Potty Training, Day By Day

Day 1: Preparation

Go to store to buy "special big boy underwear." Milo uninterested until he discovers special big boy underwear comes with Thomas the Tank Engine on it. Then insists on putting on underwear immediately. Manage to convince him to pick out a pair to wear tomorrow, then wrangle him into a diaper for bed. read potty book multiple times. Totally overhype potty training. Go to sleep.



Day 2: D-Day

Wake up, show Milo how to put on Thomas underwear. Twenty minutes later, take off wet underwear, put on new dry underwear. Repeat. Start to understand just how many times a day a toddler can pee. Begin asking Milo every twenty minutes if he has to use the potty. Answer is always no. Once answer is "no" followed five minutes later by, "I peed a little, but that's okay." Wonder how bad it would be to let him train himself when he's fifteen.



Day 3: Breakthrough

Go on hike. Explain to Milo that the woods is like one big potty, and that he can pee anywhere. After some coaxing, Milo pees on a leaf. See light flick on in his eyes as he points out all the other things he wants to pee on. Listen to Milo now insist every ten minutes that he has to pee because he wants to mark every tree within a fifty mile radius. Point out casually that one can also pee in the backyard. Milo says: "I want to go home right now and pee in my backyard." That evening, go to concert on the waterfront. Smile in amazement as Milo, without prompting, says he needs to go to the bathroom. Find disgusting public bathroom. Washing Milo's hands with Borax after he touches the urinal. Let him pee in the big toilet. Hope this means we're getting close.

Day 10: Possible success
Special Thomas underwear kept dry for over a week. Too early to claim success, but not too shabby either. And so it goes.

It's Like Having A Conversation, But Not

Milo: Do you like starfish? Here's a starfish sticker.

Me: I do like starfish, but this is a star, not a starfish.

Milo: It's a starfish.

Me: No, it's a star. We could go see a starfish someday, though.

Milo: You have to try very hard and look up in the sky.

Me: No, stars are in the sky. Starfish are in the water. We could see a starfish in the ocean or at the aquarium.

Milo: I want to go to the aquarium.

Me: OK, someday we'll go.

Milo: I want to go to the aquarium today.

Me: We can't go today, but someday we'll go. (Looks at the sticker) This sticker says "You're a star."

Milo: (Peels off another sticker of a banana.) This sticker says "You're a banana."

Laugh Riot

It's pretty much a non-stop joke-fest around these parts lately. Instead of sitting around watching television we just sit around and watch Milo, who is way better than anything on TV with the possible exception of Mad Men, which hasn't yet returned with it's new season yet anyway.

Yesterday I was sitting reading the paper and Milo was bringing me things, which is usually how the weekends go in our house.

"Here's your lunch," he said yesterday, bringing me a bowl. "It's some left over chicken and something else."

I looked into the bowl and saw that he had taken a small plastic bag and covered the bowl as though it were plastic wrap. I took the plastic bag off and inside the bowl was a forklift and, lo and behold, a plastic chicken. Naturally. Leftover chicken.

Milo has also been asking us to sing songs around certain themes on demand. "Sing a song about a fish," Milo asked the other day. The only song I could think of that mentioned a fish was Joy To the World, so I sang that. Now Milo drifts off to sleep to the lyrics "Jeremiah was a bullfrog." But he also asks for songs about trains. A lot. Which is how he ended up asking Steven what sound the doors make on the midnight train to Georgia.

If you are Milo this is a perfectly reasonable question.

When The Tap Runs Dry

Me: The other day Milo drew a picture of a whale.

Steven: Milo, will you draw me a picture of a whale?

Milo: I don't want to draw you a picture of a whale. I'm exhausted of whales.

New Videos

The camera is working again - new videos are up here, including the long awaited Milo Sings The Four Questions, also below for your convenience:

Milo Goes Electric

Milo rocks out on Guitar Hero, and other pictures from a surprise trip to the Jersey Shore up on Flickr.

Milo the Maestro

More pictures up on Flickr.

"Buy Low, Sell High."

The Meaning of the Word 'Need'

Dear Milo,
You did something today that so poignantly summed up what's it like to be the parent of a 2-year-old that I almost wanted to run to the computer and write it down that second. For a few weeks now I've been trying to get you to hop down from your chair at the dining room table by yourself. You're tall enough and agile enough to do it, and yet you like to have someone's hand there just in case, mostly for moral support.

