Housekeeping at 36 Months

Dear Milo,
A few weeks ago you turned three years old - you're such a big boy. You wake up in the morning now and get dressed all by yourself. The first week or so that you did this you would come into our room, all proud and glowing, with your shirt on inside out and your pants on backwards. Also there was the day you omitted underwear. And sometimes you show up in the same outfit all week -- I guess your thought process is, hey, this worked yesterday! To counter this problem I have started putting your clothing in the laundry basket more frequently. You also insist on wearing only "fluffy" pants. You also like everyone else to be in "fluffy" pants, for reasons I don't fully understand. Sometimes in order to get you to wear something other than sweatpants I try to convince you that your jeans are "fluffy." You buy it about 20 percent of the time.

You continue to be an endless stream of questions. Why is it night now? When will it be day? Why are there two Matthews in your class? Why not five Matthews? Why do different toilets make different flushing noises? Why do you have to eat breakfast when you wake up? Why can't you have Snack instead? Why do the leaves fall off the trees? Why don't I want to hang up every single piece of artwork you come home from school with? Why can't we listen to "Ob La Di Ob La Da" 47 times in a row?

You continue to have two main interests: music and trains. You still have some interest in cleaning, but it pales in comparison to trains and music. Recently you've started to become interested in puzzles and games, too, which is a lot of fun because it's something we can do together. You like to find all the nails and forklifts and cement in your Bob the Builder book, and this weekend you put together your farm puzzle about 15 times. We've also started playing Concentration, although we call it Flip Flop in honor of Charlie and Lola, and we play a sort of modified version where we just turn the cards over and try to find the matching pictures, but still, you're into it.

What you're not into is eating. Not to say that you don't like food, because you do. You demanded more baby octopus the other night when we had sushi, and munched away contentedly on its head; you devoured three slices of pig knuckle at a Chinese restaurant last week; and you will eat your weight in shrimp and calamari. But unless we're at a restaurant or something weird is being served, you tend to take a few bites of food and declare yourself done, although what you're really declaring yourself is bored, and ready to move on to the next activity.

So we've had to start insisting you take x number of bites before you leave the table. This has now turned into a sort of math game for you, where you take a couple of bites and then try to calculate how many bites you have left. Sometimes I just say, "finish half the sandwich" or whatever, and you will endlessly reply "How many bites" until I calculate how many bites are potentially in half a sandwich. You do like numbers, though. When we went to the farmers market last month you lined up and counted 19 pumpkins. But you don't always get it right. The other night I said you had 15 more minutes to play until it was time to get ready for bed."

"How about ten minutes," you said.

"Um, okay," I replied.

But overall, you are a joy and a pleasure. You charm everyone you meet -- all the kids in the 4's class at school yell hi to you by name, even though you don't know their names. You charmed a police officer into letting you into the engine car of an Amtrak train on your birthday. You have not one iota of shyness, and will talk to anyone anywhere anytime. I still don't get it, but it's fun to watch.

I love you, little chicken,
Mama

Housekeeping at 35 Months

Oh, my goodness, where to begin? Maybe here:



You've been tough the last few weeks, little chicken. You had a bad cold, were getting two new molars, and took the opportunity to throw a couple of knock-down drag-out bang-your-fists-on-the-floor tantrums. You said no to everything. You were waking up crying several times a night, refusing to nap, screaming about only eating tortellini and throwing your toys. And then, just as quickly as it came, that phase ended and left you sweeter and more enjoyable than ever. You were settling down for your nap the other day when I sneezed on the other side of the wall and you yelled, "Bless you, Mama!" You turned to me the other day and, apropos of nothing said, "Mama, I love you so much."

A few weeks ago you insisted that you did not want a little sister under any circumstances. You lobbied for an older brother. When we pointed out that an older brother would probably want to play with your trains you changed your mind and said, "Actually, I want it to just be me and Mama and Dad." And then, magically, about a week ago you began talking about the fun things you could do with your little sister. You picked out a few baby toys in the playroom and said, "This would be a good toy for the little sister."

Sometimes you're all talk, all bravado and not much else. We had a small party this weekend, where one of the guests was a 1 1/2 year old girl named Sophie. Before the party you said you weren't going to share any of your toys with Sophie. We asked you to pick out a few toys to share and you refused. And then, when she arrived, you wouldn't leave her side. You grabbed her hand and wanted to show her all your toys and how to play with them. You wanted her to play with you in the sandbox, and in the school bus, and at the sink. In fact, you wouldn't leave her alone.

You started school last month, and so far we haven't gotten any reports that you hit anyone, or locked yourself in the bathroom, or flushed crayons down the toilet. The first day of school I was the one who cried, not you. You just said, "Bye, Mama, I'll see you later," and that was that. All around you kids screamed themselves blue, but you just marched off to find the trains.

"Do some kids cry when they get dropped off at school?" I asked you once.

"Yes," you said.

"Why do you think they're crying?" I asked.

"I don't know," you said, as though you couldn't even begin to fathom what there could be to cry about.

A few weeks later, when we actually totally forgot you at school, by the time I finally got to the school to pick you up you were just sitting there playing with some toy cars. "What happened?" you asked, understandably, but that was it. I would have been in tears. Even if I'd been 15. But not you -- you take everything in stride.

We've got some big changes coming, so let's hope you continue to be just as easy going as you are now.

Love,
Mama

Housekeeping at 33 Months

Hi Cutie:



Don't have much to update on today, so we'll just have to make do with new pictures.

