November 9, 2008: Twenty-Five Months Old

It’s hard to believe I was worried about you a month ago. At your two-year checkup, the doctor asked, “Is he putting on one article of clothing?” Ummm. . . I guess pulling off your diaper and kicking your shoe across the living room don’t count. I was afraid maybe we weren’t practicing enough, or were practicing the wrong things. Then, just like turning a page, you entered the independent chapter. Whether you are zipping your jammies, turning on the humidifier, closing the baby gate, or assembling your train track, the cry is the same. “By self!” You push me back, “No mommy help. By self, by self!” And even if it means a pinched finger or a Thomas derailed, you are determined to puzzle things out on your own. You still haven’t figured out how to put on a shirt, but you are getting awfully good at jabbing around until you locate the arms holes all by self.

Of course, your independence has its limits. It isn’t as if I can just leave you to your play-doh for half an hour and go walk the dog. Some grownup with greater dexterity needs to be within shouting range for the moment “by self” flips to “mommy help!” On the ninth trip over to roll out your dough, I remind myself it is a blessing that you are learning what you need and how to ask for it.

I think part of what compels you to ask for help is not need but the simple desire for company. You seem to throw yourself more completely into your paint and puzzles and trucks when either Toby or I sit right next to you and watch your experience unfold. This means I have had to come up with more innovative approaches to cooking and chores, because you are not satisfied playing “by self” for very long when I am tooling around the house checking things off my to-do list. Now I double over an apron and pull up a chair for you to help mix the cake batter. You pull out your mini Dirt Devil and trail around behind me while I vacuum the carpet. You are always happier helping than playing alone, and happier still when anything resembling work is abandoned for Eliot-focused, floor-level, chore-free play. Happiest of all, of course, in the company of mommy and daddy and anyone else willing to attend wholly to your entertainment.

A social life is a necessity now. As exhausted as you are after a day with your friends, it is clear you are thriving in preschool. You talk about your friends and teachers as if they are part of the family. It astounds me that Ms. Eve and Ms. Laina are able to keep a dozen two-year-olds engaged and productive for six hours straight, let alone manage smiles and sincere words of praise for each child when the parents start arriving at 3:00. The superhuman energy of your teachers aside, you are clearly in your element in the midst of your peers. You do not need as much help or even activity ideas when you are around people. The very presence of company – adult or otherwise – is enough to keep you busy and stimulated and much more independent (of me, at least).

During our visit with family in Northampton last week, your cousins fascinated you. No matter what blocks or dolls or puzzles they pulled out, you wanted to be right in the middle of the action. A few months ago, Amelia’s hugs seemed to overwhelm you and you kept seeking out refuge with me. On this trip, however, you walked right up to her and stood, belly-to-belly, waiting. And she, of course, obliged with a full-body embrace.

Your interest in people is growing in direct correlation to a sprouting sense of empathy for your fellow creature. While you still receive almost daily time-outs for sitting on the cat or whacking the dog, you are beginning to pick up cues about the feelings of others. When I sliced a chunk off my thumb in the kitchen, I collapsed on the couch with a towel and a whimper. You stopped whatever you were doing and came over, climbing up next to me. Touching my head and face, you said, “I sorry, mommy, I sorry.” Your vocabulary for expressing care may be limited, but it does the trick. And you, like the rest of us, will have to learn when your offers may not be welcome. When your cousin, Charlotte, dissolved in a puddle of sobs in the doorway, you made your way over to her and kept trying to look in her face. She buried her tears deeper in her sleeves and ignored you. Finally, you simply patted her on the back a few times and sat with her while she wailed out her frustration.

I believe even curiosity – ungenerous, simple and selfish inquisitiveness – might be a critical step in developing compassion. The long travel day home from Massachusetts showed me how much of your social environment you take in and roll around in your brain, trying to place yourself within it. Struggling down narrow aisles or hemmed in at the baggage carousel, you seemed to be trying to pick up cues about what level of contact with strangers is appropriate, whose lead to follow, and what activities might be safe. In jarring, insane Atlanta, you stayed right in my arms and had no interest in navigating the endless waves of fierce-faced travelers slamming through the concourse. In Charlotte, you scoped out an open spot in the middle of an array of bored-but-benign looking travelers, and looped around in erratic circles, giggling in delight.

