Going Postal

There are three entities of whose whereabouts Oscar wishes to be apprised at all times:  his dad, his dog, and his mailman.

I am aware that Oscar considers me a ghastly bore.  He has not given me a catchy moniker like "dad dad vroom vroom" or "dog dog woof woof."  What can I say?  I don't ride a motorbike or bark.  Oscar is a high-spirited child, vivacious and energetic and uberquick of mind and body, and I am the quiet old lady who is whispering hush.  Only with a chihuahua in my lap instead of knitting needles.  So to stimulate his intellect (who am I trying to kid--it's to curry favor with him) I rack my imagination for new things that will interest him.

My first (and perhaps only) coup in this department was introducing him to the "mailman."  (Sidebar: I know the correct term is mail carrier, but try getting a one-year-old to say it.)  One day as the mailman was driving up the street, I brought Oscar to the window and said, "Look!!  it's the mailman"--in my most excited voice.  Then we watched the truck carry on up the street and stop at each box.  Oscar had no problem saying, "mailman."  He repeated it a few times for practice.  He seemed to enjoy it.  I pulled the switch (you know, the one that makes lightning strike the sewn-together bits and bring them to life) on Catherinestein's monster when, after his nap, I took Oscar to the front door and threw it open, revealing the packages there (that had actually been delivered by UPS).  He was absolutely delighted.  Feeling rather triumphant (damned fool that I am) I carried him to the mail box so we could "check" it.  There were letters inside, and he was quite gratified to retrieve them.  He opened and shut the box several times for emphasis.  Score one for mum mum.

The next day Oscar began asking about the mailman as soon as he woke up.  I wasn't too concerned because during the school year he asked about the bus every morning, and then again in the afternoon, when he could hear them coming and going.  In fact, I continued to congratulate myself on my achievement.  Idiot.  All morning long he pressed me, "mailman? package? box? check?" over and over and over again.  As I was putting him down for his nap, the last thing he asked me was, "mailman? mailman? mailman?"  The novelty of my victory was quickly wearing off, but I was pleased to excite his anticipation by telling him that we would look for packages and check the box after his nap, the mailman hadn't come yet.

As soon as I put Oscar down, I went down for a nap myself, as usual.  Out of a dead sleep I heard, "Mum mum?  Mum mum?"  I looked at the clock.  Oscar had only been asleep for 45 minutes.  He needed two hours. I was gutted, but I got up to get him.  As I was picking him up, what should I hear but the MAIL TRUCK driving away.  He was listening for the mailman while he was napping!!!  NOOOOOOOO!!!  Sure enough, as I heard the truck drive off he stated confidently, "Mailman.  Mailman.  Mailman."  Then he started with the "mailman? package? box? check?"  I obliged.  Was it a fluke?  Sadly, it was not.  The next day and the next day and the next day ad nauseum he woke from his nap way too early, and I would hear the mail truck driving off as I got him out of bed.  One of us was crying.  I concluded I should play down the whole mailman thing.  That has helped.  A bit.

Chalk this one up to another of my fantastic parenting ideas, along with the one where I let him crack the eggs for a cake when I only had the exact number I needed.  Or the one where I let him stir the brownie batter.  Or the one where I let him carry the dog bowl full of kibble.  Yeah, it's like that.

And as if by Magic...

Once object permanence set in Oscar was all about everything being either right in front of him, or "allgone."  By way of teasing him, G and I began using the phrase "Poof!  Disparu!" whenever we whisked anything out of his sight.  Notice our pretentious use of a foreign phrase.  We were hoping Oscar would pick it up and amaze all the parents at church.  Didn't happen.  But he was certainly delighted by our little game.

At breakfast on the morning our son turned seventeen months old, I studied him for a few minutes.  I observed to G that Oscar is looking older, like a little boy, not at all babyish anymore.  G agreed, and asked our little toddler in a mournful voice, "What happened to Baby Oscar?"  Without missing a beat, Oscar replied non-chalantly, "Poof!"

The young wizard working his magic on Baby Oscar:

Now you see him...

...now you don't.

Lovey Me Tender

At my baby shower I received a small stuffed animal, a blue dog with a satin belly and a collar reading"My First Puppy."  I thought it was darling, but I did not even begin to dream of the love affair that would soon blossom between a baby boy and his...inanimate object!

I wasn't surprised when, at several months old, Oscar began to favor the blue puppy.  The puppy is soft, cuddly, and just the right size for a small hand to grasp, just the right floppiness to fold into a small neck, and, apparently, just the right texture for a miniature set of gnashers to bite and chew, and just the right absorbency to wipe a small nose.  And it's machine-washable (well, maybe that didn't factor into his choice).  It quickly began to get the worn look--and worse, the goobery smell--of a cherished, rarely-left-behind comfort object.  Was this attachment normal?  That kid with the blanket from the Peanuts cartoon never seemed quite right to me.  I consulted my book.  Whew--normal.  What's this though?  The book suggests a spare might be in order.  Uh oh. An internet search confirmed the worst:  the dog was discontinued.  Of course, there were several eBay profiteers ready to sell me a used one for forty bucks.  Who are these people?!  The best deal I could find was a new one for $25.  Still no sale.  I was sure I could find a cheaper solution.  If a second puppy was out of the question, we would just have to convince the boy to shift his affections to an object that could be purchased in multiples.

