A Brief Funny to Break Up All the Doom and Gloom

Bry's gotten into the habit of calling out for daddy to bring him water once he and I are settled into the rocking chair just before bedtime. Five minutes into the bedtime routine, he's calling out, "Da-ddy! Water, please!" You'd think we'd start getting proactive about this, and bring a cup of water into his room before we start winding down. But Steve likes when Bry calls out to him, and really, it's just become another part of the routine.

Last night, after several rounds of "Da-ddy! Water, please!" with mama chiming in, daddy did not come bounding into Bry's bedroom like he usually does. So Bry turned it up a notch, calling out, "St-eve! Water, please!" Something about addressing his father in a singsongy voice as "Steve" put me over the edge, and I giggled for about the next five minutes. So much for a quiet bedtime.

Status Report

Bry's adjustment to the older toddlers' room at his daycare has been getting better. Kind of. I think.

His teachers say that he's crying less. Good.

He goes around randomly saying, "Bry not like older toddlers." Not so good.

Today, as we were driving away from his daycare, he said, "Where Bry's school? Go back to Bry's school." Good.

This morning when I annonced that we would be leaving for school in five minutes, Bry wailed, "Bry not go to school! Bry stay home!" Sigh.

In response to questions about the best/worst parts of his day, he says, "Older toddlers." Huh.

Probably the clearest conclusion that can be drawn from all of this is not to trust the eye witness testimony of a not-quite two-year-old. The poor guy just seems overwhelmed by stressors at the moment. New room at school, holiday madness, teething, the agony of wearing boots (seriously, this kid does NOT like to walk in the snow). I'm hoping that things settle down after the new year. Because the upshot of all of this stress seems to be ever increasing whining, frustration, and high-volume declarations of "NO!" at just about any parental request that comes his way. Or maybe all of that is just the upshot of being a not-quite two-year-old. Surely this can't last forever, right? (Cue crickets chirping.) Right?

Stock footage from happier times.

(Good) Grief

Bryson spent the last week transitioning from the "younger toddler" classroom (16-24 months) to the "older toddler" classroom (24-33 months) at his daycare. It has been somewhat rough going, reminiscent of his first week at this daycare. According to his teachers, he breaks down a little bit at transition times and has been carrying around his nap blanket for extra support. They requested that we bring shirt and lion back in, because he was tripping over his blanket every three steps. Probably not helping the transition is the fact that this week, the kids have been playing outside in their full winter get-ups - coats, snow pants, boots, mittens, hats - for the first time. Bry is a fan of snow in the abstract, in that he likes to see it out the window, while he stays warm inside. He's not so much a fan of snow in the stepping in it in his boots sense. Steve played up the joys of walking in the snow to Bry after the first dusting of the season, "When you walk in the snow, your feet go crunch, crunch, crunch!" Bryson agreed, before having set foot outside, that this indeed sounded like a good time. However, when it came time to hustle him out the door to school on the first morning that it had snowed (maybe a half of an inch), Bryson's opinion of snow quickly turned to distaste. He took one step into the snow and declared, "Mama hold you! Bry not go crunch, crunch, crunch!" Per his teachers, Bry has taken the slow route to warming up to the idea of playing outside in the snow (which has still yet to accumulate appreciably on the ground - I'm not sure what's going to happen when all of the school's outdoor toys get buried under a mound of the cold, cold precipitation).

Snow and cold notwithstanding, Bry seems a little beside himself in the older toddler classroom, where the majority of the kids are bigger, louder, and more articulate. A few weeks ago, Bry's teachers informed us that they had been working with him around assertiveness, because when other kids took toys away from Bry, he mostly just stood rooted to the ground, I'm guessing with a faraway, overwhelmed look on his face. His teachers coached him to say, "mine" or "stop." I gathered that the lessons were taking root when I absentmindedly took a fork out of his hand one day to cut up the meat on his plate and he said, "Mama not take Bry's fork!"

Last week, Bry's teachers told us that they were continuing to work with him around saying "stop," and added that the new challenge was to get Bry to stop saying "yes" when he really means "no." Amusingly, his teacher characterized him as "an agreeable guy," to which I responded (internally), "Are you sure we're talking about the same kid? 'Cause agreeable is not so much the first adjective that comes to mind to describe Bry's recent approach to parental requests. Obstinate seems a better fit."

***

Bry will officially be an "older toddler" come Monday. Steve and I talked it up all last week, while acknowledging that it was okay to feel scared or sad at the same time. Over the course of the week, we got feedback that, although shaky, Bry was becoming more accustomed to the new routine. But this evening, I had a heartbreaking conversation with Bry just before bedtime. We were doing our usual dream/story routine in the rocking chair, and I was replaying the excitement of Bry having successfully used his potty for the first time, and for its intended purpose, just a few moments earlier (a story for another day, perhaps - or perhaps not, because, I'm not sure I need to blog Bry's life in quite that level of detail). We talked about underwear and all of the exciting motifs with which it might be emblazoned (Bry requested tow trucks), and then moved on to how some older toddlers wear underwear and some wear diapers and so on and so forth. Bry grew quiet, and then said, "Bry needs a diaper." This was the first sign that Bry was feeling overwhelmed by the whole older toddler thing.

Sign number two was when I asked Bry what the best part of today was for him. Steve and I have started having the best part/worst part of the day conversation at dinner, and sometimes it comes up at bedtime too. We've been explaining that "worst part" means something that you don't like. When I asked tonight about the best part of Bry's day, he again grew quiet, and then said, "Something you don't like." Our conversations are not always so linear. I asked, "What's something you don't like?" Pause. "Going to older toddlers." My heart hurt as I asked him what he didn't like about going to older toddlers. When he didn't say anything, I suggested that it might be something about the bigger kids, or the teachers, or the room. He answered something like, "Big kids touching you." I took this to mean that Bry felt jostled around, or just overwhelmed by the imposing physical presence of kids who are a head taller than him. Cuddling him in the rocking chair, I wanted to float the possibility that maybe I could just hold him from here on out, sure it might get difficult as he got into high school, but I'm sure I could build up my strength over time. Instead, I told him that I could see how it would be scary to be touched by bigger kids and reminded him that he could always say stop or ask a teacher for help.

The final kicker came when I asked Bry if there was anything about younger toddlers that he missed. Long pause. "Your teachers. Bry likes teachers." I was ready to dissolve into tears at that point. I can only imagine the grief that Bry must be feeling at having to face yet another change in his life and routine. I asked if he would also miss some of his younger toddler friends. "Yes. Stuart." We decided jointly that we would ask Stuart, Aditya, and Kaden (Bry's choices) to come over and play some time.

I tried to reassure Bry as best as I could that things will get easier, whatever he feels is okay, and that mama and daddy will do everything we can to make it better. What I didn't say was that we feel these losses too. And that, in a way, this is a good kind of grief, because it's grief that comes with the celebration of moving forward. But of course, you can't move forward without leaving something else behind, and I don't have the first clue how to explain to Bryson that he is, in fact, constantly moving forward, despite how scared or sad he might feel. Steve and I are continually learning too, I guess. About how to balance excitement about the future with compassion for the challenges involved. About what Bry needs most during transitions. About how to be his parents, I guess. Damned if it isn't the hardest learning I've ever done.

We're looking out for you, Bry. Promise.

