Puzzlemaster Bry

This summer, Bry totally got into puzzles. Here's some footage of him at his best.

Speaking of...

Some recent quips for the scrapbook:

Me to Steve: "I am so ready for the weekend."

Bry, in response: "Well, it's not coming yet!"

***
In the midst of a conversation between Steve and I about how I had done a lot of screenings for National Depression Screening Day at work: "Mama, why were you screaming?"

***

Steve to me: "Here's the issue..."

Bry, in response: "Mama, here's the tissue..."

***
This kid is always listening...and ready to contribute his $.02 to the mix!

Cloudy with a Chance of "I want to go home!"

Today we (along with Nana and Gong-Gong) took Bry to his first movie in a theater: Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs. The verdict? Mixed. Bry sat, rapt, through the commercials and the 40,000 previews (really, theaters, do you need that many previews before a 10:00 am showing of a kids' movie?), and actually, about the first 45 minutes of the actual film. When his attention started to wane, he slid off my lap and wandered up and down the aisle, first trying to get all of the empty seats to stay down, and then hiking up and down the lighted stairway with Steve looking out. An hour in, he whispered, "I want to go home. I don't like this place." Nevertheless he stayed burrowed on my lap until the end credits rolled. Kid's a stickler for finishing things.

Afterward, when asked whether he liked the movie, he announced unequivocally, "Yes!" When asked whether he would prefer to watch a movie at home or in a theater, he exclaimed, "At home!" Which probably translates to about 400 more home viewings of Calling All Engines, the Thomas and Friends masterpiece that, well, let's just say is a marked counterpoint to the kinds of things I'm usually contemplating as a grad student.

Bryson at EHS

Steve here. This one's a bit different. As part of the "Back-to-School" festivities at my high school this Fall, my co-worker and I were given the task of introducing new teachers. Long story, but we put a video together. And of course, we had to enlist the help of our kids. Here's one segment of the video with special guest star Lydia. Enjoy!

Preschoolers Use Forks

It's been about a month since Bry started preschool. It's been one big awe fest (mostly for Steve and I). Each day, we get an email from Bry's teachers outlining the day's activities. I've been carefully archiving these, though I'm not entirely sure why. Perhaps when Bry is 16 he'll want to know how on Tuesday, September 15, 2009, his preschool class had a dance party, rockin' out to "The Freeze" and "The Beanbag." When we ask Bry what on earth "The Beanbag" is, he responds in a sing-songy shriek, "I don't know!" his voice pitching up and down like a ship on the high seas.

Already, he's perfecting the art of teenage ironic ignorance, minus the irony (for now).

The random snippets about his days that he does share spontaneously are almost always convoluted bits of information littered with exclamation points: "Preschoolers use forks! But sometimes they eat finger foods! And sometimes they use spoons!" I can't help but find the way he speaks about himself and his preschool compatriots in the third person endearing.

All in all, Bry seems happy enough with school. Some days he doesn't want to leave, because he's so engaged in digging/driving/splashing/creating/being. A couple of weeks ago he soberly told Steve something along the lines of, "Before, I didn't like it when you went to work. But now I like it when you go to work, because I like to go to school." We smiled, and sighed with relief. All is well. Whew.

School

I don't have enough time to do justice to Bry's first week of preschool, so I'll just throw some pictures and sentences out and see what comes of it. Last year, I started the tradition of first day of school pictures, a practice which is sure to grate on Bry by the time he gets to junior high, but for now, is fun. This is what he looked like on his first day last year:


And this year:

I'm tolerating this picture thing, for now.

But I'm not gonna sit still for you.

He's like, a whole year older and everything.

So far, a week into things, all appears to be well. He cried a couple of days when Steve dropped him off, but according to his teachers, he's been coming out of his shell bit by bit. They told us about how he played on the "train" at Van Cleve Park, shouting out destinations, while a classmate, Colin, provided the soundtrack: "Toot toot!" and about how he updated everyone on the trucks that visited our block following the tornado last week. He was engrossed in a round of "If You're Happy and You Know It!" one day when Steve picked him up. We brought parsley from our garden for Miguel, the class guinea pig, whom Bry sometimes mistakenly calls a "guinea bunny."

Our kiddo, a preschooler. It still boggles the mind.

