Housekeeping at Seventeen Months

Dear Milo:

This month we had a Milo turnaround of biblical proportions as your obsession shifted from mops to hugs. You're still into mops, don't get me wrong, but the first thing you say in the morning now is "Mama, hug!" and then you bury your head in the space between my shoulder and neck, stick your thumb in your mouth and make contented noises like this is just about the best thing a 16-month-old could hope for.

If you'd told me, back when you were waking up every 3 hours, or back when you were a constant stream of sour-milk spitup (Remember that? Ah, fun times!), or on those days when you screamed bloody murder just for the hell of it, that I just had to hang on until 16 months old when you would enter your Hug Phase, I might have felt a bit differently about the months leading up to now.

And I almost, barely, have enough distance now that I've started to miss Baby Milo. Not that Toddler Milo isn't great, but you've become a little less smiley, a little less easily amused, a little more ... like a real person, I guess. Sometimes it would be nice to have Baby Milo for just an hour. So I'm trying to savor your hug phase because I know it's fleeting.

Hugging, I should point out, is not only limited to Mama. You like to hug Dad, of course, and also Oscar. And the other day you tried to hug a pigeon, following it around the playground yelling, "Bird, hug!". Dad told me you also wanted to hug a small pug you spied making it's way down the sidewalk. The pug's owner suggested that maybe that wasn't such a good idea.

You are also really, really into the sandbox these days. Unswayed by the fact that it is probably a breeding ground for anthrax and maggots, not to mention a litterbox the majority of wild animals in Prospect Park, it's one of your favorite places to be. You love to dig with assorted implements, although you haven't quite mastered the art of building anything. I'm actually not sure what it is that you like about it so much - maybe just being near all that dirt. (And not a mop in sight!)

Strange words that you've picked up recently: tunnel, shovel, station, spice, pocket, belly button, wiggle, tire, sorry. Also you pointed to an enormous shaggy dog the other day and called it a goat. The dog's owner cracked up.

The world is still an exciting place to you, full of marvels. You discovered your pants had pockets the other day, and spent hours walking around sticking your hands in them yelling "pocket!" And then this morning when you tried to take your pants off I pointed out that we all wear pants: "Mama has her pants on," I said. "Chloe has her pants on. So Milo's pants need to stay on." You swiveled your head around to look at all the pants.

"Mama, pants!" you said.

"Kiki, pants!"

I could see you processing the fact that we were ALL WEARING PANTS and that it was pretty much blowing your mind.

You also love your books, probably because we read to you compulsively. I like to act out different voices, and your father likes to offer abbreviated literary criticism ("I don't get Green Eggs and Ham. It seems like Sam and the narrator have a previous relationship, right?" or "How can an eel's tail be too far away to remember? It doesn't make any sense."). You have nicknames for all your books and you always know which one you want to read and which exact moment: Ham! Hat! Turtle! Swimmy! Moo Moo! Truck!

Earlier this month we took you on the subway. You'd been on it before, but you hadn't really been cognizant of the experience. On this trip you stood up all the way to 116th St., peering out the window as tunnels turned into stations and then back into tunnels. Afterward I told you the story of our train ride, and it turned out that what you remembered most were how the doors would fly open and slam closed automatically. "Open!" you said, moving your hands wide apart. "Close!"

One of my favorite things to do with you these days is to sit you on my lap and tell you stories about what we did earlier in the day, or what we might do the next day. You seem to really like this too, always contributing your own bits to the story where you can. Sometimes we go to the playground and sit together on the tire swing and talk about the trees and the pigeons and the blue blue sky and the clouds. "Clouds," you'll say approvingly, as though, based on your experience, those are some pretty good clouds up there.

Overall this has been one of your best months ever. We've even developed a few in jokes between the two of us. Whenever I start to sing You Are My Sunshine you yell "NO! NO!" Then I have to tickle you all over to get you to sing along with me. And today I pointed to Dad and said, "Who's that?"

"Dada," you replied.