Love,
Mama

Housekeeping at 31/32 Months

Dear Chicken,
Once again I'm late with your update, and I missed last month's entirely. Let's blame it on the move. It's certainly not that you haven't done anything noteworthy these last two months.

We weren't sure how you were going to react that watching all of your worldly possessions packed up into boxes and driven out of the city, but you barely batted an eye. Instead you walked around the new house saying things like, "I have this lamp at home!" You were shocked how many things in the new house had also existed in the old house.

This month we all learned the value of bribery. After we played Guitar Hero at the Jersey Shore a month ago you asked us to buy you an electric guitar. We explained to you that an electric guitar is a Big Boy toy, and that you would need to do Big Boy things to get Big Boy toys. Examples of Big Boy things were cited such as peeing in the potty and sleeping in your Big Boy bed. We went home and you said you wanted to sleep in your Big Boy bed, so we made a deal. Sleep in the Big Boy bed for a month and you could have an electric guitar. Amazingly, this worked. You started sleeping in your bed instead of the Pack and Play, and you didn't look back.

When we got to Cold Spring we rewarded you with a brand new toy electric guitar. For a few minutes you stared at it saying, "This is a great present!" Then you looked at me and said, "What do you have to do to get a red caboose?"

"You have to use the potty," I said. "All the time."

This has not worked as well. I guess you don't want the red caboose that badly.

You are also really into semantics all of a sudden. Sometimes you'll start yelling in the car, and Dad and I will turn around and say, "NO YELLING IN THE CAR."

"That's not yelling," you'll say. "That's screaming."

Yesterday you chased a butterfly across the backyard and called it a moth.

"It's a butterfly," Dad corrected.

"No, it's not a butterfly, it's a moth," you insisted for several minutes until finally being persuaded that maybe it was possible you were wrong.

But you also continue to be incredibly empathetic. I sprained my toe about a month ago and for weeks afterward you would ask me, "Does your toe still hurt?" as though you were truly concerned for my well-being.

And then there was the nap incident. To frame this properly I must explain that whenever you don't take your nap, Dad or I will walk into your room, hands on hips, and sigh, "No nap, huh?". So the other day, when your grandmother admitted to you that she was tired because she hadn't gotten a chance to take a nap that day, you looked at her, sighed and said, "No nap, huh?", as though you understood completely what it was like to be napless, as though you felt her pain.

You're a sweetie.

Love,
Mama

Housekeeping at 30 Months

Hi Beautiful:



So the latest development is that you've started cursing like the cast of South Park. We have always been pretty unguarded about our language around you, and it's beginning to pay off. Yesterday your father and I were having a discussion about which preschool to send you to in the fall. One of the options is a school that gets rave reviews but begins each day with a nondenominational morning prayer. We've been discussing calling the school to find out specifically what the morning prayer is, reliving past experiences involving forced prayer, and weighing the significance of Easter egg dyeing as a preschool activity.

Then yesterday, as Dad and I were putting away dishes in the kitchen, you walked into the room and said "GOD DAMN IT!" about six times in a row, then walked out.

"And that," I said, "is why we can't send him to the preschool with the morning prayer."

Not to mention the fact that earlier in the day I witnessed you in the playroom yelling "WHAT THE FUCK?" at your refrigerator about 20 times in a row.

None of which is to say that you're an angry kid. You have no idea what these things mean, but you know Dad and I say them a lot, so they must be important.

You have, however, become quite conniving in your old age. Despite the thoroughly documented lack of the phrase "I love you" in our house, this has become one of your favorite things to say, and you say it frequently and utterly genuinely. Except when you say it to try to get something. To wit:

Last week we were walking around the neighborhood when you suddenly ran in fron of me and demanded, "Mama pick you up."

"No," I said. "You can either walk or ride in the stroller."

You turned this over in your mind, then looked up at me and said, "I love you, Mama."

"Aw," I said, scooping you up in my arms and giving you a hug. "I love you too."

Then you looked at me triumphantly, as I was now holding you, and said, "Mama pick you up!"

You knew! You knew that if you told me you loved me I would pick you up. Sneaky. Yet, endearing all the same.

But here's something that's not endearing. Your need to repeat nonsensical phrases constantly, over and over, eternally, until the parent nearest to you wants to cut his or her ears off. Phrases like, "I'm the puma." Or: "I'm King Louie."

You like the Jungle Book, did I mention that? And you state that you are at least one but sometimes up to four of the characters in it at least fifteen times a day. I have no idea what you mean by it, but you do it.

You also have adopted Mogli, the main character in the Jungle Book, as your imaginary friend/little brother. You deposit him in the stroller, pull the hood down for him so he doesn't get sun in his eyes, put him down for naps (Which usually involves screaming "Mogli, GO TO SLEEP," and then slamming the door to your bedroom) and give him time outs. Mogli seems to get a lot of time outs, usually right after you've gotten one, but sometimes just because you're bored.

"Mogli threw his toys," you'll explain. Or, "Mogli, you listen to what I say," followed by door slamming. You'd think sometimes you were living with Joan Crawford.

And, you still love talking to strangers. Now more than ever. The other day we were in the park and you looked around, found the clump of people closest to us (adults, I might add) and said, "Wanna go talk to those guys."

"Why?" I asked. It would never cross my mind, in a million years, to approach a bunch of strangers for the fun of it. But for you, its just what you do. You're somewhere new, you find people to talk to.

