January 5, 2009: Twenty-Seven Months Old

In the Berenstain Bears’ Moving Day, Brother Bear worries about what will happen to his toys when the family moves. “We’ll bring them along!” Papa Bear reassures him, and hands Brother Bear a box. A single box. Astounding. I guess moving from a cave to a tree requires minimal packing.  But your toys? It looks like a UPS truck overturned in our living room. And that’s just the common area toys. Bedroom toys and outdoor toys might require their own U-Haul.

We try to live simply, to keep our belongings pared down. A move sheds harsh light on the limits of our resolve. Camping gear, tools, dishes and flatware for every occasion, bridesmaid dresses and blazers worn once and probably never again, but just maybe, one day. So, into a bin they go, ready to drag their way across Interstate 80 to take up residence in the back of some closet in our new home. We have purged a bit. A half a dozen trips to the Goodwill drop-off have cleared a little space. But it’s not easy to empty and dump with a toddler shadowing every step. Like us, you maintain a strong attachment to things you have barely ever seen. I pull out an old belt or a hand-me-down electronic talking owl, but before I can sneak it down into the donation bag, you grab it and race to your fort, yelling “run away, run away!”

We bought three children’s books about moving, and we read through them every day. We show you pictures of our new house, and make sure you can see the packing we are doing. Your two-year-old mind is starting to make sense of it. Yesterday morning, as you sat eating waffles and I packed away some kitchen utensils, you looked at me and said, “Mommy put things in box for new home.”  

But how can we really know if this means anything real to you? Last week, we were reading a little critter book about shopping with mom. Sister asks mom repeatedly for candy until mom finally snaps. “I told you, no candy! Would you like a spanking instead?” You like to mimic Sister saying in her very small voice, “no spanking.”  We have read this book a hundred times, and you always giggle at little sister and her frightened face. I asked you if you know what a spanking is. You nodded. “Is a jack-o-lantern.” Well, of course it is.

Information is still a little higgledy-piggledy in your brain, and at two, you are working hard to name, connect, and order the things happening around you. So, when swimming in a sea of cardboard, you finally lose your cool and succumb to a storm of sobs and screams over a forbidden cookie, I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised. We just hug and reassure you, stick to whatever routine we can manage, and wait for you to come crawling onto a familiar lap.

Moving may or may not be the cause of your unpredictable meltdowns. It might just be the trials of having your great plans forever foiled. Sometimes bundling up to go tromp around on the frozen lake is your greatest joy, and you actually hold out your hands for the mittens. Other days, stuffing your unwilling bulk into a snowsuit is like cramming uncooked sausage into its casing. Still alive and kicking.

You’ve gotten very good at articulating your desires and negotiating for their fulfillment. When it’s time for bed and we have already read through every book in the pile, you hold up your finger. “Just one. Just one more.” We tell you, no, no, it’s time for bed. “Okay,” you say with a decisive nod. “Okay, just one more.” On those happy occasions when you do get what you want, like the requested orange, we tell you that you can have one. “Okay,” you say, holding up your splayed hand. “Just five. Five o-wange.”

So many things will be different in our new place. Damp, chilly New England air will feel nothing like the blue-bright sparkle of our Colorado winter. Like Brother Bear, we will not be able to put our friends in a box and take them with us. All the people you have grown up seeing week after week will be back in central mountain time, and we will find our way to new friendships. But we will finally arrive on the other end of this upheaval. Movers will unpack your crib, your mountains of toys, and your favorite books. The dog and cat will start sniffing out corners of the house to call their own. And when we sing you your lullabies for our very first night in our new home, you will probably request something you ask for almost every night, anyplace our family happens to be. “Just one. Okay? Just one more hug.” And we will gladly oblige.

We're on our way! We make our way northeast to Camp Chingachgook on New York's Lake George on January 13th. A new adventure for 2009!

Eliot rides with the big boys. His souped-up new bat-mobile was a Christmas surprise from his buddy, Mr. Sean.

Santa snuck two -- count em, TWO! -- forbidden apple juice boxes into Eliot's stocking. One for slurping and one for sharing.

Whizzing down the slide at the Tri-Lakes Y.

A snowy afternoon visit with Mr. Sleeper and Boomer the mule.

Nothing beats glue and glitter. . .

Except maybe mommy's makeup!