I pointed to you. "Who's that?"

"Mi-yo."

"Who's this?" I asked, pointing to myself.

"Oatmeal!" you cried triumphantly, then let out a giggle.

"Oatmeal?" I asked. Then I pointed to you again and asked you who you were.

"Wire!" you said. I am pretty sure that this was your version of a joke. For seventeen months, it's a pretty good one.

Love,
Mama

In Search of People Exactly Like Me

You know spring has arrived in Park Slope when it is no longer possible to walk more than three feet without someone asking you to sign something. It's always something that ordinarily I would support (Democrats, the environment, gay rights) but I never stop to sign anything because, first off, I'm busy. If I'm walking down the street it's not usually because I'm just ambling around the neighborhood checking out the sights. Usually it's because I'm GOING SOMEWHERE. Quickly. So get the hell out of my way.

Also, I say no because the signature seekers always frame the question in a way that makes me want to hit them. It's always, "Do you have a minute for the environment?" or "Can you help the Democrats?" or "Are you in favor of equality for all?". Why is it so tempting to scream NO and then beat the person with their own clipboard? I usually want to say, "No. I hate the environment. I don't have a minute for it," and then duck into the nearest nail salon.

But mostly I have no respect for the clipboard people who choose Park Slope as their territory. As someone who was, many years ago, one of these very same people standing on a street corner with a clipboard yelling "Can [insert soon-to-be-defeated-Democratic-candidate's-name-here] count on your support on Tuesday?", I have to say that Park Slope is for pussies.

97 out of 100 people who walk by you on the sidewalk in Park Slope are Gay Democratic Greenpeace Supporters for Human Rights. The odds are good that no one is going to scream things like "Go have another abortion" at the Pro-Choice clipboard carrier, or "Jesus hates fags" at the gay rights activist. In fact, if they say anything to the clipboard-carriers it's probably "Frank! Saw you at the co-op Thursday! When are we getting together for that organic tea we keep talking about?"

So dude, pick a harder neighborhood - that's all I'm saying. Everyone in Park Slope is already all signed up for whatever cause you've got. We're double signed and triple signed. We belong to the People's Front of Judea AND the Judean People's Front, just in case. We love whales so much we want to marry them. We love the environment so much we don't even use electricity, just huddle around our cups of soy latte and discuss socialism by candlelight. We compete over who gets to sort peas at the Co-Op, for God's sake.

Go somewhere you might actually find a contrary opinion instead of twelve organic shoe stores. I suggest Queens.

A Day in The Life of Milo

Indoor Sledding


Making the scene at the 3rd street playground.


Wait a minute...


... what in hell is this doing on the ground?


... and now it's gone.

It's Hard Out There for A Baby

This morning instead of waking up to the sounds of Milo singing in his crib, I awoke to "UP! UP! UP!". When I went into his room I discovered that Milo had somehow, during the course of the night, unsnapped his pajama bottoms and removed his diaper. The diaper was now balled up in a corner of his crib. And the crib sheet was, naturally, soaking wet. As was Milo's hair.

He was pretty crabby for a good hour after waking up - I guess if I woke up with pee in my hair I'd be crabby too, although one might think that I would have the good sense to not remove my diaper if I knew I wasn't toilet-trained.

Can I Make You Some Yogurt?

Me and My Shadow

Yesterday spring arrived and Milo spent two hours playing in the sandbox at the Third Street Playground. Midway through his play, which primarily involved raking sand and shoveling dirt into a plastic cup, another kid about his age toddled over and stood next to Milo.

Then he very distinctly gave Milo a look like, okay, what's the plan? What's next?

Milo looked at the kid and then promptly reached into the sand, grabbed a fistful of grains and dropped it gently onto the ground. Here's what we're doing, Milo seemed to say. We're grabbing sand and dropping it like this.

The kid immediately did exactly what Milo had done -- he picked up a handful of sand and dropped it.