Airports and airplanes are, of course, stimulating to the point of overload, and sometimes you simply needed to retreat from all the people talking near you and smiling at you and pushing you around. During our final descent into Denver, you wanted nothing but to sit in my lap and nurse. I let you crawl in and cozy up, until a snippy flight attendant walked by and, without apology, ordered you back in your own seat. Toby and I forced you down and tightened the belt around your arching middle. You sobbed in protest for a few minutes. Then you heard the child two rows back. Another toddler had begun to cry. Her wails quickly escalated to piercing screams. Obviously in some kind of pain – ears, probably – she cried all the way to the gate. And you stopped being miserable. Instead, you started asking about the little girl. “Crying? Mommy daddy hold her?” We assured you someone was taking care of her. “Hug? See hug girl?” We made sure you knew she did not need your hug right now, that she had parents to comfort her. For the rest of the flight, you listened and asked about the little girl, her pain, her need for a cuddle. You did not shed another tear. For one moment, you understood that your own misery, as wretched as it may feel, sometimes pales in comparison to someone else’s. This is the beginning of an awareness of context, of knowing yourself as a member of a community. In some ways, you are becoming Mr. Independent. In others, you are anything but “by self.” 

October 5, 2008: Two Years Old!

I am the mother of a two-year-old. I can’t really wrap my mind around this. When I look at the photos of you from your first birthday, I see a child not so completely different than the one blowing out his candles today. Except, of course, now you can walk and run and jump, climb and talk and sing, build and paint and slide down a slide without me even waiting at the bottom. But still. That face then and this one now both shine with our little boy, our Eliot, and no other.

Then. . .

. . .and now

Sometime in the past year, I stopped calling you my baby. Now, you are my little boy, my bub. You started calling me “mommy,” a real name of sorts, instead of a series of urgent syllables, “ma-ma-ma.” None of this changed suddenly. It all came gradually, the result of a series of small, accumulated, concentrated efforts. But, all of a sudden, sort of, here you are. A little boy taking off down the driveway about to run headlong into the wildflowers and aspen saplings along the creek bed; a boy who always halts just short of the road and checks both ways for cars. A child who – hallelujah! – sleeps through the night in his very own crib. Who joins us in just at dawn for a nuzzly, cuddly greeting of family and day, saying, “good morning, daddy,” and “git up, mommy!”  You are the child who rolls big ol’ daddy over on his tummy, climbs up on his back, puts in a penny and pushes the button so the ride can bounce you silly till you tumble off onto a pile of pillows and quilts.

As I sit writing this, I am watching you and your daddy out the office window practicing T-ball. Toby hands you the ball, and you set it gently on the T, choke up on the bat with both hands, and thwack the ball over the rock wall. So many hard-earned skills go into this seemingly effortless act. You are standing strong on uneven ground and managing to see, aim, hold, and swing with about as much grace as any two-year-old could wish for. As the ball flies and daddy whoops, your grin is filled with satisfaction. All of a sudden, sort of, you know how to make powerful and exciting things happen with your body and mind.

You keep on sort of suddenly picking up useful new skills. Shouting out the goofy repetition of “Five Little Monkeys,” I have gotten into the habit of leaving out words for you to fill in. A few days ago, I got to the part where “the doctor said,” and you piped in, on your own with finger shaking in reprimand, “no more muh-keys jump on-a bed!” That’s an entire sentence, out of your two-year-old mouth. Your rhythm might need a little polishing, but there is no mistaking the words. I cannot tell if what you speak is comprehension or mimicry, but you chatter on at length, even when no one is actively listening. While I am chopping vegetables in the kitchen, you will make your way over to your bookcase and dump books in a heap in front of you, searching for your favorites. Opening one much-read story about the little engine, you say, “One day. Chug chug, puff puff, ding dong,” turning the pages and following the narrative in your own haphazard way. You are the child now walking along telling yourself familiar stories, talking to your imaginary gramma on your personal flip-phone, singing yourself songs in the back seat of the car. You already have a bag full of tools to keep yourself entertained and your imagination vibrant. You are somewhat self-sustaining. All of a sudden, sort of.

You are never finished learning, never resting easy in the familiarity of an accomplishment. You just reach for the next New Thing. Hide-and-Seek is a recent discovery. You say you want to play, but we are only allowed to play in Mommy and Daddy’s bedroom. You “hide” on the bed, covering your eyes and counting to ten while I also cover my eyes and count to ten. Then, I look for you under the covers, behind the door, in the closet. Meanwhile, you are still perched on the bed in plain sight, grinning at my as I blunder about looking for you. When I find you, you fall over in a cascade of giggles. Zerberts commence, a little bit of human steamroller on the covers, perhaps, then, “Mo? Mo hide-seek?” Where did you learn this game? Sort of suddenly, you understand and embrace the concept of organizing a bit of random fun into a game with rules and turns and periods of mandatory patience.