From the Mouths of Babes

As Bry becomes more fluent with the whole idea of communicating via the English language (as opposed to via mostly incoherent wails and shrieks), his statements are getting longer, funnier, and at times, more startling, in the where does this kid get so much verbal energy from sense. Cases in point:

Bryson requesting a very particular kind of story: "Mama, tell you a story!" (He's still not so into the personal pronouns.) Mama's response: "OK. Once upon a time there was a little boy named Bryson...." Bryson's interjection: "No. Once upon a time there was red dump truck, please." At least his sense of politeness seems to be developing.

Bryson requesting to be held while daddy is cooking, so as to be as close to the action as possible: "Daddy hold you!" (Again with the personal pronouns.) "See what's going on!"

Bryson exclaiming the virtues of whatever decision he's just made: "Bryson put big fire truck right here. That's a good idea!"

Bryson telling a "joke:" "Hmm. Where's blue dump truck? Over there (pointing in a random direction)? Nope (dissolving into giggles)!"

Bryson telling another joke: "Fork for mama (holding out the fork in mama's direction)! For Bryson (pulling it back to his chest)! Bryson being tricky!"

Bryson correcting his father's knowledge of trucks: Steve (bubbling with excitement): "Bry, look at the excavator!" Bry (very chill): "That's a backhoe loader." Crikey.

Bryson on Baby Beluga: "Baby Beluga in deep blue sea. Swim so wild, swim so free. Heaven above and sea below. And little white whale on the go!" His memory for song lyrics is better than his father's.

Bryson narrating every moment of his waking existence: "This blue semi truck has doors. This blue semi truck not has doors. Bryson drive two blue semi trucks! Over there! By loader and dump truck! Excavator dig dirt and dump in dump truck! Big pile dirt in dump truck! And concrete! And rocks! Mama drive bulldozer. Daddy drive garbage truck and street sweeper and armored car. And..."

I once philosophized to Steve about what goes on in Bryson's head all day long. Steve's response: "I'm pretty sure he's saying everything he's thinking." He's got a point.

Look! Pictures!

Anybody seen my dissertation lying around? No? Hmm. Guess I can't work on it then. Better just post some pictures instead.

Cute.

Cuter.

Um. Hmm.

Playing with Words

Being pretty new to the territory of words and language and whatnot, Bryson occasionally makes some amusing slips of the tongue. Two brief examples:

Tonight Bry had the good fortune to have tater tot casserole for dinner. Go midwestern cooking! Steve scooped some casserole onto Bry's plate and explained all of the components: beef, mixed veggies, onions, celery, lima beans, and of course, tater tots. After Bry polished off his first tot, he requested enthusiastically, "More teeter totters!" Being the mature adults that we are, this of course prompted Steve and I to refer to the conglomerates of potato as "teeter totters" for the rest of dinner. Mmm. Good teeter totters.

Later tonight, when I was rocking Bry, he requested "songs!" When I asked him what song he wanted, he thought for a moment, and responded, "Workin' on Freeway!" when he was attempting to ask for "I've Been Workin' on the Railroad." I got the idea, but later regretted having translated for Bry, because I then got hit up for about six encore performances: "Do it a-gain!" Have you ever realized how nonsensical that song is? Who is this Dinah person and why is someone playing the banjo in her kitchen? I get the sense that I'm missing some context here, having learned the song many, many years ago, when I never really paid attention to what the words in songs meant. Just remembering the words must have taken up all of my mental capacity at the time. Good thing I've got so much mental capacity to spare currently. Ha.

Conversations with the Bry

Daddy once again. As you can probably deduce from the flurry of videos I've been posting, Sandy has been quite busy of late with her doctoral program. The good news on that front is that it's given me an opportunity to finally finish sifting through all our video from the summer. I hope you enjoy this final compilation from the past several months.

Election Day!

With election day so near, Bryson wanted to send out a brief political message for all his readers out there.

Oops, Revisited

Oops was the very first video we published here on Blogging the Bry. Well, we've got a sequel for you. That book just keeps giving and giving...

Scenes from the Fall

It's Daddy with another video highlighting Bryson's Fall-time adventures. It's hard to believe that at one time I considered raking leaves to be a rather onerous task. Now I'm finding myself actually hoping that the wind blows our neighbor's leaves into our yard.

Trying to Capture It

I've now started and abandoned two posts trying to describe Bry's ever-growing verbal skills. For some reason I'm having a really difficult time capturing the sheer amazingness (totally a word) of his developments. Not only has he been speaking in sentences for some time, but he's pulling phrases seemingly out of thin air - phrases like, "This one's really cool!" (as he points to whatever is catching his eye at the moment). I don't recall ever having uttered those words in that sequence, but who knows. Of late, I have found myself wandering around, half-aware that I'm muttering the lyrics to Baby Beluga under my breath. Oh, Raffi, if only you could have used your powers for good. Maybe I also go around declaring the coolness of random objects around our house and Bry is just mimicking me.

Bry seems to be starting to grasp the structure of language too. He adds 's' to the ends of words to make plurals and on occasion, 'ed' to indicate past tense. Given the idiosyncrasies of the English language, this of course produces some amusing Borat-esque turns of phrase and pronunciations. Like "knive-es" as the plural of "knife" and "Bry goed down the slide!" While he seems to understand male and female pronouns like he, she, his, hers, he's not yet grasped the notion of personal pronouns like I, me, my. The result is not unlike living with a human version of Elmo, aka the fictional, red tree sloth who refuses to use pronouns. Try as we might to insert the correct pronouns into his sentences, Bry still insists on declaring, "Mama, hold you!" when he is trying to say, "Mama, hold me!" Or "Bry wants 8, 9, 10 truck books!" instead of "I want...." And yes, he does go around saying, "8, 9, 10!" or sometimes, "8, 9, 10, 11, 13!" with great enthusiasm whenever he's trying to convey a big number. Once upon a time, he used to count from 1 to 10, only occasionally dropping numbers in the middle. Apparently he's decided that method is much too inefficient, and that 12 is just too pedestrian to even consider uttering. The same goes for the alphabet too. Bry will start off with "a-b-c-d" and progress to "ef-g-h-i-j-k!" and then to "el-em-o-p-q-r-s-u-v-yay!" His excitement catches up with him before he can get out the w-x-y-z.

Lately, it seems like Bry's brain is working doubletime to keep up with all of the communicating that he is trying to do. He often stumbles over his words, as if his mouth just can't keep up with the explosion of news bursting forth from his brain: "Find melon truck on freeway maybe!" (Don't ask me what a melon truck is. I have no idea.) He might have a ways to go on syntax, but his message comes through crystal clear. Perhaps the clearest sign that Bry's language development is in overdrive is the fact that he is using language not only to communicate, but to influence. Or to try to influence, anyways. And by influence, I mean test. Or manipulate. But in the very cute, naive sense. At bedtime, after we rock and snuggle, I put him in his crib and he requests, "Mama rub you back. One minute, maybe!" (i.e., "Rub my back for one minute, mama!"). Though he can't yet tell time, he's figured out that the currency for extending favored activities lies in minutes, as in, "One more minute!" or "One minute playtime, maybe?" When he's in his crib, I promise him one minute, and then tell him it's time to say goodnight. His small voice asks quietly, "Daddy rub you back, maybe?" Smart kid. But not smarter than mama. Yet.

All Together Now!

