I'm not sure how you really decide what your child's first word is. I mean, he's been saying "mamamamama" and "dadadadadada" for a long time now, but never really as a way to identify or get the attention of his parents -- they're just sounds. He uses them in the same contexts as he uses "a-wawawawawawa" and blowing raspberries.
My dad is pretty sure that he says "--g" for dog -- like, he misses the "d" sound, but gets the end, 'ug-uh' sound, and uses it when he sees a dog. I'm not quite sure, because when he's with me, he squeals with joy when he sees a dog, or sticks his tongue out and pants, but doesn't usually seem to be saying a word.
He loves doing "cheers!" with his sippy cup, and one day we clanked glasses, I said "cheers!" and he said "deeeee-ohhhh," and I thought, hey, that seems like a word! At least it sounded sorta right, and it made sense in context.
But then he never said it again.
But this weekend, he started doing a very insistent, concentration-filled "Ckcklckcklckx-aaahr" while pointing out the window at cars driving by, or when pointing at a fire truck in one of his books, or while pointing to a plastic dump truck in his toy box. He seems to totally know what he is saying, and while it's not always precise, he gets the general idea that "things that have wheels and that go are cars." He also does seem to be communicating: from his little perch by the window of our urban apartment, he will point his finger and look up at me with amazement and disbelief, like, can you believe our luck? Look, hurry, before you miss it! There's a ckcklckcklckx-aaahr out there!!
So, I'm thinking I'll say that "car" is his first word, at 13 months. The dog stuff came earlier, which maybe makes him sound smarter, but then again, I'm not sure that "my child's first word was to pant like a dog" really makes him sound all that smart.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Loss
I just learned yesterday that one of my friends, a member of my book group, passed away unexpectedly on Friday. So far there is no explanation -- she had been feeling sick for a couple of days, and then was found at her home, unresponsive. It is too soon, too fresh, to say anything remarkable about this. But I felt the urge to write something down, to say that she had such a joyous laugh, and a beautiful smile. She could get infectiously excited. She had a fun, sometimes sarcastic, sense of humor. She taught me new things about food, and books, and writing.
She had just moved a few months ago to Colorado, to be with a boyfriend she had met in the last year. I could see from her pictures how happy they were together -- blissful, and domestic, with new Christmas stockings and a new dog. She was a writer; she was working on a book. Right at this moment I can't decide whether it is wonderful to die at a moment of happiness, contentment -- or whether it is awful to die right at a moment of happiness, contentment. Both, I guess. Both, of course it is both.
This should be all about her, this should be memories of her, I should not be thinking of myself and my own life but of course I am. Of course the loss of a friend, a young friend, makes me think of my own vulnerability. It makes me wonder whether I am living each day as I should. It makes me think of my son, of being a mother -- because I am thinking of her mother, and I am crushed; my heart and lungs are completely and utterly crushed flat so that I gasp for a breath, when I think of losing a child. And that makes me think of my grandmother, who lost her daughter, and my aunt, who lost her daughter. And I think also of my husband's friend from college, another young friend, who died unexpectedly last year. And I think of the two women I had known in high school who died in the last year and a half -- one from cancer, the other from complications following lymphoma treatments. And I think, how can I know this many people my own age who are dying? Am I at the age now, when people die? Or have the stars misaligned?
And then I feel sorry for making this about me, about my experience, because even though I am experiencing the loss of my friend, this is about a young woman with a beautiful smile, an infectious excitement, a woman in the midst of making her own happiness, a woman who was a daughter, and a friend, and a lover.
I admired her for many things, but one of them was her bold, courageous decision to write a book. So today, I am writing this raw little piece of writing and publishing it here without worrying what anyone thinks because "just write! just do it" is one of the things that my friendship with her taught (or re-taught, reminded) me. And I hope that I will keep remembering to write, and to live every day to the fullest, because the world, though beautiful and wonderful, can be so deeply unfair.
Wherever you are, Erin, I wish you peace.
She had just moved a few months ago to Colorado, to be with a boyfriend she had met in the last year. I could see from her pictures how happy they were together -- blissful, and domestic, with new Christmas stockings and a new dog. She was a writer; she was working on a book. Right at this moment I can't decide whether it is wonderful to die at a moment of happiness, contentment -- or whether it is awful to die right at a moment of happiness, contentment. Both, I guess. Both, of course it is both.