You can't explain why yet, but I'm looking forward to the day you can. I'm just dying to know.

Love,
Mama

Housekeeping at 29 Months

Housekeeping at 28 Months

Dear Milo,
I'm a bit late with your monthly update this month, and I almost decided to skip it completely, but there are two things you did recently that I wanted to make a note of.

First, you are under the impression that I, Mama, know every person on the planet. This means that sometimes we'll be walking down the street and some random guy will pass by us and you'll say, "Who's that?"

"A man," I will say.

"What's that man's name?" you will ask.

"I don't know," I'm forced to admit, much as part of me wants to say "His name is Frank."

"Where's he going?" you asked.

"Um, he could be going anywhere. He could be going to the grocery store, or going out to dinner, or going to meet some friends, or going to pick up his dry cleaning."

"He's going to pick up his dry cleaning," you said.

"Okay," I said.

Yesterday we were flipping through the New York Times Style magazine, when you did it again. This time you pointed to a group of men in an Armani ad, standing purposefully and looking off into the distance.

"What's that man's name?" you asked.

"I don't know. He's nobody. He's not anyone you would know."

then I thought about my response. Well he wasn't exactly nobody. He had a family, most likely, and hopes and dreams. Who was I to say he was nobody?

"He's a model," I tried.

"What's he doing?" you asked.

"He's standing around," I said. "Models just stand around." But that wasn't exactly right.

"He's selling this suit," I said. That seemed wrong too. I launched into a long explanation about how the modeling industry works, and how people put on clothes and people take pictures of them because they want you to buy stuff. this was mostly for my own benefit.

"Who's that?" you asked, pointing to another picture of another guy modeling a suit. I looked at the picture closely and discovered that it was Patrick Dempsey.

"That's Patrick Dempsey," I said. You seemed to accept that sometimes Mama knows the name of people in magazines and sometimes she doesn't.

Aside from wanting to know everyone's name and what they're doing, you have also started telling jokes.

This weekend your grandmother visited and bought you a little replica of a subway train, which you proceeded to carry with you everywhere for the next three days. So you were sitting at the table eating lunch, your trusty train by your side, when you said you'd like a little salt on your food.

I picked up the salt shaker and shook it over your food.

"Now I'd like a little train on my food," you said, and picked up your train and pretended to shake it over your plate.

We laughed for a long time over that one.

Love,
Mama

Housekeeping at 27 Months

Dear Milo,
So, the funny thing about writing these entries is that I'm more aware of what you're no longer doing than I am of what you've just started doing. Maybe this is how life works.



For example, you used to stick close by, always underfoot, hanging out at knee-height next to Mama or Dad. But now you go off and play by yourself, sometimes even in a different room, sometimes for 20 minutes at a time, like a real person. I can call out, "Milo, where are you?" And you'll respond, "I'm in the playroom." Which is, like, what a regular person would say, so it's not that notable. Except that for you it's new.

We also don't get much anymore of "What that noise?" which you used to say all the time. Instead it's the more mundane "What is that sound?". And you also now have the ability to find things. Like, if I say "Where's your hat?" and you then leave the room, the odds are as high as 60% that you might actually come back with the hat.




You have started affixing long strings of words together in some strange ways. For example, all pasta is now referred to as "special tortellini from the dentist" because after you went to the dentist I soothed your residual tears with a bowl of buttery tortellini. Last night you gave us a cooking demonstration which involved the other thing you now love to do: explain how things are done, even if you don't know yourself. This usually sounds something like "So first you take this and then you take that and then you need the cheese and like that on Tuesday and and twenty-four and there you go, we're ALL done."

You've also got a wicked sense of humor, which sometimes involves sticking things onto your face:


You still have some funny mis-pronunciations: "dickerish" for licorice, "neminnems" for M&Ms, "dinosaurus" as a blanket word for any type of dinosaur, the lid to the wok which for some reason you insist is called a "dong" (Because, you explained, when you hit it it makes a sound like donnnn-gggg. True.) But alas we don't get to hear "longtime soup" for Won Ton soup anymore. Also a backpack is no longer a "packpack" and the cat is no longer "Ahkah," but the more mundane "Oscar."

In place of the toddler who caouldn't walk down the front steps alone we now have a child who can hang up his coat all by himself, who says things like "I want to do it myself," and who then sits down and draws a picture on the stoop. "Is that a dinosaurus?" I asked hopefully. "It's a triceratops," you replied.



Love,
Mama

Housekeeping at 26 Months

So here is the post I meant to include with this picture had I not been horribly ill from a sinus infection:
Truthfully I don't even know where to begin with this monthly update because every day you do something new and frequently hilarious. You've become very interested in pretending over the past few months, but it's really come to a head in recent weeks. For a while you just liked to pretend that an old Fresh Direct box was a train. Somehow that led to you pretending to be Jagoda, our cleaning lady. You would gather up all your mops and brooms and your feather duster and your vacuum cleaner and put them in a little tote bag and walk out the door of the playroom saying, "I'm Jagoda." To which I would usually reply "Okay, bye Jagoda," which always sends you into paroxysms of laughter.

Then you added Debbie to your list of people you like to pretend to be. Debbie is your music teacher, and in your pretend scenarios Debbie is always taking phone calls during music class. I've met Debbie and I find this incredibly hard to believe, but there you have it. You like to go through the whole music class, telling everyone it's guitar time, then singing "Time to put the drums away" while you put your drum away, and leading your assorted dolls and action figures in a round of "What's your name?" Somewhere in the middle of this Debbie's phone rings multiple times and Debbie stops music class to take a call.