Daycare has introduced a whole new element into Bry's life - songs. Specifically, songs that he sings along to. Over time, "Baby Beluga" and an enigmatic song we know only as the "Fire Truck Song" have emerged as Bry's clear favorites. Perhaps you've heard of the former song - that loveable Raffi ditty that, once seared into your nervous system, takes an industrial cleanser of the Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind variety to erase. And then, once you've searched YouTube for the words (since Bry only chants "Baby Beluga! Swim wild! Swim free!"), you'll be stuck with this image in your head all day. You're welcome.

As for the so-called Fire Truck Song? Well, as far as we've gleaned, the lyrics go something like this (in chanting form): "[Insert name here] wants to drive a fire truck! [Insert different name here] wants to drive a fire truck!" And so on. If Bry's rendition is accurate, in this particular song, the words "fire truck" are drawled out into three syllables, becoming "fy-er truck," and they must be shouted with great exuberance.

From time to time, Bry has been known to randomly shout out partial lyrics to songs, which is, take it from me, quite adorable. But he topped himself yesterday when we visited Stillwater. Gazing out over the St. Croix River, Bry mused aloud, "Baby Beluga in there, maybe." What could we say, except, "Yes Bry, maybe we will see that 'little white whale on the go' swimming the St. Croix. Maybe we will."

Dialing Up the Cute

In the past couple of days, Bry has been working hard to notch up his cute rating:

Scene I: After attending a birthday party last weekend, Bry has become fascinated with birthdays and the birthday song. The day we went out to celebrate my birthday, Bry wandered around the house reciting, "Happy birthday, dear mama! Happy birthday to you! Am mam more!" (And many more...). We've been singing the birthday song a lot. To mama, daddy, Bryson, all of his teachers, and most of the other kids at school. Also to shirt, lion, blanket, and other assorted objects lying around the room.

Scene II: Today when I picked up Bry from school, he was on the playground. As we were leaving, he exclaimed, "Hugs! Stuart!" He walked up to Stuart, an adorable kid a couple of months younger than Bry, and stood next to him for a moment before giving him a big hug. We've been informed by Bry's teachers that after he goes down the slide, builds a tower, or dumps a prodigious amount of sand onto the gas tank of a toy lawnmower (he is, apparently, working on his portfolio as a saboteur), he shouts exuberantly, "Yay, Bryson!" This self-esteem booster and expression of joy has caught on in Bry's classroom. Apparently several of the kids, but especially Stuart, will shout out "Yay, Bryson!" when excited or after they have accomplished something they deem cheer-worthy. Makes me wonder if we're going to get a phone call some night from Stuart's parents, querying us as to why their son is always cheering for our kid.

Scene III: Also this evening, I decided to stop at the library with Bry on our way home from school, given that traffic had for once not slowed us to a crawl, turning the five-mile drive into a 25-minute endurance test. Steve met up with us at about the point when Bry was reaching his I'm-holding-it-together-as-best-as-I-can-so-you-
better-get-me-out-of-here-ASAP point. I had been telling Bry that we would go home when daddy (the carrier of the library card) arrived. As soon as Steve walked into the children's area, Bry shot towards him, calling out, "Home!" He bolted right past Steve's open arms, and out the door into the main library. He was halfway to the main entrance before he stopped to turn around to see if we were following him. Steve attempted to man the self-checkout process with one hand, while holding Bry in his other arm. In the meantime, I was on the very important mission of searching for the They Might Be Giants' Here Come the 123s album. Very important business. I didn't find it. Bry, having had enough of waiting for daddy to scan the stack of 17 books, squirmed out of Steve's arms and onto the floor. He plucked the fire truck book from the top of the stack, shouted out, "Read!" and did an about-face just before running into another, less energetic library patron. Being the eternal charmer, Bry held the book up to this woman, said, "Fire truck book! Read! Here!" and plopped down on the industrial doormat just inside the library entrance. He probably would have stayed there too, disrupting the flow of incoming pedestrian traffic with not only his presence, but also his irresistible cuteness, had I not scooped him up and shuffled him off to the car.

Cuteness. We has it, no?

Magical Thinking

As a parent, I feel obligated to look back fondly on all of my child's development (except maybe that whole colicky (Bry), sleep-deprived (us) period - perhaps we can just forget that ever happened). But this stage right now strikes me as particularly wonderful and also particularly challenging. Never mind that wonderful and challenging are probably apt descriptors for any stage of parenting.

At least once a day, Steve and I chuckle to ourselves about Bry's absolute faith in our abilities to conjure up anything his heart desires. Sitting at a stoplight, Bry has been known to say, more than once, "Green, please!" Or on his less agreeable days, "Cars stuck! Move cars!" He seems to fully expect us to alter the space-time continuum (or traffic laws) in order to meet his unique, ever-shifting needs. Like his need to see particular vehicles on the road right! now! Even if, on the off-chance that we happen to pass by an excavator, garbage truck, or semi truck within the time frame that Bry deems acceptable, he is usually not satisfied by a passing glance. "Closer, maybe!" he shouts. Or "another one!" Or "again!" I choose to view these demands as wonderfully affirming of my skills as a parent (or maybe as a magician). Sure! I can find a logging truck in the midst of downtown Minneapolis! Why not?

But, since Bry has yet to comprehend the limited capacity of the universe, or his parents, to magically present whatever he desires at any given moment, failure to produce sometimes leads to, shall we say, extravagant displays of will on Bry's part. Responses seem to alternate between whining and shrieking. Hence the challenge. There is no reasoning with a toddler who is dead set, say, on magically warping from daycare to home. From the backseat, I'll hear cries of "Home! Home! Home! Home!" which will continue unabated until I acknowledge, "Bry wants to be home right now!" "Right now!" he echoes. His distress never seems to lessen when I explain that my faster-than-light drive is in the shop for repairs. All the touchy-feely* parenting books we've been reading emphasize the importance of acknowledging kids' desires, even when they are impossible, per the laws of physics, while maintaining that, no, we can't find a water tower at this particular moment. For example. A lot of the time we fudge it, saying, "You want to find a [insert construction vehicle here], huh? We can try to find a [insert construction vehicle here], Bry." This satisfies him for a few moments, and he'll chime in, "Hmm. Excavator? (in a sing-songy voice) Hmm. Excavator hiding." But I'm afraid he's catching on that, "We can try to find [insert construction vehicle here] is code for, "Sorry kiddo, mama and daddy just aren't as magical as we might like to be."

Fast-forwarding some years to when Bry will surely see us as magical only in the Midas sense of turning everything he finds fun into something that is disallowed, I think I'll miss these days when he believes that we are really magical. Even if he doesn't think of it in quite those terms.

*In the positive sense.

Progress Report

Each day, Bry's teachers fill out a sheet recording how much of each meal he ate, when he napped, a description of his mood, and a brief note outlining the days' activities. Comparing notes from his first week with more current notes highlights Bry's gradual adjustment to his home away from home. His first day:

Bryson was busy pushing and dumping out the big trucks in the sand. He was excited about checking out the gym. Bryson would get a little sad but then find another toy to play with. He also liked to clean up the toys that were on the floor. Bryson was sensitive during and after lunch. It probably didn't help that we had another very sensitive toddler at that time. Even though he was mad and sad, he organized the dishes. Bryson let me rock him and we looked at a book before nap.

And last week:

This morning after breakfast Bryson went for the fire trucks! Played with them for quite awhile. Very excited about going outside - went right for the trucks in the sand. Lots of chatty talk about what he was playing with. Great mood today!