This should be all about her, this should be memories of her, I should not be thinking of myself and my own life but of course I am. Of course the loss of a friend, a young friend, makes me think of my own vulnerability. It makes me wonder whether I am living each day as I should. It makes me think of my son, of being a mother -- because I am thinking of her mother, and I am crushed; my heart and lungs are completely and utterly crushed flat so that I gasp for a breath, when I think of losing a child. And that makes me think of my grandmother, who lost her daughter, and my aunt, who lost her daughter. And I think also of my husband's friend from college, another young friend, who died unexpectedly last year. And I think of the two women I had known in high school who died in the last year and a half -- one from cancer, the other from complications following lymphoma treatments. And I think, how can I know this many people my own age who are dying? Am I at the age now, when people die? Or have the stars misaligned?
And then I feel sorry for making this about me, about my experience, because even though I am experiencing the loss of my friend, this is about a young woman with a beautiful smile, an infectious excitement, a woman in the midst of making her own happiness, a woman who was a daughter, and a friend, and a lover.
I admired her for many things, but one of them was her bold, courageous decision to write a book. So today, I am writing this raw little piece of writing and publishing it here without worrying what anyone thinks because "just write! just do it" is one of the things that my friendship with her taught (or re-taught, reminded) me. And I hope that I will keep remembering to write, and to live every day to the fullest, because the world, though beautiful and wonderful, can be so deeply unfair.
Wherever you are, Erin, I wish you peace.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
If I were president of the universe...
Here's what I wish people would stop doing:
1. On the highway, I wish people would stop coming up right behind me, so close that if I had to slam on my brakes to avoid something in front of me, they would come crashing right into the back of my car, where my child sits. I especially wish that they would stop doing this when I am in the slow lane, or in one of the two slower lanes, when there is plenty of free highway space in the faster lanes. Several times in the last week, I found myself moving over into a fast lane so that the impatient driver behind me could zoom past in the slow lane. Dude, pull yourself together; if I am going the speed limit in the slow lane, and you want to go faster, pass me in the fast lane.
[As a related aside, I just wanted to add that before I had a child, I thought those "Baby on Board" signs were just cheesy and annoying little "Hey everyone: I've got a baby!" advertisements, sort of like those "My child is on the honor roll" stickers. Now, I realize that they are a plea for sanity, saying something more like: "Dudes, WATCH IT. I have a baby in here."]
2. I wish clothing manufacturers would stop making super low-cut jeans. First of all, I don't like wearing them because of the muffin top situation, but second of all, and much more important, in my classrooms, the desk-and-chair combo seats that the students sit in have a little cut-out right in the lower-back area of the seat. So, when all the girls wearing super low-cut jeans that reveal some "coin slot" (thanks for the term, Becky) sit down, they are in seats that frame the scene for all to see. I often have my students doing collaborative work while sitting in small groups, which means that they often move their desks into little circles and clusters around the room. It's like a sea of slot machines in there, people.
3. At the neighborhood park, there is this one woman -- I can't quite tell if she is a nanny or a grandma, but she is often there with a couple of little kids -- and I wish she would quit it with her nasal yelling. She has this really nasal-y voice, and she sits on a bench in the sun, yelling at the kids she watches to play nice or be safe or come eat their snack in a minute, yell-gossiping with the other moms about people in the neighborhood, etc. It's all sort of "performative talk," if that makes sense -- none of it is really necessary communication, but it loudly performs the fact that she is taking care of the kids, and that she knows everything in the neighborhood. It is getting tiresome.
Thanks for listening. What's bugging you lately?
1. On the highway, I wish people would stop coming up right behind me, so close that if I had to slam on my brakes to avoid something in front of me, they would come crashing right into the back of my car, where my child sits. I especially wish that they would stop doing this when I am in the slow lane, or in one of the two slower lanes, when there is plenty of free highway space in the faster lanes. Several times in the last week, I found myself moving over into a fast lane so that the impatient driver behind me could zoom past in the slow lane. Dude, pull yourself together; if I am going the speed limit in the slow lane, and you want to go faster, pass me in the fast lane.
[As a related aside, I just wanted to add that before I had a child, I thought those "Baby on Board" signs were just cheesy and annoying little "Hey everyone: I've got a baby!" advertisements, sort of like those "My child is on the honor roll" stickers. Now, I realize that they are a plea for sanity, saying something more like: "Dudes, WATCH IT. I have a baby in here."]
