evie’s, and Evie delighted me by bringing her blueberry pie—my favorite—to the table for dessert.  Simon turned out to be pretty delighted, too, as he took one look at the spherical confection and launched into song:

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you….”

Adorable! But also a bit mysterious, as it wasn’t anyone’s birthday Thursday night. So we all laughed out loud, then looked at each other and said “Where did that come from?”

The obvious answer was preschool. A two-minute conversation with Simon’s (six!) teachers Friday morning verified that they sing “Happy Birthday” a lot.  Not just when one of the children celebrates a birthday, but also on a regular basis as part of make-believe play.

The timing could not be better . Evie’s birthday is in two weeks, Stacy’s is in two weeks and a day, Matt’s is in four weeks, and Nathan’s is in six. We’ve got a lotta “Happy Birthday” coming up.

Simon’s Christmas present to Evie this year—which I never got around to writing about—was to say “Grandma” for the first time. His birthday present to her this year will be a song, and I’m sure she will not be disappointed.

And for the record, Simon devoured the pie with abandon. It so stuck with him that when we read one of his favorite bedtime books later that night and got to the “I love you like I love blueberry pancakes line” , which Simon diligently recites as “booberry cakes”, he improvised a bit and told me that he loved me like “boo pie.”

I saw how much he loved that pie, and I know how much I love it; I’m touched!

My mother-in-law was once friends with a brilliant woman who went on to start her own school that adhered to her unique theories of education. One of her precepts was that children were not to have any books that included anthropomorphism. So, no Curious George, no Richard Scary, no Dr. Seuss, and no Peter Rabbit. No animals drinking tea, putting on clothes, fixing washing machines, or eating Green Eggs and Ham. Evie tells me her goal was to not confuse children about the difference between humans and animals, but I thought her goal must be simply to suck the joy out of childhood.

I don’t know if this lady’s theories panned out or not, but I do know she’d be blowing a gasket about what’s happening over here these days. Ninety percent of Simon’s favorite books feature walking, talking, animals. The same goes for his favorite videos, unless you count Cars or Thomas and Friends, wherein machines are the ones being anthropomorphized. I’m guessing she’d approve of that even less than the humanized animals.

I’m not too worried about Simon growing up and thinking our car has friends or that our cats can cook, but the confluence of his make-believe play and our preferred literature is making for some funny vignettes around the house.

About a week ago, Simon insisted that his pony (on a stick) could not go to bed standing up. So before we put him to bed, we laid the pony across a chair and tucked him in together. I thought it was sweet.

Two days ago, he spied his giant bunny Bob, sitting up and uncovered at bedtime. That wouldn’t do, either, so we laid Bob on his side and covered him with a blanket for the night. Simon even leaned in to stroke Bob’s ears and give him a kiss. I thought this was unbearably sweet.

And today, while we were rolling cars back and forth to each other in the playroom, Simon suddenly declared “Siren [fire engine] sleepy!” turned the engine over on its side, and proceeded to ask for a blanket.

Ah need benket [for] Siren. Siren sleepy.

So I handed him a throw from the couch, and Simon threw it over the toy fire engine. When I asked him if it was time for Siren to get up, he yelled out nice and loud:

Time get up Siren! Time get up!

And that’s how it played out for the next twenty minutes or so, as Simon repeatedly put Siren down for his nap, got him up, and then put him back down all over again. I played right along, too, because I’m pretty sure the exercise was more about Simon’s understanding his day and acting it out than it was a sign he’s confused about the daily life of a toy truck.

About a week ago, as part of my daily routine, I set out cat food for Percival and Tristan’s mid-day meal. The trick at lunch-time is to get Tristan, who is usually not very hungry and takes amazing mid-day naps, to rouse himself and come downstairs before his hungrier brother, Percy, gobbles up all the food.

I usually summon Tristan by standing at the foot of the stairs, craning my neck to see if I can see him, and calling out his name in a loud but—I hope—welcoming way. It’s a little sing-songy, and the first syllable is drawn out for effect.

TRIS-tan…TRIIIIIIS-tan

So there I was about a week ago, bending over to put food in the bowls, when a familiar voice called out from behind me:

DIS-dun…DIIIIIIIIS-dun

It was Simon. And he sounded, pitch, tone, and all, just like me. What’s more, he was bending over and looking up the back stairs just like me, too. It was uncanny.

This got me to noticing some other similarities. Like, we both prefer to sit cross-legged. I don’t know if I should attribute this to genetics or imitation, but I do know that Matt never ever sits this way.