All right, Milo seemed to think. Now what we're doing next is this: we're rubbing sand in our hair. Milo took both hands, smeared them in sand and smashed his hands into his hair.

Great idea! thought the other kid, who also reached down and rubbed sand in his hair. Keep those ideas coming! What are we doing next?

Milo then took his little toy rake and began to rake sand. The kid looked around. He didn't have a rake, so he reached for Milo's. Milo quickly turned his back on the kid, grabbed the rake, and began raking somewhere that the kid couldn't get to. I felt bad for the kid, but come on - had he never had an original idea? Sand in the hair is creative and all, but it's no mud pie or sandcastle after all.

Eventually the kid wandered off, presumably to find someone else to copy. Milo didn't note the other kid's departure in any way.

"Rake," he said, showing me his rake. "Dirt."

City Girl

Apparently I am afraid of the country. Other people see mountains and grass and babbling brooks; I see meth labs and terrorist cells. Also there is a bear epidemic in the Catskills. Why is it so easy to picture Milo being eaten by a bear?

All Me, All The Time - Radio Edition

I will be talking about A More Perfect Union on the Radio Ritas program tomorrow at 7:10am. I can't seem to find an affiliate list anywhere for those who will be, oh, AWAKE then (why God why would anyone willingly choose to be awake then?), but it's a national talk radio program that should be on an AM station near you. Or you can listen online here.

Helping One Memoirist At A Time

I have an article up on Media Bistro this morning on how to write about your family and still get invited to Thanksgiving.

This Week in Milo

Which part of "phone mop keys mop mop keys phone" did you not understand?

Just hanging out at home in my argyle sweater.

Peeking at the goat in the petting zoo...


...then running away in horror.

Housekeeping at Sixteen Months

Dear Milo:

Let's just say that fifteen months was not my favorite, so I'm glad we're on to the big 1-6. This month you learned how to say no. Also you became obsessive like even I can't believe. All day long it's mop keys mop mop keys mop keys mop. Oh, and the word "on", did I mention that one? Everything must be turned on, even things like your plastic bath toys or the cat. How do you explain to a toddler that a plastic pig doesn't GO ON? It just IS. But no, it MUST GO ON NOW. Otherwise there will be hell to pay.

Also you stopped being able to pay attention long enough to sit through a book. So we'll get through the first 3 pages of Curious George and then you're climbing out of my lap and yelling "Booberry!" because you want to hear the first three pages of Blueberries for Sal, and then you're yelling "George!" because what's the monkey been up to while we've been sitting here reading about Sal and her stupid blueberries?

On the other hand, you picked up a few exclamations this month that are pretty cute. You like to say "wow", although not always at the right times, and pretty much everything in the world, according to you, can be described by "mmm, good."

But let's revisit your use of the word "no" for a minute. A few days ago you took food from your plate and put it in your lap.

"Food goes in the mouth or on the plate," I explained. "Not in the lap."

You took another piece of food and put it in your lap, looking evenly at me.

"Put the food in your mouth or on your plate," I said.

You stared at me for a minute and then I heard it. "No," you said.

So that was lovely. On the other hand, sometimes no can be adorable. Last night I was singing you lullabies and rocking you in your rocking chair, when I started singing a new song, one that I hadn't sung before.

You lifted your head up from my chest and very quietly and clearly said "no." You shook your head and wrinkled your nose and said it again. "Nooo." So what's a mommy to do? I switched songs.

You are in an awkward place these days, halfway between baby and small child. You can communicate just enough to be annoying. You like to show off for new people -- within minutes of seeing a grandparent you are quickly spinning in circles, making funny noises, grabbing onto hands and saying "walk," eager to give the new adult a quick romp through your repertoire of silly human tricks. Sometimes I think that your father's worst fears will be realized and you will become an actor. Or a stand up comic.

On the other hand, you continue to be pretty pleased with what the world has to offer, when you're not complaining about how no one lets you play with the mop. You wake up singing most mornings, and fall asleep with a smile on your face at night. And so it goes.