cat named pig

In addition to “Mama” and “ball,” Elliot says “more” now. But he doesn’t really say it so much as roar it: “MOAH,” in his growly little voice. We’ll try to get a video of this, because it is hilarious to hear the little guy roaring out his demands for more Cheerios. And then grunting happily when we give him some.

I’ve been using baby signs with him for a couple months now, and he is about the age Siena was when she first made the sign for milk (I think she was around this age — it was a long time ago). So I kept assuming that any day now, he would start signing and then we’d be communicating like crazy. 

But — DUH — they are different kids, as I can see I will be reminding myself for the rest of my life. And Elliot continues to look at me when I’m making the signs like “That’s a nice trick. Good job, Mama. That’s funny how you can do that with your hands.” And not really showing much interest in signing back. So I’m glad he’s found his own way to let us know when he needs more cereal, or when the kitty is in the room.

Aside from the entertainment value, I don’t really know if we even want him to start talking. I’m pretty sure it took Siena about three weeks to go from signing “milk” to treating every conversation as a complex negotiation, throwing out counter offers for all of our suggestions and haggling over every detail to make sure she was getting the best possible deal, and after a while it kind of makes my ears bleed. I’m not ready for both of them to be that verbal.

I can just see myself, a year from now, pitching every lunch menu or activity to them with a 50-slide PowerPoint presentation. (”And for you, Elliot, we have a peanut butter sandwich, complete with your favorite: . . . jelly.” Cue slide transition; graphic of dancing jelly jar fades into view, followed by short bullet-point list of jelly’s kid-pleasing properties: Tasty! Made from fruit! Gooey! And so on . . .) And the kids will listen to my pitch, confer briefly to strategize before countering with a suggestion of plain jelly, on a spoon, followed by twelve desserts, and we go back and forth until they end up eating jelly off crackers as their meal and having six desserts while I weep quietly in a corner. 

But for now, the sound of the little baby voice saying “Mama” is killing me with its cuteness, and I can cling to the hope that, since they are different kids, maybe he won’t be such a relentless negotiator. He might not need to be, since I’m starting to feel like I will give him anything he wants just to hear “Mama” again.  

We were eating carrots and hummus at snack time the other day any day, every day, EVER, because all we eat is hummus around here. Seriously. Even the baby likes it. But what happened to distinguish this particular hummus-eating episode from every other minute of our lives was this: 

I got up to grab something from the kitchen and when I returned to the table, the huge Costco tub of hummus looked slightly different. It looked sort of . . . rumpled. Distressed. Messed with. Less smooth than it should be, even given the fact that we were dipping carrots into it. This looked like a pint of brownie ice cream after I get done excavating all the chunks of brownie. (Matt frequently finds abandoned wasteland cartons of plain, brownie-less chocolate growing ice crystals in our freezer.)  

I looked closer, and discovered that two baby carrots had been carefully buried in the middle of the tub and then covered over with hummus until hidden.  

My first thought? Good thing I found this now, and not the next time we have people over.

My second thought? Good thing I have a means of sharing this pointless anecdote with friends and strangers via the internet. Otherwise I’d just be fishing carrots out of hummus and counting the minutes until happy hour.    

Rationalizing that at least it’s quality time, the last two Mondays, I have allowed Siena to cuddle up next to me and watch Dance War: Bruno vs. Carrie Ann.

I know. I am pretty sure this is not a show for three-year-old ballerinas. I am not sure this is a show for me, either, but I saw the first episode and was somehow hooked. I can feel brain cells evaporating as I watch, but don’t judge me too harshly — there are worse ways to get that feeling, especially in front of your kids.

In order to grasp at some shred of a redeeming quality, I did use the opportunity last night to tell Siena who Aretha Franklin is, and we YouTubed several videos of her singing “Respect.” Siena seemed to enjoy that more than the show we were watching, earning her the respect of my last five brain cells.

….

Re: Johan Santana — Matt is beside himself (check out Matt Weighs In for more). Since I am not really sure how to support him through this difficult time, you might want to leave him a comment. Or move in with us until he comes to terms with his grief.