It's nice to see him getting used to the routine, especially now that the desperate clinging to mama and crocodile tears at drop-off are gone. All the same, it makes him seem older and more mature than his 21 months, older than our baby whom I could have sworn we just brought home from the hospital last week. Sniff, sniff. (Cue "Sunrise, Sunset" and all that.)

Taking advantage of his maturity to try to sneak him into the upcoming election.

It's also been interesting to watch Bry engage (or not engage) in the social process at school. It's still mostly all parallel play, but most days he comes home chattering about some event with one of the other kids. Usually said event involves repeating what one of the teachers must have said when someone broke the rules. One day he came home reciting, "Please not throw balls, Jayeon" over and over and over. Last week it was, "Ella! Ella! Ella! Please not push Bryson! Move away! Sit on couch!" That one drew a little (okay, a lot) more attention, mostly from mama. Someone pushed my boy? Let me at her! I could totally take her!

Bry also makes plenty of cute comments about his classmates. When I went to pick him up one day, he was amidst a jumble of kids waiting their turn for the slide. As the little girl ahead of him went down, he shouted, "Jayeon down slide! Wheeee! Yay, Jayeon!" He seems to have a thing for Jayeon.

Observing Bry among his peers also highlights his particular quirks and characteristics. Since we only have one kid, Bry has pretty much had the distinction of setting what we believe the norm is for all kids. Seeing that he is, in fact, the only one of his classmates who seems to constantly narrate what he is doing: "Pots. Pans. On stove. Over here. Build tower yellow blocks. High! Smash!" has been eye opening. Kids don't all talk nonstop from the moment they wake up until 10 or 15 minutes after their heads hit the sheets at night? Huh.

Bry's teachers had picked up on his love of cooking and trucks from the get-go. And it only took them about a week to notice his fondness of having things just so. They tell us that he loves to clean up, and specifically that he likes to put everything in its proper place. One morning at drop-off, Bry spied a rake in the classroom that clearly belonged elsewhere. He cried out, "Rake! Sandbox!" until one of the teachers acknowledged that, yes, rakes do go in the sandbox! Most of the time I just shake my head and cite daddy's genes for this trait. It sure doesn't come from his mama, who relies on an elaborate filing system of piles and more piles. Good thing he got his good looks from mama.

All in all, we've seen about a 4000% increase in Bry's tolerate-daycare-routine meter readings. And that's nice, because it frees up precious cognitive energy that can be used for important things, like writing my dissertation catching up on Battlestar Galactica. (Bry, you heard it here first! Your parents are nerds!)

Summertime with the Bry

Crikey, it's Steve again, with an unprecedented three in a row! Here are some highlights from Bry's summer...

Bry's Wake up Routine (archival footage)

Steve here. This next video is rather old. I made it last February, in fact, as a side project while putting Bryson at Work together. At the time, I didn't think it was that good and therefore didn't bother to post it. But watching it again several months later, I have decided that I was wrong.

There was a brief period when this was pretty much how every morning began for us. Bryson was just beginning to talk, just beginning to walk, and just beginning to become slightly more independent. Watching it brought back a flood of memories and reminded me just how much he has grown in the past 7 months. So if you bought the Bryson at Work DVD, consider this your bonus feature.

Cannin' with the Bry

Steve here. It's been a while since I've posted a video. I would like to blame my busy summer work schedule, but, well, you'd see right through that. The reality is that I have taken hours and hours of footage this summer and the prospect of sifting through all of it and condensing it down to a 3 minute video has been a bit daunting. Laziness has also surely played a role. At any rate, here is the first of what I hope will be several videos highlighting Bry's summer adventures. This footage resulted when Bry decided to "help" us unload the dishwasher. Enjoy!

Last Days of Summer

This is going to be a reminder (especially for mama) of how beautiful Minnesota can be in not-winter. We decided to take advantage of the waning warm weather by strolling around Grand Avenue this morning and visiting approximately 17 toy stores. And CVS, after Bry spotted the "jack-o-terns" in the window. After Bry didn't nap this afternoon, we hit the beach with Aunt Sheila and Uncle Mike for one last go at the sand and water before it's all snowed under. Sigh.

School: The Verdict

Note: I wrote this post last week, but forgot to publish it. Things have changed (for the better!) since then, and I'll write an update, but I thought I'd post this anyways, 'cause it definitely fit for the first three weeks of school.

It's painful. And it's also wonderful. So I guess if you average it out, the verdict falls somewhere in between.

The painful part is at dropoff. Bry hates, hates, hates being dropped off at school. He's gotten into the habit of emphatically saying, "Stay home!" in the mornings as soon as it looks like I'm starting to pack up. Pretty much every day he also pleads, "No thank you, mama work." In other words, "Don't go!" It's heartbreaking. We get through the 20-minute drive in high spirits as Bry calls out the changing traffic lights, "Green! Go!" tells me when we're almost to the freeway ramp, and looks out for every manner of truck imaginable: dump truck! excavator! bulldozer! cement truck! garbage truck! semi truck! oil truck! tow truck! mail truck! Fed Ex truck! (yes, really) crane! bucket truck! And so on. As we pull up to the building, Bry's excitement at glimpsing the two trailers that are permanently parked in the parking lot (it's not quite as country as it sounds) is quickly eclipsed by his dawning realization that mama is going to take him into the building and leave him there.

Some days he tears up a little as we're getting out of the car, but recovers when he sees the trash can outside the door. What can I say? The kid likes trash cans. We say hi to the fish in the lobby and sit on the climbing steps. Then we walk past the "red room" where the babies are, to the "green room," Bry's room. Outside the door we examine all of the art that's been posted and find Bry's drawing on the wall. Then we go into the "foyer" (this daycare is particularly fond of naming all of the different areas), where I fill out Bry's daily sheet, sign him in, and try to untangle his limbs from my body long enough to put his coat in his cubby.

At this point, the fact that mama is leaving imminently must become very, very real for Bry, because he asks, nay, demands, "shirt! blanket! lion!" and frets while he warily scopes out the other kiddos in the room. We still haven't worked out a good goodbye routine. The teachers are great at trying to coax Bry into joining whatever activity is going on - scooping sand in the table, reading stories, drawing with chalk - but Bry's response is always the same: "No." Eventually, after we've read a story or built a tower, I let him know that I need to leave and most days, one of the teachers has to physically take him from me, and I leave as he's crying out. Most days I make it to the parking lot before I start tearing up myself.

But, for the past few days, I've waited out of Bry's line of sight, and he always calms down within about 30 seconds of me leaving. His teachers report that he is content, busy, chatty, and at times, sensitive, especially when other kids are noisy or crying.

By the time Steve or I pick up Bry in the afternoon, he's usually engrossed in whatever he's doing - digging in the sand, going down the slide, stacking blocks - and not so interested in leaving. This is heartening, but the mornings, well, the mornings are still difficult. Someday he'll get used to this, right? We hold out the hope that someday, the pain of leaving won't be so acute. We think to ourselves that that hope is for his sake, but really? Really, it's for our sake too.

First Day of School

Bry started at his new daycare today. We had been talking up the experience with Bry for weeks, highlighting the kitchenware and trucks that he would be able to play with in this mythical land called "school." On our intake visit, we were taken on a tour of the facility, Bry included, and when he glimpsed the TWO play kitchens and ginormous sand pit outside, it was all we could do to drag Bry away from the place with only the promise that he'd be able to return, someday.