And then sometimes you're Mama. You haven't quite figured out what to do as Mama other than to walk around and say "I'm Mama." Sometimes being Mama involves pretending to do the crossword or flipping through a catalog or reading a book. Sometimes being Mama involves lying down on the couch and saying "I'm exhausted." Sometimes it just involves sneezing.

But most importantly, this is the month when your father and I have finally come to terms with the fact that you are far more social than either one of us and that that's just how it's going to be. You like to talk to people and make friends. It's so weird. Maybe some day when you're older you can explain the appeal to us. A few weeks ago in the airport we saw some kids your age playing together. I saw you checking them out, so I suggested you take your toy airplane over to them and see if they wanted to share. I expected you to ignore my suggestion, or possibly look at me like I was out of my mind. What I did not expect you to do was to say "Okay" and walk over to the kids. Not only is this something I wouldn't have done under threat of torture at your age, it's not something I'm capable of doing NOW. Note I suggested YOU go over to the kids. I did not suggest MAMA go over to the kids. Then once we were on the airplane you made friends with the kid in the seat in front of you. You do this ALL THE TIME and truthfully it freaks me out a little but also I am in awe of your skills. You walk over and talk to adults in restaurants, people sitting next to us on the train, doctors, nurses, anyone who comes within range of your very loud speaking voice.

And what do you say, you might wonder? Let's see. You say things like "This kitchen is a mess," even if it's not. You like to tell people how things work even if you have no idea. "First you take this and then you take that and then you go like that." You repeat snippets of conversation: "It's just, I don't know, um, it's just," you said about 27 times in a row after listening to me on the phone. You express many, many, many wants. "Want to go beep beep boop boop at the bank. Want to sign checks. I need money. Want to buy this." And the other night on the phone you said, "I'll talk to you later Mama," and handed the phone to Dad.

And of course you still say "no" a lot. The parenting books say you're supposed to give two-year-olds choices, I guess to disguise the fact that they live in worlds where they have no choices at all. But you're too smart for that. "What shirt do you want to wear?" I'll say in the morning. "The green shirt or the blue shirt?" "No shirt," you always reply. "No clothes no no no." "Do you want fish sticks or a turkey burger for dinner," I'll ask. "No dinner," you say. Or sometimes: "Want tortellini." The parenting books don't say what to do about that.

Love,
Mama

Housekeeping at Twenty Five Months

Dear Milo,
A month ago you turned two, but only in the last few weeks have you actually entered the Terrible Twos, and the future does not look good. Your default word used to be "yeah." You said it instead of silence, when you didn't understand something, when you didn't know what else to say. Now your default word is "no" followed by your favorite phrase, "I dowanna," occasionally articulated more like "I don't WANT to.

"Let's put your shoes on, Milo."
"No."
"Do you want to go to the playground?"
"No."
"You don't want to go to the playground?"
"Yes. Yes playground."
"Then we need to put your shoes on."
"No shoes. I dowanna. NO MORE SHOES."
"Well then no playground."
"Yes playground."
"Okay, then we need to put your shoes on."

And so it goes until I remember to say the following: "There is no more discussion. You are putting your shoes on and we are going to the playground, or you are having a time out. Those are your choices. Which one do you want? Shoes or time out?"

At which point you always readily agree to shoes. And then yesterday you gave your bee a time out because he touched the vacuum cleaner.

"We have to take all the toys out of the crib," you said to the bee. "Time out."

Ah, the golden time out. What a great invention.

You've also become a little sneaky in your old age. Yesterday Dad's friend Sam came over with Lisa and new baby Ella. You promptly took Sam into the playroom and showed him your toys. Then you showed him the big mop and the big broom in the utility closet and suggested subtly that he should get them for you. Not knowing that the big mop and broom are off limits, Sam quickly obliged. When we later took them away from you and put them back in the closet, five minutes later you were standing next to Lisa, asking her to get them for you. Sneaky! And yet ... a little charming too.

We are trying to teach you to read a little bit, since you somehow already know all the letters and the sounds they make, but your obstinance gets in the way. This weekend I spelled out C-A-T on the refrigerator and asked you what the word was.

"Pickle," you said. Pickle is your joke word. For some reason you think that answering pickle or pickles and onions to almost any question is hilarious. Truthfully, you're not totally wrong.

Only after I bribed you with a Kit Kat bar did you read the word. Correctly. At this rate you will become simultaneously literate and diabetic.

No one ever said it would be easy. For either of us.

Love,
Mama

Housekeeping at Twenty Four Months

Dear Milo,

This installment is a bit late because I haven't had much time between Halloween, your birthday, and the birth of your cousin to sit down at the computer with a nice stretch of time to think about you and what I want to document about the last month. Let me start by saying that you are a joy, every day, every minute, even when you are refusing to put your socks on or attempting to open every single gate between 8th Avenue and 7th Avenue.

We just got back from a trip that would have knocked an adult flat out (I slept 13 hours myself last night) and with the exception of a few yelps of "I want to get OOOOUUUUTTT!" somewhere in the middle of Delaware, you were a trooper. You found everything about the trip exciting, from running around the hotel room yelling "This is a hotel! This is a hotel!" to the fact that the doors on the Metro go "Do-do-do-do" instead of "Bing-bong" as they do in the NYC subway.