I also see similarities when he’s concentrating on something and pulls his mouth to the side in a lopsided grin that brings out the dimples. It’s a little goofy, and it’s a goofy look I know I wear quite often.

He’s also really into my tea. When Matt and I took him to school Friday, I had a mug of tea with me, and Simon insisted on carrying it into the school. I’ve seen him act out the tea ritual in his play kitchen, too.

The pinnacle of Simon’s mommy imitation, without a doubt, involves his play acting with the phone. Simon loves the phone; he loves to listen to real conversations and he loves to initiate pretend ones. Just yesterday he somehow managed to turn on my cell and dial our home line with it! He likes to play with real phones and toy phones, and in a pinch he’ll hold up a remote control or a calculator to his ear and pretend that is a phone as well.

And when he does, almost without fail, he lifts the phone to his ear, says “hewo” brightly, then looks down, bends over slightly to one side, and begins to pace the floor. After several trips he says, “[o]kay”, then “Simon” then “bye!” I’m not sure about the “Simon” bit, unless he’s heard me say I have to get off the phone because of him, but the rest—warts, leans, pacing and all—is vintage me.

It’s an interesting effect to see one’s behavior in the guise of a two-year old, much more immediate than viewing the same in the form of old photographs or in the behavior of other family members. It’s also made me even more eager to see what will happen any day now when gender identification takes hold and Simon begins to consciously imitate Matt.

So I had a whole little post planned for today about how Simon imitates me. I wrote it last night and was planning to edit and post today. I’ll get around to it still—Friday perhaps?—but it’s been backburnered by Simon’s actions today.

Because today Simon loved the heck out of me. I mean, he really, really loved me with an ardor and consistency that charmed my socks off. How did Simon love me? Let me count the ways:

He loved me when he wanted to hold my hand on the couch.

He loved me when he insisted on sitting on my lap to watch Cars.

He loved me when he wrapped my arms around his waist and then held them in place to ensure a tight snuggle.

He loved me when he let out a sigh during dinner and leaned over to kiss me.

He loved me when he giggled like mad while we played a hand-stacking game.

He loved me when he melted into my arms at bedtime.

And he loved me when, as I was lifting him out of his high chair after dinner, he reached out to me, took a lock of my hair into his hand, cooed, and said:

Mommy hair. Pretty hair. Pretty.

I’ve only ever heard him use that word (“pretty”) once, and then it was two weeks ago and in a totally different context. I didn’t know he knew the word or how to use it. And I have to say, having endured a rather difficult couple of days at work, it was a sentiment that made my occupational worries recede into the background and cast a warm glow on the whole day. For that matter, it will go a long ways towards getting me through tomorrow, too.

A brief anecdote: One of my favorite things about watching Simon grow and learn is seeing where modeling and patterning leads him to a logical—but incorrect—understanding or action.  I smile whenever he says something like “three deers” because, really, he should be right.

A new one has popped up this week as we have all struggled with the sniffles. Several times I have heard Simon sneeze and then quickly say in a bright tone:

Bless you, Simon.

A brief update: It took a while, but Gallery (our photo album application) is back up. I have some January photos to go back and fill in, but February is filling out just in time for the month to end.

This was a week of returns.

On Wednesday, while I was in Indianapolis, Jim and Evie returned from their almost three-week vacation and came over to the house to see Simon, who promptly shunned them. Not as badly as he shunned Molly when she returned after being away for several months, but what Matt describes is an unmistakable shun nonetheless. He saw them, turned his head to the side, and refused to make eye contact for ten minutes or so. Then all was forgiven and the expected happy reunion took place.

The next evening, around dinner time, I returned from my 50-hour trip to Indianapolis. Unfortunately, I arrived just as Simon was having a melt-down at the Whitworths’ during dinner. No one was sure what prompted it, but my arrival in its midst only escalated matters, and he sobbed in my arms for quite some time.

I wasn’t surprised by this at all. When I left, I was keenly aware that Simon was in the middle of a period of extreme attachment to me and was unlikely to take my being away as well as he did a year ago. Short trip though it was, I suspected that regardless of how busy and happy he was in my absence, that my return would spark strong emotions.

Once he calmed down, he let me know in unmistakable terms that he wanted to go home, I think so he would not have to share me with others. I’ve seen him behave similarly with my mom when she watches him at our house. If I enter into a room where the two of them are playing, I am usually greeted with an insistent (and endearingly rude) “Goodbye, Mommy!” If I’m within arm’s reach, he’ll give me a shove, too. (Yes, I know this is rudeness that will need to be corrected soon.)