Every night before bed, Bry and I snuggle in the rocking chair for "dreams," which mostly consists of me recapping highlights from his day and sometimes, speculating about what fantastical things he might dream about that night. Usually, doing "dreams" consists of rehashing endless kitchen play sessions, during which Bry cooks up cumin-pepper-ketchup-salmon cookies (he's got limited ingredients in his kitchen), or recalling every single piece of construction equipment Bry has ever seen. Once, I made the mistake brilliant choice of spinning a tale in which an excavator knocked over a water tower (thus incorporating Bry's two current obsessions in one grand tale). That was maybe six weeks ago, and he's been talking about it (and willing Steve and I to make it happen - but that's a different story) ever since.

So, for the past few weeks during "dreams," I've been talking with Bry about all of the exciting, awesome, supercool things he would get to do once he started school, with the hopes that my relentless propaganda would win him over. I referenced our intake visit over and over, citing the pots, pans, and colanders that Bry would get to play with ("Two colanders! Stack them!" he always reminded me). I worked in bits about the giant sand pit and Bry filled in the rest on his own - "Dump trucks! Two! Bucket truck! Fill! Sand! One shovel!" I'm not sure why Bry always insisted that there would just be one shovel, but I went with him: "One shovel!"

Last night, before his first day at school, the anticipation was at a fever pitch. We talked about Bry's new teachers and the other kids. We talked about eating at a table and drinking from a cup with no lid! About digging in the sand and playing with the blue pots! About how he might feel scared or sad or overwhelmed, but that he could hug his magical shirt of sleep to feel safe and happy. "Safe, happy," he repeated.

And this morning, we finally went. I stayed with Bry through the morning, and we left shortly after lunch. At breakfast, Bry sat in the teeniest chair imaginable, scooping applesauce off of a plate and dribbling it all over himself. He bussed his plate and cup to the sink and lined up to have his hands and face washed. He endured the disappointment of leaving behind the already beloved pots and pans to have his diaper changed and sunscreen applied. He reveled in the time outside, scooping shovelfuls of sand into assorted vehicles and the gas tank of a toy lawnmower. (Meanwhile, I had sand dumped onto me by various children, carried on semi-coherent conversations with three kids in the under-three-foot set, and helped right one top-heavy kid who toppled over face-first into the sandbox.) Bry then endured the disappointment of going back inside, washing his hands, and sitting down for lunch. He had about 5000 orange slices, two bites of quiche, and one bite of beets for lunch. The whole time, I watched my little boy getting a little older as he learned new routines, tried new things, and navigated the social sphere. I comforted him when he got knocked on the head by an overzealous kid wielding a plastic pan and my heart hurt a little when I thought about not being around to console him following future, inevitable hurts at school. It ached a little more when I thought about not being able to do "dreams" in as much detail with him, because so much of his day will be unknown to me.


Is he too young to be forced into growing up like this? I don't know. Is this what parenting is all about? Sending off your kids with as many reinforcements and reassurances as possible, and then hoping that it's enough? Hoping that you can help them when you're around and that they can advocate for themselves when you're not? Simultaneously wanting them to grow up and longing for them to stay small? I'll stay with Bry again tomorrow morning, to help him recognize that school is a safe place, and then I'll leave him in the very capable hands of his teachers, with the hopes that I've given him enough to go out on his own in this small way. I realize that this moment of letting go will be followed by many more moments of letting go, and that Bry will probably come to love this daycare as much as he loved his last one, if not more. But, since we try hard not to give Bry the message to buck up when he's feeling sad, perhaps we can give ourselves the same latitude now, by grieving this one little loss, this letting go of our little man.

The Minnesota State Fair: Come for the Food, Stay for the Thrill of Seeing It All Through a Kid's Eyes

Sadly, summer seems to be winding to a close. We visited the state fair today, which highlighted the ending of lazy days swimming at the beach, playing in the sand, and sleeping in until noon. Well, the first two at least.

Being the jaded, old people that we are, neither Steve nor I had been to the fair in several years, always grumbling about the exorbitant costs and the toll taken by trans-fat-laden foods on our aging bodies. But this year, we decided we had to make the trek for Bry, and we were richly rewarded for our efforts by the unbridled enthusiasm of the kiddo at nearly everything we saw, from the tractors and trucks:

Drive! Drive!

To the giant slide:

(Bry and daddy are in the lower right corner.)

To the food:

Torn! (i.e., Corn!)

Being an equal opportunity enthusiast, Bry also proclaimed the virtues of every trash can, street sweeper, balloon, and various letters and numbers that he spotted. We of course visited all of the animal barns, glimpsing numerous "sheeps," bunnies, horses, cows, pigs, and randomly enough, pigeons. Who knew that pigeons were such a big exhibit at the fair? Because we had spent roughly 45 hours ogling and climbing all over various farm tractors, "eh-vers" (excavators), dump trucks, and "buh-doze" (bulldozers), Bry was listing a bit by the time we got to the animals. We chose to forge ahead, bravely skipping naptime in the service of further educating Bry in the art of sounds made by various farm animals. Bry proved his mettle in recalling that sheep say "baa," cows say "moo," horses say "neigh," and pigs say "oink, oink!" Bry seemed most impressed by the rabbits for reasons beyond our comprehension. He carried on lengthy conversations with the quivering fur balls, saying, "Hi bunny! Doing? Sleeping! Eating Casey food! Hopping!" (i.e., "Hello rabbit, what business are you carrying on at the present moment? Oh, I see, you appear to be sleeping. And you over there, you're dining on some delicious chow that resembles cat food. And goodness, the hopping! Bravo! Carry on, then.") (In my head, Bry converses in a British accent. Not sure why.) As Bry was falling asleep tonight, he mumbled, "Hi Bunny!" to himself over and over.

I'd say our fair experience was a success. In short, to shamelessly steal a major credit card company's marketing slogan:

Fair admission: $22
Assorted foods on a stick: $38
Watching your son enjoy the fair for the very first time: Priceless.

Uptown Art Fair

We all got out to the Uptown Art Fair on Sunday, which, according to Steve, was "Mama's Outing" (for the year).


We perused a lot of art we couldn't afford and learned what the most interesting aspects of an art fair are from the perspective of a one-year old:

Mail truck!

Box!

T! (Bry noticed the 'T' in the sign)

Pot! Crayons! Giant!

After documenting all of these extraordinary sights, my camera battery died, so I didn't get to photograph the "helmets" (glass fish) or the "balls" (extra-large photograph of marbles) or the "giraffe" (wire sculpture of a person). It's probably just as well. Now when I drag Steve and Bry out to the art fair again next year, they won't have as many visual reminders of how badly they don't want to go.

Underparenting, Part II

One brief anecdote I forgot from our recent trip to Nana and Gong-Gong's house:

Whenever we go somewhere new, or somewhere we haven't been for awhile, like most kids, it takes Bry a little while to warm up to his surroundings. The same was true during our recent visit. At first, Bry stuck close to Steve and I, but soon enough, was off exploring on his own. Back when Bry was prone to sticking anything and everything in his mouth and was a little less steady on his feet, we had to be really vigilant at other people's non-babyproofed houses in order to ensure that Bry didn't choke on a train wheel or fall down a flight of stairs. As Bry has gotten older, more dexterous, and less orally fixated, we've worried less about constantly watching him like a hawk.