"You can do it," I'd been telling you . "You don't need me. You don't need my help."

"I need you," you insisted.

This morning I cleared the breakfast dishes and left you sitting at the table while I puttered around in the kitchen for a moment. Suddenly I heard you come racing down the hall toward the kitchen yelling "MAMA! MAMA! MAMA!" as though your horse had just won the Kentucky Derby.

"What?" I yelled back.

"I did it!" you yelled. "I got down by myself!"

I scooped you up and gave you a big hug.

"That's great!" I said. "I'm so proud of you."

"I did it myself," you said. "I don't need you."

This has not been your best month. You have been difficult about nearly everything, starting with the 100 Years Nap War, continuing through the You Will Use A Spoon Not Your Hands Skirmish, and up on through the I Am Not Carrying You Home From Starbucks, You Said You Wanted To Walk debacle. But then sometimes you come out with something so lovely and perfect that it makes up for it.

You've become a real little person in these last few months -- you go down the slide by yourself, climb up the chain link net at the playground, and manage to figure out exactly how to appease your parents while simultaneously expressing your displeasure at the situation.

Case in point:
A few days ago we went to the playground. As we were leaving the house I said to you, "What toy do you want to bring to the sandbox?"

"Anything," you said. (You still haven't learned the difference between 'nothing' and 'anything.') "I want to play with the other kids' toys."

"You have to bring something to share," I said. "Even if you don't want to play with it. Let's bring your pail and shovel."

"I don't want to bring my pail and shovel," you said.

"You don't have to play with it, you just have to share it," I said, sticking the disputed pail and shovel into the back of the stroller.

When we got to the playground I handed you the pail and shovel, you gave me a look of pure disgust, as though I'd handed you a rotten chicken, marched into the sandbox and shoved it into the hands of the first kid you saw. This kid happened to be younger than you, probably 1 and a half or so, and was so surprised that he immediately took the pail and started playing with it.

"That was so nice!" his father said, and for the rest of our time in the sandbox the father kept shooting admiring glances at Milo The Amazing Boy Who Shares. When his kid was done playing the father took the pail and shovel and handed it to me, thanking me profusely, thanking you profusely, and clearly misunderstanding the entire scenario. To your benefit. Maybe you're an evil genius in the making.

Either way I'm proud of you.

Love,
Mama

Love,
Mama

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

Why You Tube is The Best Thing for Toddlers Ever

This morning we were listening to Milo's orchestra CD, as we do on a lot of mornings, when he said he wanted to see someone play the double bass. In previous eras I would have said something like, "Well, maybe some day we can go to visit the orchestra and you can see someone play the double bass," and by the time I organized such a trip he would already be totally over the double bass and be all, "NOOOO. No double bass. I want to see the French Horn." Or worse, he'd be totally over instruments as an obsession and be like, "Mama, why on Earth would you think I would want to see something as stupid and last Tuesday as a double bass when what I really want to see are basketballs/dinosaurs/snakes."

But we don't live in a world where this is a problem any more.

"Let's see if I can find someone playing the double bass," I said, turning on my computer.

First I went to the New York Philharmonic site, but they didn't have any video. Then to the BBC site, but I couldn't get anything to play.

"Maye You Tube?" I said to Milo, silently wondering if typing in "double bass" on You Tube was going to deliver me videos of naked twins playing bass guitars. But no, what I got was a hundred different videos of people playing the double bass. we watched all morning, and Milo's favorite was a guy with a crazy long beard whacking his double bass with the palm of his hand, making a weird jazzy sound.

Sometimes I love the Internet.

New Lows in Parenthood

"Milo doesn't smell so great. He needs a bath."

"I'm too tired to give him a bath. Can't we just spray him with air freshener or something?"

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

Life with the Terrible Twos

Me: You do not push people in this house. Understand?
Milo: Only push people outside.

Video Evidence, Part 2

Also, the kid hates sea lions.

Video Evidence

In lieu of writing any actual sentences, I've uploaded some recent video proving that Milo:


1. Can Read When Bribed



2. Will Pretend That Anything Is A Train

Sometimes I Cry Too

Today we were at a Christmas brunch where there was a 15 month old baby. The baby started to cry at one point, and Milo walked over to her and said, "Sometimes I cry too." This is my favorite thing he's said yet.