Whistleblower

Yesterday, Steve, Bry, and I took an impromptu trip to the Minneapolis Central Library via: (1) the light rail and (2) Au Bon Pain. The light rail was a major hit, though Bry insisted that it had a steam engine. The library was a veritable treasure trove of truck-related books, of which we brought home more than our share.

Lunch at Au Bon Pain was nice too. Steve and I polished off our sandwiches at a semi-normal pace, and then waited for Bry to gnaw through his egg and bacon bagel for approximately the next 80 hours. He is a sloooooow eater.

So Steve and I were waiting, amusing ourselves by commenting on the younger, hipper, more fashionably dressed crowd that congregates at lunch joints downtown. In the one .05 second window during which neither of us had our eyes on Bry, we were snapped out of our reveries by a sharp TWEEEEEET!

See that cord around his neck? Just before we left on our outing, Bry spotted an errant whistle, nestled amidst the mound of camping flotsam and jetsam waiting to be put away after our recent canoe trip. I tweeted it for him once, he loved it, and wandered around the house for several minutes, mostly slobbering into it, but occasionally producing a little tweet-tweet.

During lunch, either Bry did not feel that Steve and I were paying adequate attention to him, or he felt we were just a little too relaxed. At any rate, during the aforementioned brief window of not monitoring his every move (he was seriously taking forever to eat that bagel), Bry drew the whistle to his lips and produced an earsplitting TWEEEEET! that stopped every single conversation in that restaurant dead. I was too mortified to look around very much, but Steve reassured the other patrons and the restaurant staff that all was well. According to Steve, after the onlookers realized it was Bry who had blown the whistle, they were all smiles.

After he got over the initial upset of thinking that he had done something wrong, Bry was all smiles too, saying, "That was a good little joke."

Sunrise, Sunset: The Sequel

The summer is rapidly coming to a close. I'll be starting my internship (and hopefully my final year of this godforsaken doctorate), and Bry will be starting preschool on Monday.

Yup, preschool. (Insert some version of: Noooo! Mah preshus baybee is getting old! here). Last week, Steve, Bry, and I schlepped over to the U of M childcare center to do an "intake" meeting before Bry starts preschool. Five minutes into the meeting with his teacher, I knew we were in trouble. The signs that Bry is once again growing up faster than it feels like he's supposed to were all there. Bry played in his new classroom, while Steve and I were inundated with paperwork with titles like, "Dress for Success" (outlining age-appropriate clothing) and "All About Me" (a document for us to complete with Bry that discusses, among other things, his favorite color (blue), and if he had any wish, what he would wish for (pasta and fruit)). We were also handed a 30-page thick "curriculum" that demonstrated to us just how far behind we've been letting Bry slide this summer.

I kid.

But there were moments when Emilie, Bry's new teacher was talking, and Steve and I glanced sideways at each other, wondering if we hadn't accidentally signed Bry up for the 7th grade, instead of having him join the "younger preschooler" set. Mentions of things like social exclusion, teasing, overuse of "potty language," "increased independence," and place cards at breakfast, snack, and lunch (so teachers can control who sits by whom) set Steve and I reeling.

Later, when we got the tour of the classroom, we found out that Bry will have access to all manner of toys, like scooping beads in the sensory table, funky pyramidal blocks, and get this - paint - whenever he wants. Again, Steve and I glanced at each other and were all, "Are you sure that's a good idea?" The preschool playground sported a gigantic climbing structure, a DIY "treehouse" fashioned out of sticks tied to a platform, enormous sand pits, a box of dirt whose sole purpose is to be turned into mud, and an honest-to-goodness bike lane. All of the paved paths winding through the playground had arrows indicating the correct flow of traffic (an upgrade after one too many tricycle collisions). The teachers flood the slide with the hose on hot days so the kids can have a "water slide." There is a class pet, Miguel, a slightly overweight guinea pig. The kids go on field trips - to the city wading pool across the street, a neighborhood grocery store, and the nearby "train bridge."