So it shouldn't have been much of a surprise when, on our next to last day in Wisconsin, we heard a faint "Mama!" coming from what sounded like overhead. I was in the living room, Steve was in the kitchen, my mom was walking down the hall, and each of us had assumed that Bry was with a responsible adult. Turns out he was stealthily making his way up the stairs in the front hall until he reached the landing, which looks out over the living room, without any of us being the wiser. Score one for Bry's independence and zero for Bry's parents' parenting skills.

Another Walk in the 'Hood

Walking to the library this morning, Bry was excited to see the "pictures!" So we got out and looked a little more closely.

It's pretty impressive art, close up.

Mama! Bush! Hold you!
Translation: Mama, this ground is covered with giant, potentially man-eating plants. Pick me up, stat!

Me-me!
Translation: Excuse me, large weed, I'm trying to get through here!

See! See!

Owl! Tweet! Tweet!

Visiting the Grandparents

This past weekend, we packed up the car to make the trek to Wisconsin again, this time for Aunt Dana's baby shower. From Bry's perspective, the shower was nice and all, but the real highlights were helping Gong-Gong water the flowers and sitting captively in front of Nana's pots and pans, as if he were gazing at Blue's Clues, or whatever it is that kids watch these days.

The reason I don't have any pictures of Bry watering the flowers with Gong-Gong is because I was wise enough to convince Bry to do this activity without my presence, as it occurred at about 5:30 am. The above photo was taken at about 3:00 pm, a much more acceptable time for being awake and dressed and whatnot.

The master gardener, hard at work "pretend watering."

Also, helping the glass butterfly stay hydrated.

Nana's pots! Two! A lot! Big! Neat!

Please also enjoy one random picture of Bry locating his tummy, solely because I think it's cute.
Now you see it.

Now you don't.

Don't Worry, It Came Out

Tonight at dinner, Bry was enjoying the delicacy we like to call sqrice, consisting of pureed butternut squash mixed with rice. He usually starts out very civilly scooping the sqrice out of the bowl with his spoon, but sooner or later, he gives in to his desire for quicker food delivery and just starts shoving fistfuls of the stuff in his mouth. As you might imagine, this gets quite messy.

Squash usually gets smeared all over his face, in his hair, on the table, etc. Today, however, Bry was especially enthusiastic about shoveling in the sqrice, and managed to shove a large grain of rice right up his nostril. Now, this is not the first time that he's gotten pieces of food up his nose. Most of the time, I just pick it out and all is well (and now every non-parent reading this is completely grossed out). But tonight, the rice had traveled a little too far north for me to fish it out, so I went to plan B: the nose sucking bulby-thing (you know what I'm talking about). When Bry was an infant and prone to congestion, he hated the nose sucking bulby-thing with the heat of a thousand hot suns. It proved to be pretty much worthless. As he matured and his father began to instruct him on the humor of things that come out of his nose, Bry started to find the bulby-thing hilarious. Steve would clean out his nose, declare "EW!" and Bry would collapse in giggles. We haven't had to pull out the bulby-thing in awhile, but tonight when I got it out of the closet, Bry started giggling and did what he always tries to do any time I get near his face with it: shove it in his mouth.

When I finally wrestled him into a position to try to remove the rice, I discovered that the bulby-thing is also next to worthless in extracting food from a child's nose. It is good for shoving food further up a child's nose, however.

So, plan C: Q-tip. Result: see result for plan B.

And on to plan D: hold the other nostril closed and blow as hard as possible into Bry's mouth. Now, let me just say that plan D wasn't borne from any sort of "ah-ha" parenting moment of genius (not that I don't have those on a regular basis). Rather, one of Steve's friends had recently told us the story of her sister taking her toddler to the ER after she had shoved a pea up her nose (the toddler, not the sister). Apparently the ER doc described this technique to the mom and made her do it right then and there to demonstrate the amount of force needed to dislodge a foreign object stuck up a nose: a lot. At the time, Steve and I found this story hilarious, and luckily filed it away for future reference. And that is how at 5:45 this evening, Steve found himself telling Bry to look at the ceiling, pinching his nose closed, and blowing into his mouth three or four times until the rice was ejected from Bry's nose and somehow, defying the laws of physics, ended up in Bry's mouth. I'm not sure how Steve ended up being the one to do the blowing; all I know is that I wasn't volunteering. Bry also found this process hilarious and ten minutes later said: "Ceiling!" "Nose!" which I interpreted back to him as, "Yeah, daddy told you to look at the ceiling and then he cleaned out your nose." Bry smiled and looked expectantly at Steve. Steve did not volunteer to repeat the process.

Walking through the Neighborhood

For the past week and a half, I've been trying to go running with Bry in the stroller every few days. It's a good workout, and Bry always ceases any griping (which has been ample of late) as soon as the stroller wheels start turning. This morning I was feeling too lazy to run, so we loaded up the stroller instead and went for a long walk through the neighborhood.

We found some neat things:

Alley near Instituto de Cultura y Educacion

Bry playing in what mama initially thought to be a pile of rocks.
Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be discarded charcoal and ashes, with a few cigarette butts thrown in.
Awesome.

Bry, not noticing the mural of cultural revolutionaries behind him because he is fixated on the garbage truck down the alley.

Bry, also not noticing the "om" symbol in the background.

Bird!

Chillin' at Nokomis Cycle

Standing outside Sister Sludge coffee shop, really wanting to play with the BIG! ROCK!

Putting on his "What are you talking about? I never gripe" face

All was well until the skies turned decidedly ominous and I could hear the low rumble of thunder when we were still about a mile from the house. So I got my run in anyways as we hightailed it home just as the big, fat drops were starting to fall from the sky. Bry thought the thunder and lightning were hilarious. Mama, not so much.

In Lieu of TV

This is how we have been spending our time:

Excavator knocking down a house.

Rowing excavator.

Excavator ballet.

Sensing a theme here?

Oh Yeah, I Have a Blog

Whew, it's been awhile. We've been off cavorting in Wisconsin, visiting Nana and Gong-Gong for the past week and a half. Now that we're back and the laundry is done, I figured I could settle in to do some blog writing. The only problem is that pesky "real" work keeps getting in the way. So it goes. I figure I'll make up for lost time with this post and just ramble on about a mishmash of stuff that has happened over the past few weeks.

First things first, Bry had his 18-month well checkup just before we left for Wisconsin. He measured in at 32.5 inches (60th percentile) and 25.5 pounds (50th percentile). I've lost track of his head measurements at this point, but I think it was in the 60th percentile too. I feel OK about not documenting this one piece of trivia about Bry's life, because unlike everything else on this blog, I can't imagine that knowing his head size at 18 months is really going to help him out down the line. Information like this, however, is quite useful.

Bry had a blast in Wisconsin, once he acclimated to his new digs. Gong-Gong apparently spent about 6 hours creating blackout shades for Uncle Tim's room (where Bry slept) out of a bed sheet and garbage bags the day before we arrived. They were quite effective. At night, I couldn't see three inches in front of my face. And surprise of all surprises, Bry continued to sleep through the night while we were there, though he managed to wake up between 5:00 and 5:30 most mornings. Although Bry's naps got all out of whack while we were there, he mostly did OK with sleep, which makes me want to (very cautiously) say that we seem to have rounded a corner regarding Bry's sleep. He gets it, for the most part. Finally. After only a year and a half of waiting for him to figure out the very simple equation that many 6-month old babies have mastered: more sleep = less cranky + more fun + better rested, more pleasant mama and daddy.