The dramatic goings-on up on the kitchen countertops have also sort of suddenly entered your awareness. It isn’t as if we have ever hidden any of our activities from you, but I think you have just become tall enough and smart enough to see that the really good stuff is up there. Enough with the wooden play-clay stamps and plastic cutters. We’re talking knife block with serious blades, roaring food processor, toaster-oven complete with racks and buttons, and telephone! Oh, and the big sink with two faucets, a drain rack full of dishes that clatter and clang, a huge bowl overflowing with fruit! Every time I walk into the kitchen just to grab a glass of water or throw out some trash, you buzz on in behind me, grabbing a dining chair and dragging it over to the counter to see what you can find. The chairs have been there all along, as well as all the exciting, ever-changing culinary landscape of formica and stainless steel. But all the pieces just recently fell into place, and like it or not, your insistence on full participation will not be deterred.

As you have, alas, grown more comfortable with the idea of being two, I have started to realize the urgent need in myself for human contact free from your determined forward motion, your nudges and grabs and dining chair bulldozings. A professional massage this morning – planned by Toby, right here at camp – left me in such a state of contentment, I started worrying about the fact that I couldn’t find a single thing to worry about.  I wonder when it happens that a child begins to touch another person in a way that person wants to be touched, rather in the way that most appeals to a preschooler. Certainly, you give great big bear hugs and sweet cuddles, but I am aware that you initiate these things when you want them. When I most need a squeeze and a good cry, I am usually on the receiving end of a complex series of shoves, meltdowns, and tantrums.

I understand that empathy grows from receiving abundant affection and comfort as a child. Good feelings grow from being cared for, and they eventually become the foundation for caring for others. I am just starting to see that this isn’t only some desperate leap of faith. A few days ago, my ankle busted, my tummy aching and my mood in the dumpster, I curled up on the couch while you played nearby. Seeing me, blue and grumpy and horizontal, you sidled up next to me and bent over so your face was right near mine. “You okay, mommy?” You asked, concern creasing your brow. And when I told you I needed a hug, you opened your arms and smushed yourself right up against me. Then you settled in next to me and let me read you a whole pile of Little Critter books. I guess you do know how to give out a little comfort now and then. Sort of all of a sudden, I am the mother of a caring and thoughtful child. Maybe I can’t wrap my mind around this just yet, so I’ll just wrap my arms around you.

September 28, 2008: Party Time for the Happy Camper

Eliot takes a crack at the key ingredient of his birthday zucchini bread.

Gramma Genie waits for the chef's assessment before proceeding to the loaf pan step.

The birthday boy submits to a little vehicular peer-pressure from the 3-year-olds.

Some of the partygoers enjoy pawing around in the Camp Shady Brook volleyball court, converted - with the addition of a fleet of tonka trucks and plastic shovels - into what might be Douglas County's largest sandbox,

Toby gets to sit with the big kids.

Balloons, a parachute, and the grown-ups doing all the work. It don't get any better than this!

The tots all took a shot at tent-camping and wiggling around on the foam Shady Brook bunk mattresses (aka, a bounce-house on the cheap).

We had a quieter celebration the day after the party with Gramma Genie and a lot of leftover cake. Eliot loved his new Thomas the Train wooden railroad, and especially enjoyed the matching Thomas bike helmet. Now that he's learning to trike like the big kids, he's going to need his noggin protected!

September 17, 2008: Twenty-Three and a Half Months Old

Today, we went into the big gym at the Y and stomped all over the gleaming wooden floor. For the first time in probably five years, I executed a passable cartwheel. Of course, you instantly wanted to try it. Without a mat. I held tight, and you, giggling, turned upside-down, bonked your head, and rolled on up for another attempt. This acrobatic daring is your current occupation of choice. You are working on somersaults (you still can’t quite fathom “tuck your head under”), and you have just begun to locate your hips accurately enough to wiggle them. At the playground during our Estes Park fall vacation, Grandma Genie lowered the trapeze-rings to your height. You hung. And swung. Let go, then hung again. What a revelation! Your arms can support your weight about as well as your legs! Since that moment, you have grabbed onto every bar within reach, picked up your feet and started swinging.

Your greatest accomplishment has been The Jump. For months, we have been working on it. You climb up onto the couch cushions, count “one, two, free, six, JUMP!” and step gingerly to the floor. But again, Estes Park did the trick. Nothing like fresh milieu to release your inhibitions. You jumped. Right off the floor, both feet in the air. And your face registered the accomplishment – your body didn’t move anything like the practice jumps of previous weeks – and you jumped again. Hooray! Now, random moments during our walks, you stop without warning and spring up in the air, squeal, and move on. Just to make sure you’ve still got it.

