There are some combinations of words and concepts in the English language that one simply does not expect to use in one's lifetime.
For example:
"Please stop stabbing me with that slice of bread."
Yet, in the wonderful world of proto-toddlerhood, such fantastical amalgams are not only likely, they are downright practical.
I suppose it may come as no surprise to people experienced with children that, having no societal norms to draw upon, a toddler will do things which are somewhat unexpected - such as poking one's parent repeatedly with a otherwise innocuous slice of whole grain goodness. Hence the phrase, "Please stop stabbing me with that slice of bread."
Nonetheless, hearing such lines actually spoken often takes me somewhat aback.
Other off-the-cuff statements inspired by Daigoro's antics:
"The kitty's poop is not for playing with."
"Why is your airplane kissing the baby doll?"
"Please don't use daddy's groin as a springboard."
Toddler motivation often has its own internal logic. Poking someone with bread is funny, it was at hand, and didn't get the same sort of negative response as he would if were poking mommy with something harder or more sharp. The kitty litter box is dark, mysterious and resembles to some degree a playground sandbox. If inanimate baby dolls can be hugged and kissed, why not inanimate model airplanes? Why shouldn't they express affection for each other? As for jumping on daddy's groin, well, he tends to jump all over other parts of my body, the groin just is more sensitive, right?
"Apple juice does not improve the flavour of your peas."
Friday, February 16, 2007
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Vignette: Seeing the Light
Yesterday, as Daigoro was playing with a set of Mega-Blocks (over-sized Lego for toddlers) he stopped and looked very puzzled. He was pushing it around on top of a glass coffee table we have in the front room. A moment or two went by and he continued staring off, apparently into space. I followed his gaze and noticed a multicoloured pattern on the far wall.
Mid-morning sunlight was streaming in through the south facing windows of our living room and shining off the blocks, then reflecting on the table and thence onto the wall. Daigoro was fascinated. He turned the blocks and watched as the pattern shifted and danced over the wall, then the bookcase. He turned it again, following it with his eyes around the room.
The look of concentration but also of wonder was in his eyes. It's one of the expressions I hold most dear in my heart when I look at him. I'm certain that I had a similar look as I gazed at him.
Mid-morning sunlight was streaming in through the south facing windows of our living room and shining off the blocks, then reflecting on the table and thence onto the wall. Daigoro was fascinated. He turned the blocks and watched as the pattern shifted and danced over the wall, then the bookcase. He turned it again, following it with his eyes around the room.
The look of concentration but also of wonder was in his eyes. It's one of the expressions I hold most dear in my heart when I look at him. I'm certain that I had a similar look as I gazed at him.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Good Morning, Sunshine!
When you get to the ripe age of thirtysomething, mornings seldom seem to have quite the same sparkle as they did in the salad days of youth. Not that you'd want to eat salad for days, or actually have sparkle-y mornings, but you get the idea.
Daigoro is stunningly good-natured in the morning. He's normally quite happy, but in the morning, when you've been woken up by your spouse having the usual late-pregnancy sleep troubles at 2 AM, the cat being annoying at 5 AM and the fruit of your loins calling "Dada?!" at 6:45, his good mood ascends well into the range of "too much, too soon."
It starts the moment he wakes up. I don't know how other toddlers wake up. I imagine it's likely a relatively gradual process. In Daigoro's case, he's seemingly fast asleep one moment, then standing upright a split second later. It's startlingly quick - sort of the reverse of a puppet having its strings cut. Somehow he just leaps into an upright stance without the intermediate "roll over, rub eyes, sit up, stretch, stand slowly" steps that most adults take in between.
Usually the first words out of his mouth are truck-related. I can only hope this does not reflect on his eventual life priorities, because on his current path his guidance counsellor isn't going to have check off more than one or two boxes on the old career path sheet.
"Truck! Firetruck! Car! ... Dada?"
"Yes, Daigoro?"
"Truck! TRUUUUCK!"
We alternate the task of fetching him from his crib. He usually snuggles into our chests as we transfer him, at which point we usually try to extend his momentary docile mood to getting another 15-20 minutes of sleep. At the moment this seems to work about 20% of the time, and Daigoro peacefully naps for another little while. The other 80% of the time, Daigoro wants to play.
If you have brothers and sisters, as I do, you may be familiar with a smaller human being wanting desperately to gain your attention at 7 in the morning. Even if you have, however, you're likely not to have experienced it as an adult, unless you are a parent or babysit sleep-over children. Unless there was a long gap between you and your siblings, you're also likely not to have experienced the delicate aroma of six hour-old baby diaper as a toddler plants his bum solidly on your nose, or the pleasant sensations of a child trodding blithely on your genitalia and sensitive portions of your midsection.
One very nice aspect of this, all kidding aside, is to have a very cuddly and happy little boy sharing the covers with you. He usually has a beaming smile plastered to his face. As grumpy or jaded anyone can be ( I'm not exactly a bear in the morning, really) it's really hard to not feel like smiling yourself.
After rolling over us for a few minutes, or playing peek-a-boo, he usually slides off the bed, tromps to the door and waves a beckoning hand.
" 'mon," he says, which is his current abbreviation for 'come on'. The parental response is usually to groan inwardly (or literally, when it's been a restless night) and try desperately to pretend we didn't hear him.