For the next few months I looked high and low--ToysRUs, Target, Walmart--searching, searching, searching for the perfect lovey.  Every time I saw a likely candidate I purchased two, smugly noting to myself that two of these were less than $25.  And every time I presented Oscar with a new friend, he was delighted.  He would smile, exclaim, and squeeze the plush item in a very promising manner.  Yep, this is The One, I would think.  But these flirtations were momentary.  At bedtime or after a knock on the noggin, it was his first, true love that he sought.  Even with the handwriting on the wall, I held out for several weeks, willing my scheme to succeed.  During which time the price of the new puppy went up to $30--a sum I had already easily exceeded with my doomed machinations, naturally.  When I was finally ready to admit defeat, I couldn't order that second puppy fast enough, and I thanked the seller for gouging me.  My only regret is that we didn't get a third.

The Summer Blehs

The other day Oscar shook his head "no" for the first time.  But, at month 16.5, I've still never heard him utter the word.  Because he's such an agreeable, compliant child, yes?  No.

Around the time Oscar turned fourteen months, a couple of things happened.  First, he had an awesome explosion of language and understanding--I'm sure he acquired at least one new word a day.  Second, he began to display a shocking desire for independence.  Sort of.  He also became even more than usually clingy.  Mmmhmmm...so you want me to hold you at face level while you bite and hit me.  For four minutes of every five in the day I hear, "mum mum...mum mum?" and see two little arms jammed straight up in the air.  As soon as I lift him up, he's pushing me away, wriggling for freedom again.  Well, that's an exaggeration.  Sometimes he wants to hug, bless him.  And sometimes he wants me to hold him up at the front window while we wait for every bus, garbage truck, and delivery vehicle with a route in our neighborhood to drive past and back again.  At least my arms are toned.  He has a well-stocked, very spacious playroom that is gated off.  This is a safe place to leave him when I have some task to perform.  I guess he prefers company.  Or an open floor plan.  If I leave him playing alone for long (for three seconds on bad days) he stands at the gate and wails at me.  Until I come back.  No matter how long that takes.  One day he fell asleep that way!  He has always been a little high-maintenance (which I attribute to G's genes, naturally) but now he is making the pharaohs look like tour guides for a walk in the park.  When did my dear little benevolent dictator turn into an absolute tyrant?  I consulted my oracle, the Google, for clues to this mysterious change, theorizing an Invasion of the Body Snatchers scenario.  I was forced to conclude something far more mundane:  he has entered his "Terrible Twos."  (Here's hoping that an early entree means an early exit.)

But back to the independence thing.  One of the hallmarks of this "first adolescence," as one author called it, is a propensity to say "no." Over.  And over.  Again.  As I mentioned, we have thus far escaped this decidedly uncharming trait...or have we?  It's not that he never answers in the negative.  On the contrary.  But instead of saying "no" he says "bleh."  It all started out with food.  Before he had any real words at all, he would say "ummmm" when he tasted something he liked.  Not too long after that, if he tasted something he didn't like, he would say "bleh."  Isn't that so cute?  We thought it was adorable.  Then he started to use "bleh" to say he was finished with whatever he was eating, whether he liked it or not. Then "bleh" for I don't want that, and "please" for I do.  (Do you want some banana?  Bleh? or please?)  We found these usages helpful.  But soon there was too much of a good thing.  Far too much.  Choosing a story at bedtime:  I hold up each title and he says a languid "bleh" to each one.  Time to change his pants:  he runs through the house, a staccato "bleh bleh bleh" with each step.  Trying to put him in his high chair at mealtime:  he tenses and thrashes about, with a resolute "bleh!"  I guess you get the idea.

When he shook his head "bleh" the other day, I realized it may not be long until we hear a bonafide "no."  And then I'll probably long for those lovely summer days filled with "bleh."

First Words

I was beginning to fret a bit as Oscar's first birthday approached and he had yet to say a word other than "boom" (does that even count as a word?).  My book assured me he should be saying "mama" and "dada"--and meaning it--by nine or ten months.  But then, finally, around the time of the Big Day, we (meaning G) began to notice that some of those sounds he was making were, in fact, words.  Or at least barks.  Yep, that's "woof woof" he keeps saying!  And "dog."  Or is it "dad?"  I guess he knew we were confused because he soon distinguished between the two by clarifying:  "dad...vroom vroom," and "dog...woof woof."

Speaking of vroom vroom, one of his earliest words--to G's utter pride--was "garage!"  (Strangely, he pronounces it the American way.  Actually, that's not so strange, since "garage" is my second most frequent answer, after "work," to his interminable query "dad?  dad?  dad?")  I suppose this is down to the fact that G had him in that man cave every Saturday morning for many weeks, plunked in his activity center while G built a motorbike.  Predictably, he is no longer content to watch.  He nags me every day, "g'rage? g'rage? g'rage?"  When I finally relent, he heads straight for the "toos," grabs a few, then squats down next to the "bike," and begins to "fix" it.  Apple...tree.

Although, I must say, I'm bursting with pride myself.  Lately my "presh" "prince" has another obsession, too.  Every pump bottle he sees has him begging to "sanitize."  That's my boy.