Here are some pictures from the past month:


Making phone calls the old fashioned way at the Marine Air Terminal en route to Washington, DC.


Cousins Max and Milo.


Sunset at the Capitol.


Smiley baby Max.


Checking out the holiday windows at Saks.


Reading in his chair.

C is for Cupcake

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

Mama, Don't Ask Me Stupid Questions

Me: Today we went to the Farmer's Market, right?

Milo: We went to the Farmer's Market and you shook something.

Me: You wanted to shake the spinach, but I said no.

Milo: Mama said no. Then you ate pickles. They were spicy.

Me: And then Dad bought you something special to eat, do you remember what it was?

Milo: Dad bought you a donut at the Farmer's Market.

Me: Did you like the donut?

Milo: Milo loves donuts. And Mama loves donuts. And Dad loves Donuts.

Me: Actually, I don't like donuts. I prefer ice cream. What do you like better, donuts or ice cream?

Milo: What flavor?

First Trick-Or-Treating

For the past week I'd been trying to set up Halloween for Milo, explaining that he would walk to people's houses with a bag, say "Trick or treat" and they would give him candy. My explanations were routinely met with puzzled looks, as though Milo were thinking, Mama, seriously, nothing in my entire two years of experience leads me to believe that random people on the street will give me candy, and quite frankly I find this whole alleged "Halloween" thing to be a little suspect.

In any event, here's how it went down:


A little overwhelmed at first.


"Mama carry you better than walking."


Inspecting the candy.


"Mama, take a picture of the candy!"


Spooky Halloween sky.


"Want to eat the candy now! FInd more candy!"

Milo Spits

I think you're not really a parent until you've been projectile vomited on at 2AM. Preferably by a toddler who then cries out in horror, "Aaaaaahhhh! You spit on Mama!". (Milo talks about himself in the second and third person, having not quite sorted out that whole confusing pronoun business.)

What you want to do in this circumstance, of course, is to scream back, "Omigod! Grrrrrrrrrooooooooosssssssssss!" , drop the toddler to the floor and then run headlong into the shower. Instead what you do is say that it's ok and explain that it's called throwing up, not spitting, and that everyone does it, even Oscar the cat. If all goes well you will then get to listen to dramatic re-enactments of throwing up for the next few days.

"Milo throwed up," these re-enactments will go. "Milo goed like this," followed by retching sounds. Oh, if only everything were as much fun as puking.

Pumpkins As Big As Your Head

Click through for more apple/pumpkin picking images.

Sunday on the Couch with Milo

It's pretty much a non-stop music fest around here.

The Problem With Crocs

Milo and I were taking a pre-dinner walk/run/yelp around the block when we passed by a woman coming the other direction.

"OH MY GOD," the woman yelled as Milo screeched past her. "I have those exact same shoes."

She pointed to the orange blur that was Milo's Crocs.

"I have the same shoes as a one-year-old," the woman said. "Something is not right here."

"He's almost two," I said. What I wanted to say was: yes, something is very wrong with your shoe choice.

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

Fourth Street Flu Epidemic

About a week ago I started feeling not so great, napping a lot, feeling a bit foggy. This weekend it turned into a full blown summer cold, and always generous, I shared it with my entire family. Milo started sneezing Friday morning, and by Friday evening Steven was feeling feverish.

When Milo sneezes sometimes huge gobs of stuff come out and get his hands all sticky, and he starts to cry this really panicked, high-pitched cry like "Holy crap my nose just exploded all over my hand and I can't get it off!" I know it's wrong, but I find this hilarious. When Steven sneezes it's less amusing.

Then for good measure Steven twisted his ankle on Saturday morning while playing soccer. The soccer is part of a "let's do stuff out of the house" movement, where we both sat down and had a long talk about how we needed to watch less TV and do more activities that don't involve either each other or Milo. Steven found two such activities, and thus far I have none. I want to take tennis lessons but ... maybe not so much. I'm tired. It's a long way to the tennis center.