You've also become extremely affectionate, giving real hugs and kisses, and this morning walking around the apartment with your arms wrapped tight around both Little Monkey and Panda Bear because you wanted them to be friends. You like to pet Oscar, and start out each day asking Oscar "Do you want a treat Oscar? I have a special treat for you."

The other major development of the past month or so is your ability to tell jokes. For some reason you think that "Pickles and onions" is a hilarious response to a range of questions, and in general you're right. You also think it's a riot to insist on using the wrong word in some cases, which is without a doubt a trait you inherited from your great-grandfather. Yesterday you sat in a plane at the Air and Space museum and insisted that you were "driving" the plane despite all the adults in the room being pretty sure the correct word when it comes to planes is "flying." This morning when I left you were telling your nanny about the plane and when you saw me come into the room you added "Milo DROVED it. DROVE it DROVE it DROVE it," and then doubled over laughing.

You also love word play, which I guess isn't surprising. Yesterday you looked at the letter W and said, "Double-you? Double me!"

Music: still big. You know all the words to a whole range of songs, and sometimes you can even carry a tune, which leads me to believe that you might be able to sing when you get older. You love your guitar and your "pinano" and usually demand to listen to music during most meals, singing along with songs like "Cows" and "Belly Button" and occasionally Desmond Dekker, Harry Belafonte, and Simon and Garfunkel.

Mops: finally waning, thank God. You still note their existence, but you have largely moved on to construction equipment and trucks. You know the difference between most types of construction equipment ("That's a front end loader. That's a excavator. Look at that big, big bulldozer. That's a tiny little forklift."), which means that I, too, have reached a level of fluency when it comes to heavy machinery that I never anticipated needing in my lifetime.

You're everything I could have wanted in a child: happy, energetic, into everything, funny, and like any good little Jewish boy, you love your Mama.

Also, you're beautiful:


Love,
Mama

Housekeeping at Twenty Two Months

Dear Milo,
It's been a wonderful summer and you've been a big part of that. Suddenly you're able to do stuff and play with things on a whole new level, and it makes you a joy to be with.



You're starting to get more physically adventurous as the weeks pass -- you climbed up a ladder all by yourself at the playground the other day, much to the horror of your father who had to use all his powers of concentration to prevent himself from rushing over to you and plucking you off the ladder before you fell down and split your head open. But I knew you could do it.

You're over the baby-level playground stuff and onto the big-kid equipment. I tried to take you to the smaller-sized are of the playground yesterday and you immediately turned around, ran out the gate, and made a bee line for the giant slide. You climbed up to the top and then proceeded to sit there for a good five minutes, afraid to go down it by yourself.

"Hold Mama's hand," you said, but the slide was too high up for me to reach you. Other kids started piling up behind you, oblivious to the fact that you are not even two yet. "Come ON," the kids were yelling.

I suggested you didn't really have to go down the huge gigantic scary slide right now, and pointed to a smaller slide. After thinking it over for a minute, you got up and walked over to the smaller slide, held my hand and slid down. You seemed pretty pleased about the whole thing.

New this month: running. Why walk when you can run?




Also you are way into similes. The hole in a guitar is like a belly button. A tiger is like Oscar. And a part of your anatomy is like a carrot. You said it, I didn't.

This love of similes doesn't bode well for my hopes that you would become a physicist or, like, something practical. It has "writer" written all over it. Please, Milo, don't become a writer.

Love,
Mama

Housekeeping at Twenty One Months

Dear Milo,
The good news is that your separation anxiety ended abruptly a few weeks ago. Now when you see me head to the door in the morning you simply say, "Mama work," and then I have to prompt you to give me a hug goodbye because you are usually more interested in playing with your vacuum cleaner than dealing with the fact that I'm leaving. This has made life much easier for everyone involved, plus it's really nice on my part to be able to go to the bathroom by myself again.

The bad news is that you're more enjoyable to be around than ever before, which makes the leaving you part very hard on my end. The other day you were still awake when I came home at around 2PM, squawking awayin your crib, so I went in and picked you up. You chattered for a minute, then fixed me with a stare and said, "Mama," as though you were just noticing for the first time which human being had come in to get you. Then you beamed.

"Mama," you repeated, as though this was the most wonderful sound in the world, as though the fact that I had rematerialized from that mysterious "work" place in the middle of the day was almost more joy than you could bear. This was promptly followed by "Read a book. Sidewalk Ends."

You love poetry. Have I mentioned that? You do - it's the first thing I feel like I can really share with you and enjoy together. We giggle over Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout who would not take the garbage out, make funny noises during I'm Being Eaten By A Boa Constrictor, and you always do all the animal sounds when I read The Farmer And The Queen.

You also continue to love music. You like to dance, and when you go down for your nap sometimes you can spend over an hour in your crib singing. I Love You A Bushel and a Peck is still your hands-down favorite, although you've also been getting interested in the Woodie Guthrie kids' songs CD that your father bought, so sometimes you sing a few lines from Don't You Push Me or Let's Go Riding in the Car.

It is almost possible to have a conversation with you these days - we're getting close. Eating, on the other hand, has fallen by the wayside. You have pretty much no interest in meals unless someone is eating them with you, or they are being served at a restaurant, at which point you usually devour an entire adult-sized portion of food. Other than that, you take three or four bites of a meal and then declare yourself done. There are much more interesting things to do, buttons to push, floors to sweep, songs to sing. You cannot be bothered with something as trivial and mundane as sustinence.