You do find it hard to swing or jump or wiggle when your hands have a death grip on your John Deere diggers, however. I have no idea what prompted me to purchase these little die-cast monsters in the first place, but they have certainly found their place among your personal inventory of the Greatest Toys in the History of Toy-dom. Your backhoe, bulldozer, track excavator (which you can identify and pronounce with startling accuracy) and front end loader (ditto) come with you on every outing. In the car, and, naturally, in the sandbox. Into the bathroom, too, and down the road to visit daddy at the office. If you make it halfway and realize they are not in your hands, you begin looking desperately around. Heaven forbid we are too far gone to turn back. Thankfully, it has not occurred to you to carry them to bed. Yet.

I still have not figured out exactly what you are doing with your miniature construction equipment, trains, and matchbox cars. Sure, you sing up-and-down songs, line them up, hang them off one another, and occasionally drive them into the furniture. You try to run them over the dog if she’s having a slow response day. But you dedicate hours of the day, quite literally, to these little movers. I am fascinated by your fixation. Your world is complete for sometimes 30 minutes at a stretch, with a carpet, a digger, and room to move. Your love of heavy equipment demonstrates the growing distance between our identities. You are your own person, with fascinations both separate from mine and wholly inexplicable to me. 

Your experience as a unique and separate person has ballooned since your first day of preschool. Granted, you only attend one day a week. But what a day! In the car on the way home that first morning, you babbled away, telling me stories I could not begin to decipher. This was a disorienting experience. Usually, even the most unintelligible utterances (Tay-o vatch? What in the world?) become clear if I cast around long enough (Oh! Childwatch! Like at the Y!) But in the car, you rattled off an elaborate speech that held no meaning for me. I could tease out the names Jackson and Riley from peeking at the sign-in sheet, and later, when you turned in a circle and crashed to the floor, hollering, “a-fa-down!” I understood a game of Ring around the Rosie has probably taken place. But the rest of it is a mystery to me.

Tomorrow, despite your protests, you go back to Ms. Eve’s classroom where your own private collection friends, songs, and games live. I have to enjoy the day off to its fullest, because I now know the true cost of preschool. For about 36 hours after I pick you up, you shed every ounce of self-control you have acquired over the past two years. You howl at each denial, swat at every frustration, collapse in sobs at any reprimand. You demand waffles for dinner, rip off your diaper, sit on the cat, and climb the cupboards. I imagine you simply need to adjust to one day a week of heroically maintaining your equanimity in the midst of a large group of peers. You, no doubt, have to practice such novel skills as sitting at a table for colors, walking in a line to the playground, sharing every single object you come across. For a few short hours every week, you inhabit a community larger than that of your family. And it is good to know that when you come home, you have an ever-increasing array of ways to jump, wiggle, spin, and swing through the stresses of growing up.

At Long Last, The Mountains

It's only taken us two years to get it together and head into the Rockies for a breather. Sure, we live at a camp and all, but a sliver of green in a burned-out forest 150 yards from Toby's office is not a fitting way to take in the glory and experience the altitude sickness of a mountain vacation. So, when camp finally mellowed enough for us to escape, up we went. We split our week between the YMCA of the Rockies' two conference centers. Snow Mountain Ranch on the west side of Rocky Mountain National Park and Estes Park on the eastern perimeter both receive the Hettler family vacation seal of approval.

Turtles and snakes and camp staff, oh my!

At Snow Mountain Ranch, we followed some mystery signs to a trailhead for a Waterfall Hike. Near the top, we parked the stroller and let Eliot join in the actual walking part of hiking. The anticipation of a real live waterfall kept him moving forward, despite the proximity of babbling brook and all its rocky, muddy temptations.

Wow! It's even better than the pictures in my board books!

What family vacation would be complete without grandparents? Serendipity landed Ken and Genie in Estes Park this very same week for a watershed conference. So, while Grandpa was busy water resource talking, Grandma was out watershed walking.

Roller skating seemed fun in theory. . .

. . . but Eliot discovered a much more practical way to enjoy skates.

And as illuminating as a mini-golf lesson with daddy might be. . .

. . .  mastering a hole in one isn't rocket science.

A wet and rumbling storm chased Shannon and the boys up to Bible Point, a pint-sized peak just inside Rocky Mountain National Park.

One thing the Y of the Rockies does well is playgrounds. They build 'em everywhere. Every day, we did the rounds of swimming pool, slides, swings, and grandparents. Now, every time I ask Eliot what he wants to do today, he hollers "vacation!"

'Nuff said.