Sounds like a heck of a good time, doesn't it? It almost seemed as if Emilie was trying to offset the heartache of things like social exclusion and teasing by waving her hands and exclaiming LOOK AT ALL THE FUN STUFF WE DO HERE! Steve and I were not fooled. Sure, we think Bry is going to love about 98% of preschool. But thoughts that other kids might be mean, or that Bry might have his feelings hurt were excruciating. The ongoing realization that Bry is growing up and away made both Steve and I ache, and long to keep him little, just a little bit longer.

Bryson Sings the ABCs and Other Classics

Yes, another video from Dad. If you're wondering about Bry's bizarre facial expressions during the second segment of the video, it's because he was watching himself in the viewfinder and apparently found his movements entertaining. Enjoy!

Wintertime with Bry

Yes, an odd title for July. This is Steve (the Dad). I've finally finished sifting through all the footage we took this winter and put together this video. Please forgive my lack of timeliness. Enjoy!

Corpus Scientia*

Editor's Note: I wrote this last November, and seem to have forgotten to publish it. Actually, it seems that I forgot to finish it, but figured what the hey, I'd publish it now anyways. Unfinished. Because that's how I roll.

Sometimes it's interesting to observe Bryson through others' eyes. This past weekend, we all went to Bryson's Aunt Sheila and Uncle Mike's wedding, where we got to visit with a lot of Steve's family whom we don't see often. Bryson also spent a significant amount of time with his Nana and Gong-Gong, who worked overtime to: (1) cart Bry to and from the wedding; (2) keep him quiet and seated at the church; (3) oversee his dinner at the reception; and (4) take on the unenviable job of wrestling overstimulated and overtired Bry into his pajamas and bed later that night, while Steve and I partied as if we were neither sleep-deprived, nor too old to remember how to party. (Note: Said partying ended at about 9:30 pm. We are old.)

The upshot of that rambly paragraph is that we interacted with a lot of people who gave us the 30-second rundown of their thoughts vis a vis our son. I think I can safely summarize the vast majority of outside opinions as follows: Bryson is cute. Now, as his parents, we are of course quick to agree with this assessment, if only because we figure it must reflect positively on us, what with the genetics involved in generating his good looks and all. To be fair, people did offer other descriptors for Bryson beyond "cute," including well behaved, cheerful, charming, and bigger. To which I responded (internally), ha ha ha ha, for the most part, yes, and duh, respectively.

Perhaps more interesting (and more to the point of this whole post) were the observations shared by both sets of Bryson's grandparents, namely that Bry seems to be a pretty knowlegeable guy, who is more than willing to share his wisdom with others. Repeatedly, if need be, and with very proper diction.

This is another point on which Steve and I concur, as proud parents are bound to. Reflecting on this weekend got me thinking about the bigger picture, though. Sit down, because I'm about to get all philosophical (which is never a good idea when I'm tired, and probably never a good idea no matter what, but here goes anyways). I started to think about how Bryson came into this world with essentially no knowledge.** From day one he's been learning nonstop. And maybe there was a time, early on, when Steve and I were aware of the entirety of Bry's body of knowledge. Mostly because we had taught a lot of it to him, or we had at least provided language for experiences that he grasped only through his senses. To be fair, this belief is probably more parental grandiosity than anything else. Because of course we couldn't ever have been aware of everything that Bry knew. From the moment he entered the world, he's been creating his own interpretations of what he senses. But at least there was a time when it seemed like what he knew was circumscribed. He knew our faces, the sounds of our voices, what it felt like to be held, and the smell of milk. He was instantly drawn to the black and white images we put next to his changing table, and learned to tune in to moving objects. I imagine his universe was a pretty small place.

Since those early days, the scope of his understanding seems to have expanded exponentially. What is most striking to me is that he can communicate a lot of what he knows, but the extent of what he can share must be miniscule in comparison to what he knows that is beyond words, at least for now.

What a funny, strange, amazing, indescribable thing, this watching a person become his own person.

*Body of Knowledge. Everything sounds cooler in Latin, yes?

**A recent workshop I went to suggested that an infant's first memory is based on his or her parents' collective unconscious. That was a little out there, even for me.

On Being a Big Boy

Did you know that Bryson is a big boy? Chances are, if you didn't, he'll tell you in the next 5 minutes or so. About six weeks ago, we transitioned Bry from his crib to a "big boy bed," because he kept trying to crawl out of his crib, and we felt due for some kind of milestone.