And yes, the sweeping. The sweeping continutes. I had a dream last night that you picked up your little lime green nerf football and threw a perfect spiral. Apparently my subconscious is concerned that you are too much into cleaning and not enough into sports. My waking self is happy to let you be you, though.

I love you a bushel and a peck,
Mama

Housekeeping at Twenty Months

Dear Milo,

Hi. What's up? If I were having an actual conversation with you you'd probably point and say "sky!" or maybe "airplane!" So ... um ... you're doing great. But, one little thing. The separation anxiety is killing me. Seriously killing me, as in causing me great stress and probably shortening my lifespan.

This weekend Dad and I made the egregious mistake of going out to dinner and leaving you at home with someone you have known since you were 2 months old. How could we! As you saw us getting ready to leave you let out howls of despair and nearly choked on your dinner. I walked over to you and said, "See you later alligator" which is what all the books say you're supposed to say to show the levity of the situation, and that leaving isn't a big deal, blah blah blah.

You didn't buy it for a second. You pointed an angry finger at the chair where I usually sit while you eat dinner and yelled "MAMA SIT DOWN!" It wasn't a plea, more like a dictatorial edict. I kissed you on the top of your head and Dad and I left. You were not amused.

In other news, you and I took a trip just the two of us this month, and you had a great time on the plane. Your favorite part? Reading the emergency instructions pamphlet. I tried to get you to read it yourself, but no.

"Mama read it."

End of story.

I must have read that pamphlet about 43 times each way. Did you know that remote controlled cars are not allowed on planes? Well I do. I also know that when one is crash landing you're supposed to put your head between your knees, and that high heels and briefcases are not allowed on the life rafts.

The other thing you keep talking about from the plane ride was the animal crackers. And the chips. You don't get to eat those things at home, so that was pretty exciting to you. Although in general you tend to remember food. Yesterday we had a playdate with a little girl who brought her own pretzels. When I asked you later in the day what we'd done that morning you said, without hesitation: "pretzel".

Other than that, this month has been so much fun because you talk up a storm. You constantly narrate, and you also like to sing songs to yourself and dance. You're dancing is freakin' hilarious. I'm trying to capture it on video, but every time I turn on the video camera you insist on stopping whatever you're doing to watch yourself on video. Your favorite songs right now are "Twinkle Twinkle" and "Row, Row Row Your Boat" - both of which you can sing to yourself (although you only manage to get out every third word or so) - and you like it when I sing pretty much anything with a quick beat. Slow songs, not so much.

Also, this month you've started trying to add pronouns, but you don't yet understand the difference between "me" and "you". Frankly, I'm not sure that you understand that Milo and Mama are two different people, since sometimes you refer to me as "Mi-yo" and yourself as "Mama", but that aside, you are constantly saying things like "help you" or "ride your bike" or "come with you," where "you"=Milo. I'm sure you'll figure it out eventually.

Another thing you really enjoy doing is arguing. Did I mention this before? I can't say I'm shocked. Sometimes you'll point to a piece of cantaloupe and say "Mango."

"Cantaloupe," I'll correct.

"Mango!" you'll yell back, giggling.

"Cantaloupe! Cantaloupe!" I yell.

"Mango! Mango!"

It goes on like that for a while. Oh, good times.

Keep on arguing, little chicken. Some day maybe you'll be right.

Love,
Mama

Housekeeping at Nineteen Months

Is it possible that another month has gone by already?

Here's a sample of what's been going on over the past month: On Saturday morning I got up with you, opened the door to the playroom to let Oscar out, and discovered that his water fountain had been making grinding noises all night and he looked like he was about to eat his own tail. So I took his water bowl and both you and Oscar trailed behind as I went into the kitchen to fill it up. I was back in the playroom, plugging it in, when I heard a loud crash in the kitchen. Then you came tearing down the hall yelling "Hug! Hug! Hug!" which could only mean you thought you'd done something wrong and were about to be yelled at.

I walked back toward the kitchen and discovered that you had picked up a canister filled with flour off a low shelf, attempted to walk with it down the hall, and, of course, dropped it and spilled flour all over the hallway. It was much too early in the morning to get angry, so I just sighed and said, "It's okay, it's just flour, let's just sweep it up."

You raced down the hall to the playroom and seconds later were back with your broom and mop. Which about sums it up. You get into things, but you also like to clean. I'm wondering just how long this cleaning obsession can possibly go on for -- it's been nearly a year, and it has only progressed. You now have your own spray bottle, in addition to a vacuum cleaner, two brooms, one mop, and a dustpan. You would think you live in house where someone actually cleans.

The big development this month, though, was sentences.

"Mama, stand up," you said to me one afternoon as I was lying, collapsed in exhaustion, on the living room floor.

Other sentences quickly followed.
"Bonk head crib," you said after you whacked yourself on the crib railing. "Fan on. Shoe off. Hold spatula. Get in. What's your name? Mama. Welcome, Mama."

That last one threw me until I realized you had no idea what it meant and were just repeating the welcome song they sing at your music class, although you did know to put my name into it.

You've also started getting interested in numbers, and you can count to four. Or at least, you can say the numbers in the correct order up to four, and then you throw in other random numbers, so a lot of the time you end up saying "One two three four eight five!" You're still figuring out what it all means, though. Sometimes you'll point to something and say "one" followed by pointing at something else and saying "two," and then returning to the first thing you pointed at and saying "three." So ... you're not quite there yet.

Drawing is the other big thing you've started doing over the last few weeks.
"Crayon!" you yell sometimes, and race down the hall to bring back a crayon. Then you hand it to the nearest adult and demand, "Draw!".