"Cee-al," he continues insistently, using his toddler's argot for 'cereal'. Cereal is his favourite food at the moment. He'd probably eat nothing but cereal, given the opportunity. As nice as that would be for Nabisco, we do try to vary his diet a little.
After one or two 'mons!, we usually marshal the strength to set him up in his booster seat in the dining room. One of his favourite cereals is the President's Choice 'raisin and bran' cereal, which he can't seem to get enough of. Nature's candy, I suppose. Feeding him that cereal in the morning and changing him in the evening can be an object lesson in the healthy purgative nature of dietary fibre.
After cereal, he'll often ask for "jam". He's cleverly determined that he can lick the jam right off toast if we let him, so toast and jam is usually a supervised affair while the other parent takes a shower or puts on make-up. He waits fairly patiently while we wipe the mess of cereal and jam from his face and hands, then he's down again, usually asking for vehicles of some kind.
A typical hand-off of care takes place while the other parent completes her or his morning ablutions and then it's time to pile him into his clothes for the day and his snowsuit.
Having finished dressing him and ourselves, we head out to the car to take him to his home care provider. He loves to dawdle, inspecting small grains of road salt or huge chunks of ice, crunching on ice-crusted snow or running through the steam billowing out of the clothes dryer vent in the side driveway. At this point, it's usually us coaxing him, but every once in a while I realize what a blessing it is to look forward with such wonder and excitement at the prospect of a new day as he does. To raise a hand and beckon to others, "Come on!"
Daigoro is stunningly good-natured in the morning. He's normally quite happy, but in the morning, when you've been woken up by your spouse having the usual late-pregnancy sleep troubles at 2 AM, the cat being annoying at 5 AM and the fruit of your loins calling "Dada?!" at 6:45, his good mood ascends well into the range of "too much, too soon."
It starts the moment he wakes up. I don't know how other toddlers wake up. I imagine it's likely a relatively gradual process. In Daigoro's case, he's seemingly fast asleep one moment, then standing upright a split second later. It's startlingly quick - sort of the reverse of a puppet having its strings cut. Somehow he just leaps into an upright stance without the intermediate "roll over, rub eyes, sit up, stretch, stand slowly" steps that most adults take in between.
Usually the first words out of his mouth are truck-related. I can only hope this does not reflect on his eventual life priorities, because on his current path his guidance counsellor isn't going to have check off more than one or two boxes on the old career path sheet.
"Truck! Firetruck! Car! ... Dada?"
"Yes, Daigoro?"
"Truck! TRUUUUCK!"
We alternate the task of fetching him from his crib. He usually snuggles into our chests as we transfer him, at which point we usually try to extend his momentary docile mood to getting another 15-20 minutes of sleep. At the moment this seems to work about 20% of the time, and Daigoro peacefully naps for another little while. The other 80% of the time, Daigoro wants to play.
If you have brothers and sisters, as I do, you may be familiar with a smaller human being wanting desperately to gain your attention at 7 in the morning. Even if you have, however, you're likely not to have experienced it as an adult, unless you are a parent or babysit sleep-over children. Unless there was a long gap between you and your siblings, you're also likely not to have experienced the delicate aroma of six hour-old baby diaper as a toddler plants his bum solidly on your nose, or the pleasant sensations of a child trodding blithely on your genitalia and sensitive portions of your midsection.
One very nice aspect of this, all kidding aside, is to have a very cuddly and happy little boy sharing the covers with you. He usually has a beaming smile plastered to his face. As grumpy or jaded anyone can be ( I'm not exactly a bear in the morning, really) it's really hard to not feel like smiling yourself.
After rolling over us for a few minutes, or playing peek-a-boo, he usually slides off the bed, tromps to the door and waves a beckoning hand.
" 'mon," he says, which is his current abbreviation for 'come on'. The parental response is usually to groan inwardly (or literally, when it's been a restless night) and try desperately to pretend we didn't hear him.
"Cee-al," he continues insistently, using his toddler's argot for 'cereal'. Cereal is his favourite food at the moment. He'd probably eat nothing but cereal, given the opportunity. As nice as that would be for Nabisco, we do try to vary his diet a little.
After one or two 'mons!, we usually marshal the strength to set him up in his booster seat in the dining room. One of his favourite cereals is the President's Choice 'raisin and bran' cereal, which he can't seem to get enough of. Nature's candy, I suppose. Feeding him that cereal in the morning and changing him in the evening can be an object lesson in the healthy purgative nature of dietary fibre.
After cereal, he'll often ask for "jam". He's cleverly determined that he can lick the jam right off toast if we let him, so toast and jam is usually a supervised affair while the other parent takes a shower or puts on make-up. He waits fairly patiently while we wipe the mess of cereal and jam from his face and hands, then he's down again, usually asking for vehicles of some kind.
A typical hand-off of care takes place while the other parent completes her or his morning ablutions and then it's time to pile him into his clothes for the day and his snowsuit.
Having finished dressing him and ourselves, we head out to the car to take him to his home care provider. He loves to dawdle, inspecting small grains of road salt or huge chunks of ice, crunching on ice-crusted snow or running through the steam billowing out of the clothes dryer vent in the side driveway. At this point, it's usually us coaxing him, but every once in a while I realize what a blessing it is to look forward with such wonder and excitement at the prospect of a new day as he does. To raise a hand and beckon to others, "Come on!"
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