When we got home, we snuggled on the couch to watch his new favorite movie, the inevitable Cars, on the couch. I could tell he missed me because while he usually insists on sitting next to me on the couch, this time he sat on my lap, leaned back against my chest, and held my hands, which were wrapped around his middle, in his own. Under normal circumstances, he has to be ill to be willing to cuddle like that!

Today, two days later, our houseguests have left and we are returning to our regular schedule. As all three of us are rather boring homebodies at heart, it’s a return I expect to enjoy thoroughly.

I took my first overnight trip away from Simon just over a year ago when I went to my company’s annual meeting in our Indianapolis office. Then I traveled three times again without Simon: to Las Vegas, to Boston, and then, regrettably, to Las Vegas again.

Travel is gearing up again, as I leave for Indianapolis later today. By now, these trips are taking a familiar shape of happy anticipation of getting some “me” time, dread of being away from Simon, guilt for looking forward to getting some “me” time, and the general insanity that comes from trying to get everything together. Whether I’m gone for two days or a full week, I always feel I cannot leave town until every bill is paid, the beds all have fresh sheets, the towels are washed and stacked, the clothes are neatly folded in drawers, childcare has been arranged, the kitchen restocked, and the fridge cleaned out.

Under normal circumstances this behavior is a bit excessive. But for this trip, I feel like I’m behind the eight-ball no matter what gets done between now and when I leave because I’ve got houseguests arriving just as I depart and because Simon is home (again) with the bug-of-the-month.

Blerg. The only thing longer than the to-do list of chores I won’t get to is the to-do list of small indulgence I also will not get to. The most striking statement about the amount of time having a small child takes up is this: The very business trips I used to resent for their infringement into my free time (all day meetings! late-night email! time spent traveling!) now represents a vast uptick in my allotted free time (business lunches! catered breakfasts! Time in the car or on the plane!)

Herewith is a small list of things I look forward to doing in the next two days:

1.      I will get three solid hours of NPR on the drive. That’s an hour and half each way before I lose my connection to 89.3. I’m not in Indy long enough to find NPR there, and there’s a deadly zone between the two cities where all I can ever get is Spanish-language programming, the kind of country I don’t listen to, and what I think of as the John Cougar Mellencamp channel.

2.      I will take a hot bath in the hotel tub without worrying that the noise will wake up Simon.

3.      I will drink my morning tea or coffee without interruption.

4.      I will sit down at a table for lunch.

5.      Dinner will consist of more than one dish.

6.      I may sneak in a quick trip to Nordstrom (there’s one by the hotel).

7.      I may stop by the Childcraft Outlet in Seymour and look for a bed (this is where I found Simon’s crib three years ago).

On the flip side, there is also a list of things I will feel bad/guilty about missing:

1.      I won’t hear Simon wake up in the morning.

2.      I won’t be there to tuck him in at night.

3.      I won’t be able to make his pancakes in the morning.

4.      I won’t be able to take his temperature and make sure he’s totally fever free within 24 hours of going back to school.

5.      I’ll miss some really funny things he says.

6.      His diapers will pile up again.

7.      I won’t be there to inventory and sort his toys.

I’m sure this dichotomy is one shared by moms everywhere. Basically, I long for a taste of the freedom of my childless life, but find it fraught when I get the chance. Unless or until I figure out how to be two places at once, I think I’ll be having these feelings for a long, long time.

As I wipe off yogurt hand-prints from my couch, it occurs to me that it may be time to institute better house rules over here. Luckily enough, Simon is showing signs of having a, shall we say, cultured, bent to him.

Part of this comes from KIP. After all, many of his teachers are Russian, the older kids there study French, and everyone gets a dose of Hebrew and Judaic studies on Friday. So it should have come as no surprise to us yesterday evening when Simon saw Matt out the door with this cheerful series:

Goodbye, Daddy!

See you, Daddy!

Adios, Daddy!

We have no idea where that “adios” came from, of course. Our best and only real guess right now is that he was trying to say “adieu” and it came out one language to the South West.

Also yesterday, a rather bleery- eyed Matt got Simon out of his crib in the morning. Typically, he is in charge of morning entertainment and clothes changing while I finish showering and then run down to cook.

Anyway, on this morning—warmer than most in recent weeks—Matt went to carry Simon downstairs in his boxers. “Quell horror! Non! Non! Non!” declared Simon.

OK.  Maybe not. but he did call out a very clear directive:

Long pants, Daddy!

If you insist, honey. If you insist.