We got the crib disassembled, plunked his crib mattress on the floor for naptime, and then assembled the new bed just before bedtime. When we went into his room for bedtime, his first question was, "Where's my crib?"

In retrospect, we may have overdone it a little on the "convince Bry he's a big boy" campaign. "You're ready to sleep in big boy bed now because you're a big boy," we told him. He looked at the bed again, "Where's my crib?" "You slept in a crib when you were a baby. Now that you're a big boy, you're ready for a bed with no rails." You'd think that he'd be grateful for us jailbreaking him, but not so much.

After a few nights and no falls, Bry seemed accustomed enough to the new bed, and had stopped asking about his crib. In the following weeks, every time Bry has asserted his independence - whether through insisting that he can climb into his carseat himself, or wash his hands himself, or climb into his booster seat himself, and so on - he'll declare, "I'm a big boy now. I can do it all by myself." Should Steve or I make the mistake of absentmindedly picking him up to plunk him in his carseat, or lift him off the stool after he's washed his hands, he'll remind us, "No, I sleep in a big boy bed now. I can do it by myself." Sleeping in a big boy bed has become the mantra signaling his growing realization that he is his own person, he can take pride in what he does, and he can drive his parents crazy by making them wait the approximately 72 hours that it takes him to crawl into his carseat. He declares to random people on the sidewalk, "I sleep in a big boy bed now." It's sweet to see him puffed up with pride, a look of serious determination on his face. And it makes the times when he does ask for help, "Can you wash my hands for me today, mama?" doubly sweet.

Amusingly, even though Bry has been sleeping in his big boy bed for some time, he hasn't yet entirely figured out that he can get in and out of it of his own free will. Most mornings, when he wakes up, he'll call out from the refuge of his bed, "What does Bryson want to do?" Invariably, the answer to this question is, "Go play with trucks!" I don't know quite why Bry asks about himself in the third person, or why he has persisted on waiting until Steve or I cross the threshold of his room before bolting out of his bed toward the living room and his trucks. One morning he called out, "Sandra, can you come get me?" "You can get out of bed by yourself! You're a big boy!" I called out in response, from the cocoon of my own bed. "Sandra, can you come get me?" came his answer, in a higher, more desperate pitch. And so I did.

Before I Forget

Bryson is a funny guy. A pint-sized comedian, if you will. And the funniest thing about him is that he doesn't know he's being funny until you laugh. But when you do, he joins in like he's training for the giggle Olympics.

The other morning, when I was trying to "coat him" (Bryson's terminology for putting on his coat; also, a request to put his shoes on goes like this: "Shoe me!"), Bry had a truck in each hand. This is not an unusual occurrence. I asked him to please put down his trucks so I could put his coat on. His response? "It's okay mama; the dump truck is quite small." Not just small. Quite small. I laughed. He laughed. Hilarity ensued.

Yesterday morning, Bry was playing with his "animal hospital" (i.e., plastic box with lockable kennels that are proportioned such that one needs to forcefully shove the included stuffed animals in so they fit). He held up the stuffed kitten, shined a flashlight on it, and declared, "This kitty weighs 200,000 pounds!" Same routine with the dog: "This puppy weighs 300,000 pounds!" And finally the parrot: "This bird weighs 500,000 pounds!" With each subsequent animal, the volume of his voice increased, until he reached a fever pitch with "500,000 pounds!" Meanwhile, I'm stuck with the image of a 100-ton cat stalking down the street. "Hmm, that must be a really dense kitty," I respond. For now, my science humor is lost on him. I figure I might as well get him started early though, since he's going to be stuck with his parents' bizarre senses of humor for a long time.

And finally, this morning, on the way to school, Bry was sitting contentedly in his carseat, playing with trucks, per usual. He startled me when he shouted, distraught, "No! There's no wind in the car, excavator!" Bewildered, I asked for clarification. "There's no wind, excavator! You shouldn't turn like that!" came the response. Putting 2 and 2 together, I said, "You think wind makes the excavator's arm move, but there's no wind in the car, so why is the arm moving anyways?" "Yes!" Poor kid doesn't quite understand gravity yet, or, I suppose, Newton's first law of motion. He's continually frustrated when his trucks roll down inclines, or otherwise succumb to the force of gravity by falling, shifting, or moving. He put the truck there, so it should stay there. Simple as that. I suppose it would be mean to laugh out loud at this, so I do my best to stifle my giggles, so that I can attend to his distress with all due gravity. Pun intended. Gotta love the science humor.