Then this morning Milo's nanny arrived and promptly sneezed her way through the front door. Milo seems to have gotten over his cold. So for those keeping score, the order of decrepitude is:
- Steven
- Me
- Nanny
- Milo

Milo seems to have the immune system of a rhinoceros. Or, Superman, is maybe a better analogy, since for all I know rhinos get lots of colds. But either way, all those people who said weaning him early from the breast would compromise his immune system can SUCK IT.

Rainbow Connection Hostage Crisis: Day 32

Day 1
Introduced Milo to The Muppet Movie. He took an instant loving to the song "Rainbow Connection," and started asking me to sing it to him at night. It's not an easy song to sing, but I obliged. Don't know all the words so I make some of them up.



Day 5
Draw Milo a picture of a rainbow on his chalkboard so he would understand what a rainbow was. Milo begins walking around saying "Rainbow Connection" at random moments during the day.


Day 8
Milo starts saying something that sounds like "summer days" over and over again.



Day 9
Determine that "summer days" is actually "some day we'll find it".



Day 14
Milo receives gift of guitar from his grandmother. Plays "Row, Row Row Your Boat" and "Twinkle Twinkle" on it repeatedly. Erroneously believe that Rainbow Connection crisis may have passed.


Day 16
Milo plays guitar while singing the entire first verse of The Rainbow Connection, begining with "Some day we'll find it/The Rainbow Connection" and up through "Da da da dee da da dee." Whip out video camera and make him do it again. Applaud. Marvel at how totally cute my child is.


Day 17
Milo still playing "The Rainbow Connection" on his guitar and singing along. Still cute.

Day 18
Milo still playing "The Rainbow Connection" on his guitar and singing along. Less cute.

Day 19
Milo still playing "The Rainbow Connection" on his guitar and singing along. Getting annoying.

Day 25

Suggested different songs one could play and sing along with. "You don't understand me!" Milo screamed. "No one can take this song away from me! NO ONE!"

Day 30

Woke up singing Rainbow Connection to myself.

Day 31

Am now hearing Rainbow Connection wherever I go. The subway, the office, out on the street - it plays always, always, always.

Day 32

Some day we'll find it

The Rainbow Connection

The lovers, the dreamers and MEEE

LADADADEEDADADEELADEEDADEEDEEDEEDADEEEEEE

When Toddlers Curse

In a matter of weeks Milo has moved from the aw-he's-talking-that's-so-cute stage of toddlerhood to the please-don't-say-anything-embarrassing stage. Sometimes his observations are innocuous enough - pointing at someone on a bike and saying "That man. Riding bike." - that sort of thing. People on the sidewalk seem a bit surprised to be pointed at and explained ("That woman. Running.") but it's not particularly embarrassing, just funny.

Then the other day Milo and I were walking down the street when he spied a woman in one of those ridiculously short dresses that are all the rage this summer. "That woman," said Milo. "Swimsuit." I sense that we are only a few short months away from loud questions like "Why is that man so fat?".

And then there is the cursing.

"Christ," Milo said the other day. In a happy coincidence, he said it in front of Jagoda, our Polish cleaning lady, and probably the only person we know who might be offended by such an invective. I was recounting this to Steven on Saturday while we were driving to Fairway.

"Where would he get that?" Steven asked. Followed quickly by "Jesus Christ, did you see the way that guy cut me off?"

"Jesus Christ!" Milo chirped from the back seat. "Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ." And then, for good measure he followed it with "Fuck off!".

But the most embarrassing display of language thus far has to be the following. Let me preface the story by explaining that a few nights prior, while sound asleep, I hit Steven in the face, at which point we both agreed it was time to get a king sized bed. So we went to 1-800-mattress to pick out a new bed. We'd spent about twenty minutes jumping on different mattresses, testing them out, and simultaneously trying to keep Milo from "checking email" on the store's computer, when suddenly Milo walked to the center of the store and said very loudly and clearly so everyone in the store could understand him: "POOPING!".

Day 3 And Counting

I have been singing the following song lyrics in my head for three days now, courtesy of Dan Zanes:
Low bridge, everybody down.
Low bridge, everybody down.
And you always know your neighbor, you always know your pal,
if you've ever navigated on the Erie Canal.

Milo doesn't even like this song. He likes:
I love you
A bushel and a peck
You bet your pretty neck I do.