Last night Elliot said “Mama” very clearly, while looking right at me and reaching his arms out for me to pick him up. It was different from his usual babbling, where “mamamama” and “dadada” are frequently interspersed with “babab BLA ba” and various grunts and roaring sounds.

This morning he said “ball” as I was changing his diaper, and he was holding a round plastic toy (not actually a ball, but a round peg for a toy toolkit — still, round enough and close enough to a ball that I was pretty sure I knew what he was talking about) and since then he has said “buh” or “ball” about a hundred more times, each time while holding or reaching for an actual ball.

He also says “kihhh” or “kahh” whenever he sees Pig, which sounds like a cross between “cat” or “kitty” and the sound Pig makes whenever he comes near her. He crawls after her, making this sound as he chases her around the room, which I don’t think is doing much for their relationship. As with Siena, the cat will probably only warm up to him once he is old enough to help feed her (and by “help feed her,” I mean “spill cat chow all over the kitchen floor,” which is how Siena does it at least one time in five, and which is how Pig came to realize that these small humans can be useful to her, from time to time, and are worthy of tiny doses of her affection, at least around mealtimes).

1.  Siena:  ”Mama, how would you feel if someone said you had to eat all your pancakes before you got any dessert?”* 

*Answer: I would feel great. Thrilled. ECSTATIC, if someone said that to me. Also, relieved, because I usually do eat all my pancakes, even in a situation involving both pancakes and dessert. In fact, eating all my pancakes before having a milkshake would pretty much summarize my second pregnancy. (Eating a whole pizza, three times a day, before having a milkshake would best summarize the first pregnancy.)

2.  Matt [during the State of the Union]:  “God, he’s boring.”  [And also]:  ”ZZZZZ.”

3.  Elliot:  ”Mama.”

So we were at our favorite neighborhood bar ‘n grill the other night (”where the elite meet to eat” — yes, seriously, that’s their slogan. And if you think that’s funny, you should see this place — not exactly elite, particularly not the bathrooms) when I was reminded of an incident that took place the last time we were there.

Which was the week before. (Not that we take our kids to a dive bar for fried food on a weekly basis or anything. . . except, we maybe do. Feel free to mention that in our nomination as well — “teaching children how to dine well out on a budget.”) 

Matt and I could not believe we’d forgotten to write about this incident for a whole week (to be honest, I had almost forgotten it had even happened — enough crazy stuff happens with little kids that I appear to be getting desensitized to it or something). 

Anyway, the moment that will secure our places in the Parenting Hall of Fame occurred when Siena locked herself in the grimy bathroom and then could not get the door unlocked.

[Pause here, and let that one really sink in. Our three-year-old. Locked herself. Inside a bathroom at a bar.]

Matt had taken her to “go potty” while I stayed at the table with Elliot, so I remained blissfully unaware of the situation until our server (who, incidentally, looks thirteen) came over and said, “Your daughter is locked in the bathroom downstairs.” Like I was going to be able to do anything about it.

But if I couldn’t help, I was at least going to stand there and freak out loudly, rather than stay at the table and freak out in my head. So I grabbed Elliot and headed to the bathrooms, where Matt was standing outside the door coaching her on how to undo the lock. She couldn’t reach the lock (it’s not a lock on the door handle, but one of those metal locks with a bar that you slide across; anyway, for some reason she was able to reach it to lock it, but not to unlock it) and she was starting to cry.

“I’m going to be in here forever. Like a princess in a tower.” 

This tearful statement greeted me as I arrived at the scene.

And I’m happy to report the good news: all that stuff you hear about adrenaline, and how mothers can experience the superhuman strength to lift cars off their children after accidents, or turn into growling mama bears when their babies are threatened, etc. — all that appears to be true. I mean, I didn’t lift a car off anyone or rip that door off its hinges, but I could have. I was ready to. The adrenaline was flowing and I was about to tell Siena to stand back so I could punch my fist through that door and undo the lock myself.

But it turned out I didn’t have to break the door down — Matt was able to reach under the door so that Siena could stand on his hands and reach the lock. I guess his adrenaline was flowing too, but his brain was still working also. Impressive.

And then the lock clicked and Siena yelled, “I got it!”  

Whew. 