"What should I draw?" said adult will ask. And the answer is always something totally un-drawable.

"Alpaca," you'll say. Sometimes, said adult will get lucky and you'll ask for a sheep.

We've been spending time over the last few weeks watching videos of your first few months on this planet. I guess there's enough distance now that we can look back and laugh, and you find it fascinating. You seem to understand that it's you up there on the television. You point at say "Milo. Baby Milo." You've also become obsessed. Sometimes when we ask what you want to do now you run to the television and say "Baby Milo!".

While you still have bouts of doing really boring things like spending twenty minutes putting rocks in a pail and then taking them out again, the more you're able to talk the more fun you get. We still tell stories at night about what you did that day and what you're going to do the next day, and you've started to recognize schedules and things that usually happen. You know that on Saturdays we go to the supermarket ("Car! Salami!") and on Sundays we go to the pool ("Kick kick kick! Splash!"). You have favorite songs ("Row row row boat," "This old man," "Bridge down key") and you suddenly seem to be interested in playing on your piano a lot. You like doing somersaults, being tickled, and playing with water fountains.

In other news, your nanny is leaving to go be a dancer for the Boston Celtics. So, that'll be something you can brag about to all your hormonal 14-year-old friends one day.

Love,
Mama

Housekeeping at Eighteen Months

Well, we knew it would happen sooner or later, given that you come from a long line of strong-willed, sometimes stubborn, frequently order-issuing people: you have begun telling everyone how things should be, testing out just how far your powers will extend, trying to understand exactly where we will draw the line.

Take this morning, for example. I asked you what you wanted for breakfast and you said "ravioli", which sounds like "evee-ole", but I knew what you meant.

"No ravioli for breakfast," I said. "You can have eggs, waffles, or oatmeal."

"Waffles," you said. Then changed your mind. "Egg! Egg!"

"Okay," I said. "Eggs."

A few minutes later I presented you with a lovely plate of scrambled eggs and a dish of blueberries. A perfectly delicious and acceptable meal by anyone's standards.

"No," you said. "Oatmeal."

"No oatmeal," I said. "Eggs."

"Oatmeal!"

"No. Eggs."

You thought about this for a minute, before switching back to what you really wanted in the first place. "Evee-ole, evee-ole, evee-ole, evee-ole."

"Nope," I said. "You can have ravioli for lunch. This is breakfast and you're having eggs."

You looked at me evenly.

"Nope," you said.

Then you sat there for a minute and we stared at each other, a silent battle of the wills ... who would break first? This much I knew -- I was not making you ravioli for breakfast when I'd just made you eggs. Maybe laziness won. In the end you ate your eggs.

Sometimes you issue orders one after the other, and I'm happy to comply. "Milk!" you yell. Followed by "B-I-N-G-O!" How you learned this nightmarish song I don't know, but you insist that everyone sing it constantly. Midway through B-I-N-G-O you might change your mind and yell for "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" (another song guaranteed to drive the singer to attempt to knock herself unconscious with your Elmo phone just to make it stop).

Also, you cannot be fooled. The other day you demanded "(Cat in the) Hat!" so I started reciting it, because sadly I have now read it to you so many times that I could pretty much say the whole thing even if I were in a coma.

"The sun did not shine, it was too wet to play," I started.

"No," you said. "READ." Reciting would not do. You needed the book read to you and you needed it NOW.

Pretty soon I'm going to hide that book. I just can't read it any more. May this be my biggest failing as a mother, but I can't take it. Couldn't we please, for the love of God, read Ten Minutes Till Bedtime just ONCE? Or how about a lovely retelling of Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus? Or Courderoy, which we used to read so much that your father and I began making up alternate narratives, frequently about how Courderoy was a crack addict and all his friends were coming over to give him presents before he went off to rehab. We probably couldn't do that anymore. You'd probably catch on. Either that or you'd start walking around saying "rehab!".

But as your willfulness grows, so does your affection. Dad told me that yesterday you found a picture of me, looked at it and said, "Mama, kiss!" and then kissed the picture. When I came home a few hours later you gave me a real, honest to goodness hug, with both arms and everything, like you'd noticed I was gone and you were so happy I'd come back.

My favorite thing you've started doing recently is saying the A-B-C's. This morning, after you'd finally agreed to eat your eggs, you started saying "M-N-P-S-W-X-X-X." X is your absolute favorite letter. I think you like how it sounds. Then you said, "B," just to prove you knew some other letters too, I guess.

And it's not just the way the letters sound. You like to point out the letter M wherever you see it, on catalogs and bills and anything else you happen to notice. Colors are another story -- to you everything is still "yekko", indicating that either you don't care that much about color, or you've inherited your father's inability to see anything that isn't electric orange.

It's been a fun month, little chicken. Just eat your eggs, okay?

Love,
Mama

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

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.