He requests it by saying "Bushelpeck!"

But no matter, I am stuck singing the Erie Canal song, which always conjurs up images of my 4th grade music class, which I think is when I initially learned the song. It was part of some kind of misguided attempt to educate us about American history through music. Or something like that. It's such a depressing song, in a sad, minor key, it always made me think that navigating the Erie Canal sounded like a nightmare.

And then I lived in Syracuse, NY briefly, which is very close to the Erie Canal, and I vaguely remember going to some kind of Erie Canal museum. What I learned was that everyone navigating the Erie Canal was depressed because they were in SYRACUSE.

Words And Phrases Milo Knows That Weren't Invented Yet When I Was A Kid

Check email
iPod
Cell phone
Noble (for Barnes and Noble)
Starbucks
Elmo
Noggin (alas, I have succumbed)

Also, he has a computer that says "Your blog is awesome!"

Everyone at The Tot Lot is a Communist

Yesterday at the Tot Lot Milo became fixated on another little boy's push toy, which Milo insisted on refering to as "popping thing" because it looked a little like a popping lawnmower toy he'd been playing with last week at his grandfather's house. Milo was contentedly bogarting the toy; he'd pulled it over to a far corner of the Tot Lot, away from the grabby hands of the other kids, and glared at anyone who came near.

Eventually a bold, much younger little girl toddled over and started laying her paws all over the toy. And for the first time in his life Milo looked at her and yelled "No!" He tried to move the toy away from her, but she followed him.

"Milo," I said, against my will and ever fiber of my being. "It's not your toy, so you have to share."

About half an hour later Milo was playing with a little toy car near the slide. Another little girl crawled over to him, eying the car. Milo looked at me and started to cy.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

Whimpering, Milo said, "Share."

"You don't have to share the car," I said. "You just started playing with it. You just had to share the push toy because you'd been playing with it for a long time."

I sighed. I could barely make sense of the sharing rules, so how could I expect Milo to? I think the rule at the Tot Lot should be NO SHARING ALLOWED. Kids should be able to bring their toys and smack anyone who comes within a two foot radius. After all, you don't have to share in real life. It's not like I might be standing in line for a bagel when a perfect stranger approaches me and says it's now his turn to use my iPod. Imagine a world where this happened. Where there was no private property, and if you saw someone walking down the street wearing a sweater you liked you could just yell "My turn!" and grab the sweater. It would be chaos! Anarchy! Or Stalinist Russia. Take your pick.

Your Love is Better Than Ice Cream (Maybe)

More pictures from this weekend's ice cream extravaganza on Flickr.

First Haircut

Yesterday Milo got his first haircut. I think the haircutting lady thought I was insane for not cutting his hair sooner. She kept saying, "It's so long" over and over. I don't know, it didn't seem that long to me. Also I have a phobia about getting my own hair cut. Also I thought I could do it on my own, which is why your hair always looked sort of lopsided and strange.

At first Milo was all excited because he got to sit in a little red fire engine. He grabbed the steering wheel and made honking noises. Then out of the corner of his eye he saw the glint of the hairdresser's shears, and in an instant he started howling. I think he thought she was going to decapitate him. He cried through most of it. She cut off all his curls, which I loved, but I guess they'll grow back. Anyway people will stop thinking he's a girl at least. So, Milo, you used to look like a little toddler -- now you look like a financial analyst. Oh well. It's only hair.

Before:


After:

The Boy-ification of Milo

"So yesterday Milo took my lipstick and pretended to put it on his lips."

"Uh huh."

"I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to say 'lipstick is only for girls.'"

"Really? You actually stopped and thought about that one?"

"Well, yes. What if he's a boy who wants to wear lipstick? I don't want him to think that there's something wrong with that."

"So you'd rather he find out by getting the shit beaten out of him when he wears lipstick to his first day at Kindergarten?"

"No. That's why I didn't know what to do."

"I think it's okay to tell him that lipstick is for girls."

"Okay. That's your job, then. You're responsible for his boyification."

"Okay."

Pause.

"He needs a toolbelt. And a bat. Also a better soccer ball. I have a whole list."

"Sounds good. Go Y-chromosomes."