More on the Inner Workings of a Two-Year-Old Mind

Yesterday when picking up Bry at school, his teachers stopped me, saying they had to share two amusing things that Bry had said. First, he apparently announced, apropos of nothing, "Bry's mom goes really fast!" Sure I do. And second, in response to a book about frustrated children who can't complete any of the tasks that they'd like to (it's not as dreary as it sounds), Bry asserted, "Bry can do everything!" and then started counting as high as he could. His self-esteem is apparently still very much intact.

And then this evening, our conversation in relation to a picture of people on horseback in the book Our Animal Friends at Maple Farm:

Bry: What are those people doing?

Mama: They're riding the horses. People do that sometimes.

Bry: Why?

Mama: Um, because horses can run really fast and some people find it fun to ride them. See those ropes? They're called reins; people use them to steer the horses, to tell them which way to go.

Bry: Because horses don't have steering wheels!

Two More Since Nap Time

Upon waking from his nap, the first thing Bry said was, "Sheeps don't have hands!" You're right on that one, kiddo.

And later, spelling his name: "B-R-Y-S-O-N-Exclamation point!" Sounds about right.

From the Mouths of Babes

Recently, Bry has been conjuring up some interesting theories about the world and how it works, as well as the parameters within which he'd like it to operate. He's also just been saying some funny things. Here's a sampling of some of his more endearing thoughts:

On giraffes: "The mama giraffe has a baby giraffe in her tummy. That's why she's so tall."

On being asked if he'd like a sister or brother: "Someday."

On what he'd like for dinner at grandma and grandpa's house: "Ribs. And corn and broccoli. And bacon."

On mimicking mama, who commented one day, "What's up with all of this traffic?": "What is up with it?"

On being asked what he did at school: "All of the things." Or, "No."

On the physiology of turtles: "Turtle is drinking water. It's going in his shell. Turtles don't make BMs."

On the physiology of people: "The food goes in your mouth. Then in your tummy. Then in your little intestine. Then in your large intestine. Then out your bottom!"

On being asked not to yell: "BRY WANTS TO YELL!"

On being chastised for further yelling: "Bry is being respectful!"

On the seasons: "All the snow is melted! It's springtime!"

On being told that 47 is not the same as 74 (for example): "Bry wants it to be 74!"

On being persuaded to start any new activity: "Bry not want to [insert activity here]!"

On being told it's time to stop said activity: "Bry not want to stop [insert activity here]!"

On being asked why he is throwing a toy, a stuffed animal, a blanket, etc.: "Because Bry is throwing it!"

There's just no arguing with that kind of logic.

State of the Bry Address

A lot of things have happened in the life of Bry and company. Things that I might have blogged about, had I not been knee-deep in articles and documents, and other assorted dissertation paraphernalia. Instead of re-living every moment of our lives over the past six weeks, I thought I'd summarize the major talking points (not necessarily in chronological order):

• We went to the zoo. Bry saw giraffes. Then he wanted to see elephants, but there weren't any.
• We went to Wood Lake. Daddy broke the ice on the lake with his foot. Bry wanted to go inside.
• We walked to Minnehaha Creek. Bry shouted, "1, 2, 3, Go!" and threw rocks and other detritus into the water.
• We went to MoA. Bry rode on the carousel. He wanted to ride again, but we told him he couldn't because we had to go eat at McDonald's.
  
• We attended a potluck dinner at Bry's daycare. We discovered that Bry is unique in eating his weight in fruit each day. Bry found the fact that we were eating in the gym hilarious. He jumped on the trampoline.
• We went to the Children's Museum. Bry climbed on Clifford, the Big Red Dog. He touched a corn snake. He declared, "There's too much kids here."
  
• We took a trip to Office Depot. Bry endured an hour of hunting for a printer by reading off all of the letters and numbers he could see and rearranging all of the claim cards for the electronics. We put them all back in their proper places before we left.
  