But enough about sleep. We pretty much had wall-to-wall fun while visiting the grandparents. A trip to the zoo, a visit to the children's museum, playing in the sandbox, swinging, running through the sprinkler, and hours upon hours watering the flowers with Gong-Gong and cooking with Nana rounded out our time in Wisconsin. Steve and Gong-Gong refurbished a play kitchen that my mother's father had built for her when she was little, and that I played with as a child as well. After verifying that it was lead paint free, Bry went to town stacking all kinds of things in the cupboards and cooking up a storm on what technically was the counter. But that's what an imagination is for, right?

The highlights of the zoo visit included petting Omar the camel, feeding the goats (the quintessential childhood zoo experience), watching the penguins and seals, and pointing out every single sprinkler on the zoo grounds. I gotta hand it to the kid - he is dedicated to the pursuit of noticing water in any form (rivers, lakes, sprinklers, puddles) and insisting that he go IN! IN! The disappointment that follows our usual response, for example, "Um, no Bry, you can't go in the seal tank" is monumental.

Along the lines of all things liquid, Bry also finally figured out how to use a straw for the first time in the cheese state.* Random, I know. But significant in that following his discovery of differential pressures, Bry has become crazy about straws. This is nice, in that he can just drink from our water cups if we don't have a sippy cup for him. This is also disastrous, in that he always wants to drink from our cups at such a rate as to inevitably lead to coughing, sputtering, and spilling of water everywhere. Also, less water for us. Amusingly, Bry believes that there are only two beverage options: water and milk, since these are the only two that he has ever had. (I tried juice twice. The response was an emphatic no.) So he identifies soda as water and beer as water and so on. We have yet to disavow him of this notion because it prevents the unsightly scene that is sure to follow when he discovers that we have something (e.g., soda, beer) that he can't have. For some reason, one night when we were having dinner, Bry locked in on the fact that Aunt Dana was drinking from a red cup and Uncle Ryan had "green water" (Mountain Dew). In the days following that dinner, he continued to identify any red cups as belonging to Aunt Dana and all Mountain Dew as belonging to Uncle Ryan. I think Uncle Ryan got the better deal out of that exchange.

So anyhoo, that's about all I remember about our trip. I think any remaining memories were wiped out by the torturous drive home during which Bry napped for one hour and then pestered us to get OUT! OUT! for the remaining 4-5 hours. Good times.

*I don't care what anyone says, California is not the cheese state.

Nascar Chef

I think I've previously mentioned Bry's passion for his pots and pans and putting any manner of objects in them (rocks, dandelions, sand, blocks, wooden fish, bird seed, plastic rings, plastic shapes, dirt, and puzzle pieces to date). Given Bry's additional love of watching/helping Steve and I (mostly Steve) cook, we've started to joke about how Bry is certain to have a career in the culinary arts. However, some of Bry's behaviors have led to some uncertainty about this career path. Like his habit of putting black beans in his yogurt. I can't imagine that going over too well for anyone outside of, well, Bry. On the other hand, perhaps it's some kind of novel delicacy that will put Bry on the map as a culinary master. I'll probably never know because it grosses me out too much to try. There's also his practice of shoving copious quantities of food into his mouth, like bread, only to pick the half-chewed ball of dough out of his mouth when he realizes he won't be able to swallow the whole thing. I'm not sure if this has anything to do with his capacity to cook skillfully down the road. But if it speaks to his sanitary practices in the kitchen, you might want to send the bread pudding back when dining Chez Bry.

Bry's other current passion is transportation. Not necessarily getting from point A to point B, but rather, pointing out every possible mode of transportation that he sees. Trucks (pickup, dump, cement, SUVs), cars, buses (city and school), planes, bikes, motorcycles (which he also calls bikes), trains, wagons, segways, etc. OK, not segways, but only because we haven't come across any.

He is particularly fond of construction vehicles, which presents a particular problem for me, given that I have no idea what any of them are called. I could tell Bry about the "shovel thingy" and "big scooper/dumper," since that's what they look like to me, but I don't imagine that being too helpful to him down the line. Being lazy, I haven't actually looked any of these vehicles up, instead resorting to calling them all "construction trucks," which Bry seems happy with. He does know the word "crane," since I do know what those are, and they are omnipresent, what with all of the road/bridge construction we drive through on a daily basis.

Bry also seems to think that the sole purpose of computers is to look at pictures of vehicles. I might have started that misconception. There is a picture of our street on Steve's desktop, and Bry likes to point out the cars in the picture. One day, I asked Bry if he wanted to see some more cars, so I googled Volkswagen (are there any other kinds of cars?) and clicked on the images. Bry was tickled by the sheer number of cars he saw. He giggled and pointed and called out, "Tar! Tar!" (car). He paused for a second as if allowing his brain to assimilate the sheer awesomeness of all of the cars before pointing again and shouting, "More!" Now whenever I'm on the computer, Bry wants to see cars and trucks and planes and more cars and more trucks and more planes and...why did I ever show him those pictures?

Now, it might seem that being passionate about cooking and transportation might lead to some career conflicts, but I think I've finally come up with the perfect answer: Nascar chef.

Blue Is the New Black

Steve and I have been working on teaching Bry colors for about a month now. It seems that he's starting to get the concept that objects have attributes other than their names, but he's not 100% clear on which color name matches which set of pigments. Sitting down with Bry and trying to consider objects from his perspective opens up a world of complexity that I'm guessing I haven't appreciated since I first learned colors myself. Or at least since I got that physics degree and learned about all of the really crazy attributes about things that can't be seen. Looking at a truck brings up so many possible descriptors that it becomes hard to decide the best way to teach them all. Do you focus on the type of truck it is (pickup vs. dump)? Or its color (blue, red, arctic mist)? Or its different parts (wheels, windows)? Or do you notice that its wheels look like circles and its bed looks like a rectangle?

Hmm, tangential much? Back to colors.

Bry can differentiate red, yellow, green, orange, blue, pink, purple, and white objects with about 80% accuracy (a number I just totally made up). If we ask him "What color is the _____?" he often answers, "Boo" (blue), no matter what color the object actually is. But if we ask, "Where's the red car?" (out of a group of different colored cars) he usually picks out the red one. Other times, he'll randomly point out an object and say a color. More times than not he's right on this, although every now and then he'll say "yay-yo" (yellow) for orange, or "deen" (green) for blue, and so on.

We've been curious since Bry was born whether he is colorblind. His uncle Tim is, meaning I have a one in two chance of being a carrier, and Bry has a one in four chance of being colorblind. So far it seems that he's not, since he can distinguish pretty well between red and green and between blue and purple. Hopefully the fact that he's not colorblind will mean that he's better at picking out matching clothing combinations than his uncle. On the other hand, if his daddy's skills have any influence on him, I probably have a long road of teaching ahead of me.

KABOOM!

Did you hear that? I think it was the sound of Bry's recent language explosion rocking the rafters. I'm not sure exactly when the transition happened, but some time in the last month, he's started to talk. A lot. He loves to name things from the moment he wakes up until he drifts off to sleep. Tee! (tree), dar (car), boon (spoon), nana (banana), pate (plate). And so on.

Over the past week or so, he's also started to string multiple words together. For example, door, open, close. (Which actually sounds like this: Door, baben, bo.) Pot, sink, wash, dada (i.e., pot, ink, wa, dada). Or pot, stove (pot, dove). He seems to get some strings of words stuck in his head. A few days ago I offhandedly commented to Bry that it looked like our neighbor, Gregory, was moving his truck. Since then, he seems to say truck and move together (duck, moo) whenever he spots a truck. For a few days he got a kick out of running through all of the opposites he knew: up/down, hot/cold, open/close.