2. I wish clothing manufacturers would stop making super low-cut jeans. First of all, I don't like wearing them because of the muffin top situation, but second of all, and much more important, in my classrooms, the desk-and-chair combo seats that the students sit in have a little cut-out right in the lower-back area of the seat. So, when all the girls wearing super low-cut jeans that reveal some "coin slot" (thanks for the term, Becky) sit down, they are in seats that frame the scene for all to see. I often have my students doing collaborative work while sitting in small groups, which means that they often move their desks into little circles and clusters around the room. It's like a sea of slot machines in there, people.
3. At the neighborhood park, there is this one woman -- I can't quite tell if she is a nanny or a grandma, but she is often there with a couple of little kids -- and I wish she would quit it with her nasal yelling. She has this really nasal-y voice, and she sits on a bench in the sun, yelling at the kids she watches to play nice or be safe or come eat their snack in a minute, yell-gossiping with the other moms about people in the neighborhood, etc. It's all sort of "performative talk," if that makes sense -- none of it is really necessary communication, but it loudly performs the fact that she is taking care of the kids, and that she knows everything in the neighborhood. It is getting tiresome.
Thanks for listening. What's bugging you lately?
Friday, January 21, 2011
In which I go into my room and cry forever
Y'all, it turns out my baby is now a toddler.
The evidence:
Instead of drooling on books, he picks a specific one out of the stack, pulls it out, brings it over to me, and thrusts it in my face so that I'll read it to him. He arranges himself in my lap, turns the pages, and points to every wheel, dog, and sun or moon.
When we tell him "it's bathtime," he'll scurry into the bathroom, push his stack of cups and rubber turtle into the (as yet empty) bathtub, and try to start hoisting his little leg over the edge.
When I turn on Mozart or when he pushes the button on his musical refrigerator magnet that plays farm animal songs, he bounces and shakes his booty.
When I say "I'm gonna git you," he runs, giggling, to the other side of the room, and then turns and looks at me, waiting to get tickled. When I put a toy truck on my head and pretend it's a hat, he cracks up.
He has curly blond hair covering his whole head.
Every day is more fun than yesterday, but where did my little baby go?
The evidence:
Instead of drooling on books, he picks a specific one out of the stack, pulls it out, brings it over to me, and thrusts it in my face so that I'll read it to him. He arranges himself in my lap, turns the pages, and points to every wheel, dog, and sun or moon.
When we tell him "it's bathtime," he'll scurry into the bathroom, push his stack of cups and rubber turtle into the (as yet empty) bathtub, and try to start hoisting his little leg over the edge.
When I turn on Mozart or when he pushes the button on his musical refrigerator magnet that plays farm animal songs, he bounces and shakes his booty.
When I say "I'm gonna git you," he runs, giggling, to the other side of the room, and then turns and looks at me, waiting to get tickled. When I put a toy truck on my head and pretend it's a hat, he cracks up.
He has curly blond hair covering his whole head.
Every day is more fun than yesterday, but where did my little baby go?
Monday, January 17, 2011
In which the family travels to places where the trees are taller than the buildings
A week or two ago, one of my friends posted a picture on Facebook of a beach full of sea glass, and I sort of got a bee in my bonnet that I needed to see it in person. So this Saturday, we headed north toward the Mendocino coast, stopping along the way to show Shay the big redwoods at Hendy Woods.
There were exactly two other cars in the park when we were there, and so while we did say brief hellos to other hikers on the loop we walked, it was mainly silent, and mossy, and wet-smelling, and dark, with big shafts of light streaming at an angle through the trees. It's funny: I teach on a campus that has forests of redwood trees, and I have certainly always supported the cause of saving old-growth trees, intellectually, but I think this is the first time that I really understood the majesty of that kind of forest, and understood why people will sit in those trees to save them.
Then, we went to see the sea glass.
It's on a beach in Fort Bragg, north of Mendocino; apparently, the beach was once the town dump and was filled with all kinds of junk, including lots of glass. Dumping was eventually prohibited, and the waves have ground down the once-dumped glass into little rainbow pebbles. It's a surprisingly beautiful moment of man-made destruction meeting nature. Beautiful, that is, until you remember that you have a toddler whose main mode of discovery is to stick everything into his mouth.
We stayed at a very clean-but-no-frills motel, the main selling point of which was that we had a kitchenette that was actually a separate room, so we could put the baby to bed at 7 and still watch a movie and read books. Since you seem to want to know everything, we watched The Secret of Kells, a beautiful little animated movie that borrows from Celtic legend, which you should totally see if you haven't yet, and I worked on Last Call, a very long but interesting history of Prohibition.