• Nana and Gong-Gong visited. We stayed in a "rotel," played at Edinborough Park, went swimming, and had dim sum. We did not jump on the beds at the hotel, because "only monkeys jump on the bed."
  
• We went to Grandma and Grandpa's house. Bry pushed all of the buttons on "noisy bulldozer" and leapt, terrified, onto the couch. He ate ribs with much gusto.

In retrospect, it looks like we've been living it up. We've been reveling in all of Bry's two-ness, which runs the gamut from charming to verbose to witty to, uh, screaming. Still working on that last one.

Finely Calibrated Wishes - An Ode to Two

Oh 2, you have such finely calibrated wishes. For example, yesterday when I drove you home from daycare, you were irate, livid, appalled that the Fed Ex truck that happened by our car had purple and green letters, rather than purple and orange letters. And you voiced your outrage in clear terms: "Bry not want purple and green letters! Bry wants purple and orange letters!" You punctuated this vocalization with fist pounding and face contorting, fury seeping through your every pore. I can understand your outrage. The world is such an unbending place, isn't it?

Also, 2, your wishes today may not be your wishes tomorrow. Or even your wishes, say, in the next 30 seconds. You must have received instructions to keep us guessing. Good work on that imperative. One moment you want mama to take you out of your crib and shriek when daddy tries to do it. Five minutes later, daddy is king and you shriek when mama comes within five feet of you. That's a good mixture of power and confounding. Have you been taking advice from W again? At any rate, you don't want anyone around you to get too comfortable.

On, and an extension on that last point, 2. The drama? It is epic. You could singlehandedly take on an afternoon's lineup of soaps and emerge ahead for sheer quantity, intensity, and persistence of drama. Days has nothing on you. In fact, I'd say that your acting is superior - there's no phoning it in on days you're tired. If anything, you manage to somehow step up the drama when you're short on sleep or hungry or someone looked at you wrong. Bravo!

But 2, you know what else? You give the best hugs ever. You wrap your arms tightly around our necks and squeeze like we're giant tubes of toothpaste.

You're more inquisitive than a puppy, or a graduate student in biochemistry. You want to know about everything. Why? is something we hear coming from you more and more. Why is the bus yellow? Why do we have traffic? Why is that truck driving that way? When you're not satisfied with the answers, you simply ask again. And again.

You try to jump, throwing your entire body into the endeavor. You don't yet get any air, but this only makes the process more endearing.

You dance, a funny little jig, when you're happy or excited.

You make us smile everyday, a hundred times a day, and we love you for that.

The World According to Bryson

As he ages, Bry is developing more and more opinions about the world, its inhabitants, and its inner workings. Tell him something works one way and he'll chew on it for a moment before swallowing it or spitting it out. For the past couple of weeks I've been trying to explain to Bry what Steve and I do all day long at our jobs, so that he can try to more concretely picture us while he's at school. Formulating explanations of "teacher" and "counselor" to Bry's uninitiated mind has been somewhat of a challenge. "Teacher" is easier, because Bry has had contact with teachers. But trying to translate his conception of teachers to Steve's job in 2-year-old language has been amusing. Basically, I told Bry that daddy is a teacher, but he teaches big kids. The big kids sit in desks and daddy stands at the front of the room. Daddy talks a lot and the kids write down everything he says. Oh, and every once in awhile he starts a fire in his classroom during "labs."

Explaining "counselor" has involved more obstacles. I tell Bry that I go to my office at Augsburg College. Then we have a side conversation about what Augsburg College is. And then what a college is (it's a school for grown-ups, in case you're wondering). "Then," I tell him, "I talk with people who have problems. I try to help them with their problems." "What are problems?" he asks. "Well, for example, if someone is sad, I try to help them not be sad." This is basically what I do, no? When we had the conversation again this morning, Bry apparently was not satisfied with my job description. After I had finished, he responded, "No. Mama not do that." "What do you think I do at work?" "You push buttons! And you spin around and around!"

Um, sure. Just don't tell my boss.

I crack myself up!

Counting

Bry has been into counting for some time. Until recently, he was good with 0 through 10. Recently, we've been encouraging him to branch out beyond what he can count on his fingers. So now Bry counts like this: "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 13, twelveteen...that's a big number!" Maybe we should start showing him this video to straighten things out a bit.