She was a little unsettled and mostly just seemed surprised by the whole thing (when she locks herself in the bathroom at home, she never has any trouble getting out — she can easily unlock the door, even under the pressure of us standing there yelling about how she better unlock this door RIGHT NOW and get out of Mama’s makeup/stop smearing soap on the counter/don’t unwind the whole roll of toilet paper into the toilet and then flush it).  

The things we go through for a cheap beer and a basket of fries.

Although not having to load the dishwasher that night was pretty nice. 

I’ve been checking this guy, Ronald Jenkees, out for about a year on YouTube™, and he appears to have quite a few fans. I’m pretty sure it’s not that people enjoy listening to him talk or his made-for-radio look.

I like some of the beats he lays down, but as far as I can tell, he wouldn’t care if all his comments were negative. One of my favorite sports writers, Bill Simmons, even had Jenkees create the theme for his ESPN podcast.

Here’s his remix of the Rocky theme song, Gonna Fly Now. If you don’t care to listen to his introduction, skip 50 seconds into it for the music to begin.

If you want to hear more like this, check out his personal YouTube channel. Or, if you’re really moved, you can download Jenkee’s CD from his website.

1. Mismatched pants, shirt, everything. But this would be no different from any other day, as we typically prize “getting yourself dressed while I drink five cups of coffee” over “looking like a Gap Kids ad.” But read on, for it gets better. . .
2. Floor-length “Belle” princess gown. (This has also been worn to the grocery store, the YMCA, friends’ houses, and on various other errands about town.)
3. Ballet leotard (sleeveless, in January, with a sweater which was immediately discarded upon arrival for being un-ballerina-like), tights, leg warmers, and paint-stained ballet slippers.
4. A hair ornament that looks like a ballet tutu, with glittery beads. Which makes the shorter pieces of her self-cut hair stick straight up. 
5. And the best of all — a shiny teal nightgown with hula dancers on it, worn over bright, multicolored flower-print pants and under a bright purple T-shirt. 

We just registered for the spring session of this parent-child music class, and I’m thinking Matt’s going to be the one to take her a lot more of the time . . . .   

Here are some rare photos of the famous Gorilla Face that Siena has been making since about the time of her first birthday. 

She used to do it whenever she was getting frustrated, and it cracked us up so much that she would forget she was mad and start laughing too. (This trick still works sometimes —  she’ll start to pout and we’ll say “Gorilla Face!” and then she will either laugh, which is great, or she’ll scream “Don’t laugh at me!” And then she’ll run into her room and slam the door and we’re left wondering: If she’s doing that now, what’s she going to do when she gets mad at us as a teenager?) 

Siena has a new imaginary friend, and her name is Arianna. But don’t worry — her old imaginary friend, Anderson, is still around too. Today all three of them were hanging out in the basement, doing some ballet, but Arianna can’t do as many of the “big kid moves” because she just came out of Siena’s tummy. She’s brand new. 

As with Anderson, nothing about this whole imaginary friend story surprises me except the name. Where does she come up with these? But brand-new babies are still very much in discussion around here (especially after I went to visit Baby Hallyson, who recently came out of our friend Florie’s tummy) and most of Siena’s stories involve babies who were just born, ballet dances, and the things big kids can do that little babies can’t. 

In unrelated news, Siena suggested that we make a heart-shaped chocolate cake for Daddy’s birthday and maybe also for Valentine’s Day, and when I asked her what we should give Daddy for a birthday gift, she said “A frog. A frog crock pot.”

Just learned from the news that today is Blue Monday, the most depressing day of the year, responsible for blue moods and decreased motivation levels. Which probably explains why I couldn’t summon the energy or motivation to scour the internet for frog crock pots (also because Matt already has one crock pot, and the first time he tried to use it, the smell of burning plastic filled the house. We still don’t know exactly what happened there, but don’t worry — he still ate every bite of that plasticky meat.)

And here, with another abrupt transition (Blue Monday has sapped my ability to tie things together smoothly), is one more quick story:

As Siena was about to head downstairs for bed, she looked over at the spot in our bedroom where the rocking chair used to be, and said “Remember that one time, Mama, when you were sitting in that white rocking chair? And you were holding Elliot, and he was nursing on you?” 

And I thought, Yes, I remember that time. That time was called March through October, 2007.