Housekeeping at Fifteen Months

In celebration of your reaching 15 months of age, I present to you, the Milo Index:

So last Tuesday: brooms
What you're into now: mops
On the horizon: vacuum cleaners


So last Tuesday: walking
What you're into now: being carried around the apartment while pointing out everything that goes "beep"
On the horizon: being able to climb up people's legs


So last Tuesday: the words cup, garbage, animal sounds
What you're into now: pretending to blow your nose, occaisonal fake demonic laughter
On the horizon: sentences, I hope


So last Tuesday: applesauce
What you're into now: salami (amama)
On the horizon: sandwiches


So last Tuesday: ripping your hat off
What you're into now: putting hats on everyone, yourself included
On the horizon: keeping your mittens on


So last Tuesday: two naps
What you're into now: singing loudly to yourself for 30 minutes before falling asleep
On the horizon: staying up more than 4 hours at a time


So last Tuesday: putting things into the garbage
What you're into now: taking things out of the garbage
On the horizon: taking things out of the garbage and eating them

Housekeeping at 14 Months

Dear Milo:
The past month has been one of extreme highs and lows. About three weeks ago you started whining and you didn't stop until this Monday. My guess is that your molars are coming in and generally causing you to be pissed off with the world, but for a while Daddy and I were worried that maybe this was just your new personality. You whined that you were out of milk and you whined that you didn't feel like eating pasta for dinner and you whined that you didn't want to have your diaper changed or your coat put on and why couldn't you have a sip of whatever it was that all the grownups were drinking and why couldn't you stick your fingers up the cat's butt and why couldn't you just touch the broiler just once?

As a result Daddy and I started drinking. And quite frankly, I'm not very good at drinking. Thankfully you got your old personality back a few days ago and now we're all happy again.

As you've learned more words we've learned more about your personality. You can say garbage, car keys, truck, cup, hot, computer, camera, up, door, please, ball, and closed. Sometimes what you don't say is more interesting than what you do say. For instance, you would think that "milk" might be one of your words, since you consume about a gallon every day. Whereas "garbage" seems like the kind of thing that wouldn't come up that often. But that's not how you roll.

Every day you have a new word, which is very cool, especially when we have a day like yesterday, where the new word was "yuck." You yelled "YUCK" repeatedly at the top of your lungs as I wheeled you down 7th Avenue, causing people to turn their heads and wonder just what kind of strange parents were raising you.

Yesterday I took you on your first walk. We strolled down to the corner where we saw an ambulance go screeching by, and it just about blew your mind. Then we examined the door to the neighboring apartment building, and you demanded that I open it. When I tried to explain that I couldn't in fact open the door to that building, that Mommy doe not have the keys to every building in all of Brooklyn, you cried a little bit. I'm not sure if it was because you thought I was refusing to open the door for you, or the realization that I can't fix everything all the time, even though it usually seems like I can.

You spend a lot of time thinking you're an adult. We've recently discovered that you love the taste of coffee. You like to pretend to read the newspaper and you will say "hello" into anything that even vaguely resembles a cell phone. It used to be that we would put you down in a room and you would stay there. Now sometimes I turn around and you're walking out the door. You're very busy. You have things to do, places to go, people to see, electrical sockets to touch, dust bunnies to eat.

Spending time with you is more like spending time with an actual human being these days. You have desires that make sense and frequently you are able to articulate them. It's been sad for me that just as you've become a better companion I've had less time to spend with you, but I hope that over the next few months that will change. I love when you rest your head on my lap and say "Mama," like I'm your favorite person on the planet. You're my favorite too.

Housekeeping at Twelve Months

Dear Milo:
You're changing so fast, it's hard to keep up. This month has had it's ups and downs, but I still wake up every morning excited to see what new thing you'll do today, so that's probably as good as you can hope for in the parent department.

The first thing that needs mentioning this month, without a doubt, is your passionate love affair with brooms. I thoughtlessly swept up some dust near you one day, and told you I was sweeping with the broom, and then let you sweep a little bit, and from then on you were head over heels. You began asking for the broom ("bee", you call it) first thing in the morning, at lunch, at dinner, and generally every twelve seconds. We'd all grown pretty tired of having to lug the broom around the house for you, until thankfully your ever-attentive babysitter bought you your own Milo-sized broom.

You now carry your broom everywhere, and when you see it for the first time in a few hours you always give it a huge smile and coo: "Bee!".

But the oddest thing about your broom obsession is that it's not limited to brooms in the apartment. Like the best of utterly obsessed humans, you see brooms everywhere. We were standing in the bagel store when you started shouting "Bee! Bee!". I turned and saw that sure enough, a woman standing across the store had purchased a mop, and the handle was sticking out of her plastic shopping bag. Your babysitter took you to a sing-a-long the other day, and despite the dozens of singing babies, the general hubub in the place, you managed to locate a broom in the far corner of the room.

And then there was the leaf brigade. We were at the Tot Lot last week when a van pulled up and out came at least ten park service employees weilding rakes and brooms. As they began to sweep up the leaves littering the ground, you stood dumfounded, as though your brain circuits were overloading from TOO MANY BROOMS. You tried to follow one, then the other, and then, finally, you started to cry because it was all too much.

In other news, you took your first steps on Halloween. You're able to walk short distances on your own, though you prefer to have someone's hand there to hold on to. And you've become an amazing mimic. You like to sing intonations like "Goodnight Moon", or answer the cat's cry with your own "meow". You know what a pig says and what a cow says and what a horse says, and very occaisonally when you want more Cheerios you remember to say "mo!" instead of just whining and acting pissy.

You continue to follow in your parents' footsteps by eating everything under the sun. You still love Chinese food, and you think bagels are the bomb. Berries of all sorts - also a favorite. And riccotta cheese too. You've managed to feed yourself once or twice with a spoon, and once (possibly by accident) with a fork, although mostly you just like smashing the fork on your tray.

And as always, still smiling, still outgoing, still a bundle of energy.

You are my little chicken.
Love,
Mommy