The End of Hugs

I just finished reading an anthology about raising sons, and concluded two things:
1. I do not share the fear that many women have regarding boy things like trucks and dirt.
2. Some day Milo will grow out of his hugging phase, stop thinking that I can fix everything, start shaving and leave home and never call.

While I was a girl myself (yes, really!) I wasn't a superstar at being a girl. I had girl toys like dolls and Barbies, but I also had a brother, which meant that I could play with matchbox cars and Star Wars figurines too. And frequently, I was silently happy about having said brother because it meant I got to play with boy stuff, no questions asked. When we found out Milo would be a boy, I felt that little happy feeling again -- I would, once again, get a Play With Boy Stuff Free card. And it would be easy and familiar. Girl stuff I wasn't sure I'd done properly, but boy stuff I could do with my eyes shut.

A few months ago my mother sent Milo a little play kitchen, which came with a set of dishes and plastic silverware. As Steven and I were unpacking the little dishes and putting them in the play cabinets, I kep holding up dishes and saying "What's this one?"
"A pot," Steven would reply.
"What's this?" I asked, holding up a grey object. "A cup?"
"It's a saltshaker," said Steven. "Weren't you EVER a girl?"
"Yes, but I was bad at it," I said.

All of which is to say, I had no fear regarding the coming years of rough and tumble play involving dolls hitting each other, or whatever this particular boy would choose to do. And, until I read the aforementioned anthology, it had not crossed my mind to worry about point #2.

But now I can't get it out of my head. Sure, we'll be able to sleep in again on weekends and go out to the movies, but there will no longer be a little person around for whom I am his everything. When Milo hurts himself he'll no longer make a beeline for my arms, yelling "HUG! HUG!" We've still got many years of Mama's hugs fixing everything, I'm sure, but it's a finite amount. Every day we are one day closer to the end of hugs.

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.

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."

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.

Mama, I Hold These Truths To Be Self-Evident

The world according to Milo, if he could articulate as much:

1. All adults are always carrying hot cups of coffee.

2. All doors that are open must be closed. All doors that are closed must be opened.

3. Sweaters suck.

4. Socks and shoes are awesome.

5. All stuffed animals and dolls are Elmo.

6. Blue is yellow. Red and green are also yellow.

7. If only I could have a regular-sized mop my life would be complete. Also I would like unrestricted access to the toilet, and I should be allowed to throw things into it. Oh, and while we're at it, I want my own pair of scissors.

8. The cat likes it when I jump on him and grind my face into his fur.

9. My parents are primarily around to bring me milk. Milk should appear within no less than twenty seconds after I request it.

10. No car ride should be longer than 5 minutes. If I am forced to sit in the car for longer than that, I am entirely within my rights to begin screaming.

Mommies Who Lie

Earlier this week we took Milo in for his 15 month shots. I'd spent most of the day telling him he was going to go to the doctor and get shots ("sshhots" Milo would repeat, nodding his head) followed by Band-Aids, knowing that he wasn't really processing anything except for the Band Aid part. He spent a happy 30 minutes running around the office in a diaper, opening drawers and playing with syringes, until the doctor came in and began asking questions, like how was Milo's walking and what was he eating and how many words did he have.

"I don't know," I said. "Maybe fifty words?"

The doctor looked at me like I was clearly one of these annoying overachieving lying Park Slope mothers.

"And is he stacking blocks?" asked the doctor.

"No." I said.

"Thanks for your honesty," said the doctor. "He probably won't do that until 18 months, but a lot of people come in and say their 15-month-old can build the Empire State Building."

So what, the whole block-stacking thing was just a trick question? It was a question about me, not about Milo, right? It was a question that clearly stated, you are lying about how many words your son says, so I am going to find out what else you might lie about.

Then the doctor picked up that ear-looking-into thing doctors use and Milo reached for it and said, "hammer."

"It's not a hammer," I said, although I was then hard-pressed to know exaclty what to call it, other than an ear-looking-into thing.

"It does look like a hammer," said the doctor.

At which point I grabbed the ear-looking-into thing, shoved it against the doctor's neck and screamed, "SAY IT! SAY MILO HAS FIFTY WORDS! SAY IT!".

"Okay," said the doctor. "He has fifty words."

"Thank you," I said, sitting back down and handing him the ear-looking-into thing. "You can continue with the examination now."