Granted, only Steve and I can understand most of what Bry's saying. Nevertheless, he's got more than 100 words at this point, or at least more than 100 consistent sounds that he uses to indicate particular objects, actions, or descriptors. He's dropped most of the baby signs that he previously used, though on occasion he will sign and speak at the same time.

It's hard to describe how exciting it's been to watch Bry's language develop. He adds new words everyday and has a keen ear for repeating the last words of sentences that Steve and I use (guess it's time to start being a little more cautious about what we say, huh?). It's as if each day we get another peak at what goes on inside Bry's head. We know what he's thinking about (usually pots and pans or going outside), at least some of the time, as he chatters on in his pure stream of consciousness. Everyone we know with older kids has told us that there will come a day when the longing to communicate with Bry and to hear his thoughts will transform into the fervent wish that he stop talking long enough so that we can hear our own thoughts. But for now, we're reveling in watching Bry grow up, even though it comes with the bittersweet realization that bit by bit, he is also growing away.

Who Designed This Mall, Anyways?

Since my job ended for the summer last week, I've been test driving being a stay-at-home mom for the first time since my maternity leave. Steve's school year doesn't end for another couple of weeks, so until then, it's just me and Bry. I've found that staying at home with him at 16 months is ten times easier than staying home with him at 6 weeks was. He can tell me, for the most part, what he needs; he naps regularly (and for a relatively long time); he can entertain himself while I take a shower; and probably most significantly, he doesn't cry for unknown reasons for hours a day. This is good.

I've been working to leave the house every morning before his nap, just to keep things interesting. This is admittedly mostly for my benefit. I'm convinced that Bry would be content if he could stay outside for 12 hours a day, collecting dandelions and distributing them among his several pots and pans. It's the first thing he asks to do in the morning (conveyed through a series of grunts, finger pointing, and sharp trills of "Pot! Pot!") and the last thing he wants to be pulled away from at night. I, on the other hand, get a little bored with this after about 10 minutes. But I soldier on, for the sake of his happiness and development of conservation skills (knowing that he has the same amount of stuff no matter what kind of container he puts it in) and whatnot.

So, anyways, I chose the Mall of America as our morning destination several days ago because I wanted to buy a pair of shoes and figured Bry could run around the old Camp Snoopy, which is now some Nickolodeon-themed monstrosity. The timing of our mornings has become pretty precise, such that we're ready to leave by 8:30. By which I mean I'm combing my hair and Bryson is whining and trying to drag me out the door. I figured the stores would open at 9:00 and we could just wander around until then.

When we arrived, I discovered that although the mall was open, the stores didn't actually open until 10:00. This was problematic, since Bry needed to be home for lunch at 10:30 (he's on the senior schedule). I didn't have any food for him with me, so I gave up on the idea of finding shoes and just took Bry to the amusement park in the middle of the mall. We watched the operators put all of the rides through their test runs. Bry was fascinated by the "vroom vroom" (roller coaster cars) and liked watching the merry-go-round "pin, pin" (spin). We found a toy ride-on "buh!" (bus) and Bry spent 10 minutes shifting between the front and back seats, spinning the wheel, and pushing all of the buttons.

When 10:00 approached, I decided I would go to Carter's to buy Bry some plain t-shirts. I figured I'd run in, buy the shirts, and then head home for lunch. We got to the store about 10 minutes before it opened, so I found a nearby bench, sat down, and got out Bry's pots and pans (which he likes to put in my bag whenever he knows we're going out). He had a blast filling up the pots for a few minutes, and then was distracted by the huge pink stuffed dog in the window of Victoria's Secret, which happened to be next door to Carter's. Good thinking, mall folks. Bry toddled over to the window, shouting "Neigh! Neigh!" because he believed the dog to be a horse. He apparently also believes construction vehicles to be horses since he belts out "Neigh!" every time we see one, but that's a story for another day. Bry smushed his face right up to the store window and giggled just as two older men walked by, on what they might have called their daily constitutional. I overheard one of them say, "That's right son, gotta get started early!" as they ambled by, but it didn't really register until they had already passed. There were actually no scantily clad underwear models in the store window, just the dog and some pajamas of the flannel variety. Nevertheless, I chased Bry away from the window. I'm not thinking he needs to get started, as it were, quite so early.

Babblin' with the Bry

Daddy here. Check out this video highlighting Bryson’s new verbal skills.

Underparenting

A brief anecdote:

Bry has developed a persistent diaper rash, caused, I believe by teething and his daycare not always being so good at changing him promptly. Several nights ago, after removing his diaper, I decided to let him "air out" for awhile before bundling up his bum again. He wandered around for a few minutes with his onesie flaps hanging down until he must have noticed the draft. He pulled up the front flap, looked down, then hightailed it for his room, shouting, "Da ba! Da ba!" (i.e., diaper). Bry reached up into the drawer, pulled out a diaper, and then yanked his pants off of the dresser where I had left them. Clutching the diaper in one hand and his pants in the other, he said, "On! On!" with a chastising look on his face, as if to say, "Come on people. Am I the only responsible one around here?"

A Letter

Dear Tooth Fairy,

I know you usually get involved when teeth have already fallen out, but could you maybe make an exception in this case and help to speed along the process of getting said teeth to come in a little faster? The swollen gums, cranky toddler, disrupted sleep, diaper rash, and fever are all getting to be a bit much.

Hopefully,

Bryson's parents

We Prefer 'Discerning'

It was bound to happen sooner or later, right? The infant Bry who would put anything, food or not, into his mouth, seems to have morphed almost overnight into toddler Bry who, shall we say, has developed more sophisticated tastes. As one book puts it, Bry appears to be in the throes of neophobia, or the fear of anything new. Or, to put it another way, he's picky. Picky, picky, picky. Try to offer him anything new, and guaranteed, the response will be a firm, if not chipper, "No." It's still hard not to smile every time Bry says "no." The combination of his tone, facial expression, and utter certainty in his response is not unlike what I imagine say, Angelina Jolie, her brow furrowed and lips puckered, might use to address Steve Buscemi asking for a date. As in, "Duh, no way."

No.

It's not just new foods that get nixed, either. Bry's tastes are also as fickle as a presidential candidate in an election year. One day he's all, "Edamame, where have you been all my life? Come to papa!" and the next, "Please. Edamame is so 2007." As you might imagine, this can make for some frustrating mealtimes. Steve and I are trying our very best not to adopt short order cook syndrome while also trying to ensure that Bry eats more than carbs and fruit all day long (both of which he consistently puts away in astounding quantities). At least he'll still eat most anything at daycare. Must be something about the peer pressure of watching other kids eat combined with whatever they have in the water that gets him to pick up his toys without being asked.

OK. One bite. But I'm not going to like it.

This gets better, right? At least I can take comfort in knowing that Bry's father, who apparently subsisted on hot dogs and air for a long time has pretty much come full circle and will put just about anything into his mouth. Including the chicken's feet that his father-in-law convinced him to try (I'm thinking that was early in our relationship). In retrospect, perhaps Steve should have adopted a little bit of Bry's neophobia around that one.

What are you feeding me now?!

You eat it, daddy.

I'm only laughing because I've been distracted from the horrors of this meal.