December 7, 2008: Twenty-Six Months Old

All the days of sleep-deprived dragging, the tantrums and bite-marks, the twisted back and sore joints from hefting and hauling a load that’s swelled from eight pounds to thirty, the relentless confusion about my identity as a woman and my purpose on this planet. . . all these costs and more finally paid off. You came up to me last week in the kitchen, put your arms around me, and announced, “I love you, mommy.” My lottery numbers clanged into place. At last, my prize, that elusive wealth. I hugged you back for a lot longer than usual. 

And then. Then you begin to chatter. Out of your mouth flows a seemingly endless stream of words and thought, most of which we can now understand. As you knock pieces of the kindling daddy’s chopping against the driveway, you sing as many parts of “This Old Man” as you can remember. You push your tractor around mumbling, “A,B, C, D, EFG.” When Gramma Genie called, all she had to flip the switch do was ask what how your day was. Without taking a breath, you launched into a meandering account of your ride in the red stroller, a dining hall drive-by, a visit with the mules, a dog vs. cat showdown in the yard, and your fish-stick dinner. All you need is someone to listen – and sometimes not even that – to tell your fascinating story.

But you are not just a narrator. You are also a creator. Ad-libbed songs are your favorite medium. You say, “Sing Daddy!” You are not asking daddy to sing. You are asking one of us to make up a song with the word “daddy” repeated to a surprise melody, and maybe with a few key ideas about daddy thrown in. “Sing giraffes!” you holler. “Sing gorilla!” You pound your chest to the rhythm. Yesterday, we were singing “Baby Bunnies,” a made-up tune with a chorus about baby bunnies who munch, munch, munch. The verses can be any rhyming activities baby bunnies might (or might never) engage in, such as, “little baby bunnies, they hop in the snow, little baby bunnies, they go with the flow.” After the twelfth repetition, I ran out of ideas for what baby bunnies could do. From the back seat of the car, you yelled, “they go to school!” So I had them play in the pool. They you said, “they ride in car!” And daddy had them jump really far. I hadn’t realized you understood the game. I assumed you were just happily listening to some song that exists out there in the universe, like the Wheels on the Bus or something. But you knew you could make the song your own, entertaining yourself with images set to music. You’re on your way, kid, to the vibrant life of the imagination.

But. This joyous new talent is not without its price. You use language and a very calculating kind of creativity to draw lines and make rules that suit you fine. Daddy’s bowl of oranges is clearly out there to “share some with E-yut,” but Eliot’s bowl of oranges is “mine. Daddy eat own food.” When jumping off the wall of stumps, one particular stump is mommy’s and two are Eliot’s, and “mommy stand there,” holding Eliot’s right hand only. In the fort we constructed from a card table and sheet, Mommy has to “lie down over there, that pillow. This E-yut’s pillow.” At bedtime, only mommy can read the book about the egg, and Daddy is supposed to read the about Peter Rabbit. And sometime, “E-yut hold it, mommy read dis one.” Eliot, of course, gets to wiggle down right in the middle between mommy and daddy. Any other configuration would be ridiculous.

All these plans and ideas about how things should be might make life difficult in the moment, but they are a revisionist’s dream. Even when you wailed and moaned during our Christmas tree excursion, whimpering from the backpack as we crunched through the snow in the Pike Forest, “go to car, go to home,” you were clearly taking in the experience in a pure form. Later, when we talked about what we did that day, you grinned and hopped a little, recounting going into the woods to find our tree. You may squirm with fury when we head out for a walk around the lake and swing by the paddock on our way. But every evening at dinner, all misery is forgotten. When you take your turn to give thanks, you gaze off out the window for a moment then your face lights up. “Go see mules,” smiling as you think about greeting those steaming, snorting beasts.

Then I hand you a cookie and you say, “Thank you, mommy!” Bouncing in your seat, crumbs gumming your chin and fingers, you announce with a shining smile, “E-yut happy!” Well. What can I say to that? Jackpot.

Giant Legos. Every child's dream (and Eliot liked them, too.)

Just chillin' with gramma. I know. You wish you were me.

Our Christmas tree looked an awful lot smaller when it was still in the forest.

"Some-fing dere. I see some-fing."

Dirty knees are a small price to pay for the use of a front-end loader.

Every child knows the true meaning of Christmas: unguarded power cords.

The crowning glory.

Eliot prepares for the onslaught of holiday treats.