This feels much more like a diary entry than I had intended it to be. I wish I had a point -- I think my main point is that it was nice to be in quiet places and to see some different parts of the natural world than we see on a day-to-day basis. I have some friends who live in the suburbs who tell me that they make a point to bring their children into the city so that they can experience the urban feel; I think I am starting to feel the draw in the other direction -- the need to bring my child away from the city. Patrick and I kept remarking about how spread out the little towns up north felt. We always want a little bit of what we don't have, I guess. One day I will write a post about how I would give my left arm to live near a Trader Joe's where I could park without losing my mind.
There were exactly two other cars in the park when we were there, and so while we did say brief hellos to other hikers on the loop we walked, it was mainly silent, and mossy, and wet-smelling, and dark, with big shafts of light streaming at an angle through the trees. It's funny: I teach on a campus that has forests of redwood trees, and I have certainly always supported the cause of saving old-growth trees, intellectually, but I think this is the first time that I really understood the majesty of that kind of forest, and understood why people will sit in those trees to save them.
Then, we went to see the sea glass.
It's on a beach in Fort Bragg, north of Mendocino; apparently, the beach was once the town dump and was filled with all kinds of junk, including lots of glass. Dumping was eventually prohibited, and the waves have ground down the once-dumped glass into little rainbow pebbles. It's a surprisingly beautiful moment of man-made destruction meeting nature. Beautiful, that is, until you remember that you have a toddler whose main mode of discovery is to stick everything into his mouth.
We stayed at a very clean-but-no-frills motel, the main selling point of which was that we had a kitchenette that was actually a separate room, so we could put the baby to bed at 7 and still watch a movie and read books. Since you seem to want to know everything, we watched The Secret of Kells, a beautiful little animated movie that borrows from Celtic legend, which you should totally see if you haven't yet, and I worked on Last Call, a very long but interesting history of Prohibition.
This feels much more like a diary entry than I had intended it to be. I wish I had a point -- I think my main point is that it was nice to be in quiet places and to see some different parts of the natural world than we see on a day-to-day basis. I have some friends who live in the suburbs who tell me that they make a point to bring their children into the city so that they can experience the urban feel; I think I am starting to feel the draw in the other direction -- the need to bring my child away from the city. Patrick and I kept remarking about how spread out the little towns up north felt. We always want a little bit of what we don't have, I guess. One day I will write a post about how I would give my left arm to live near a Trader Joe's where I could park without losing my mind.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Reading Material
Early this morning, I was sitting with Shay on the living room floor, playing a hybrid driving-trucks-reading-books game. He was driving his dump truck around and then thrusting a book into my hands to read, and I was reading the books and then loading them into the scooper thing of the dump truck; you know, your usual lazy Sunday morning activity. Why, what were you doing at 6am?
We read his favorite counting book and his favorite shapes book, and a new book with a finger puppet puppy. Then, I was trying to get him to choose this new, beautifully illustrated board book of A Child's Garden of Verses that I just picked out for him, but instead, he found a workout DVD that I got for Christmas, and handed it to me expectantly. "It's not really a book," I explained, and tried to put it down, which reduced him to tears. So, I read the front cover, popped it open and read a few words off the DVD itself, popped it closed, and read the back cover. Nineteen times. Why, what were you doing at 6am?
Now, he is down for a nap, and I am sort of wondering if it was a hint, like, was my child really telling me that my butt looks fat, when he handed me that DVD? Should I do that workout, while he naps? But I am almost done with Patti Smith's new autobiography of her early days with Robert Mapplethorpe, and maybe I earned the chance to curl up on the couch with coffee and a book, after all the early morning truck driving and DVD reading?
Hope your Sunday is lovely and lazy.
We read his favorite counting book and his favorite shapes book, and a new book with a finger puppet puppy. Then, I was trying to get him to choose this new, beautifully illustrated board book of A Child's Garden of Verses that I just picked out for him, but instead, he found a workout DVD that I got for Christmas, and handed it to me expectantly. "It's not really a book," I explained, and tried to put it down, which reduced him to tears. So, I read the front cover, popped it open and read a few words off the DVD itself, popped it closed, and read the back cover. Nineteen times. Why, what were you doing at 6am?
Now, he is down for a nap, and I am sort of wondering if it was a hint, like, was my child really telling me that my butt looks fat, when he handed me that DVD? Should I do that workout, while he naps? But I am almost done with Patti Smith's new autobiography of her early days with Robert Mapplethorpe, and maybe I earned the chance to curl up on the couch with coffee and a book, after all the early morning truck driving and DVD reading?
Hope your Sunday is lovely and lazy.
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