Stage One: Man, it smells musty in here. I must have spilled water on the floormat. Need to air the car out.Stage Two: What IS that smell? That's not good. Did I leave a dirty diaper in the diaper bag in the trunk? Stage Three: OMG, where is the dead mouse? I don't see it but I know — for sure — something died in here. Where is it -- WAIT A SECOND... Stage Four: Oh. A container of uneaten broccoli from Milo's lunch from last week. Egghcckk.
Broccoli Car.
For much of the day, Milo pushed a baby ("My baby!") around in a shopping cart ("I go byebye with baby, k?"), while wearing sunglasses and a beaded necklace. Ultimately, he decided baby needed one of the dee-luxe shopping carts with a front-facing seat/car, so he put a small chair in front of the shopping cart to push around. Oh, and for most of this, he had a giant eraser of Lucy's tucked between his chin and shoulder: his phone, which he was using to talk to Honour and Granny. Meanwhile, Lucy took her dolls, Kit and Ruby, on vacation on a plane, with many trunks and bags. As best I could tell by listening in, they were accompanied and bossed around by someone with an English accent (governess?), who kept saying imperiously that certain things "wouldn't do."
Oh, and when I pulled up in the driveway, she was putting on some kind of musical that involved choreography and an umbrella.
...that Lucy started an acting club at recess? Anybody can join. They work on different techniques and stuff, and they get scripts with their lines highlighted, and everybody gets at least two lines. Oh, and Anushka just joined yesterday, so Lu brought a script and some notes for her to study today. Look out, Stella Adler.
If I ask him my name, he says, "Mommy," but sometimes he says "Cupcake" — maybe because Kate sounds like cake which he always calls cupcake? And cupcakes are awesome. If you ask him his name, he will say "Mino" or "cracker." (At which point I tell him, "Baby, you just look like a cracker, but you are really quite diverse.")
He knows the names of his teachers. He talks almost constantly. Today at Central Market, he lost his balloon and said to it, "Uh oh, balloon go bye bye. Bye, balloon, byeeee." He kept pointing it out to me: "Balloon up there? Balloon go bye bye?" And then when we left the store, long after that balloon was out of sight, he said, "Bye, balloon."
S.M.A.R.T.
Yesterday, Grover was being really naughty. He kept pushing Babar and Milo. Then he had to go to time out. Repeatedly. I only know this because 1) Milo kept tattling on him to me and Jason and 2) I kept walking past the very spot where we put Milo in time out, and poor naughty Grover was flopped there in a blue heap, no doubt contemplating his misdeeds. Or revenge.
...that there is algae in ice cream (and almost everything else we eat)?...that it's evening right now on the other side of the world? ...that Lucy is really sick of turkey sandwiches for lunch and wants a quesadilla instead? Oh, and peas?
(All this information tumbled out over her toast and sausage at breakfast this morning.)
Me: "Ugh, LU! What can I do to keep you from wiping your hands on your shirt and get you to use a napkin?!"Lu: "Um, tape napkins to my shirt?"
The little animal is two today. I really want to write a stupid sentimental post about the joys of being his mother and how he's the most perfect baby ever and I love him so much my ears tingle and couldn't you just put him on a bun.
But that's the kind of post that will give people hairballs. And besides, he's no longer a little animal or a baby. Sigh. He's a person, one of my favorite people, which is good because I spend a lot of time with him.
Here's a quick interest inventory for those of you wanting to get to know Milo — the person — better.
Favorite toy: "Guys." Playmobil, Lego, whatever little plastic dudes might be around (all cast-offs from Lu). "Guys" was probably his tenth word and "MY GUYS!!" is his favorite sentence. Which is why, when it came to decorating his cake, I just stuck guys on it, sweetly reminded of when Stacy put a ceiling fan on Jameson's birthday cake because, well, that was his favorite thing. Favorite activities: Arranging guys, driving trains and cars, headbutting, kissing and making up. Best personality traits: charm and persistence. The scene below from today sums it up... Milo, Attempting to Get More Cake Hopefully: More cupcake? Sternly: More cupcake. Coyly: More cupcake? Desperately: MORE CUPCAKE. Fiercely: Want! More! Cupcake! Coyly: More cupcake? Favorite travel destination: Pie's house. As in, EVERY DAY AFTER SCHOOL, "I go Pie house? I go Sy (Solly) house?" Favorite book: the first one third of the first one he chose, followed by the middle third of the other three nearby. He has little patience for books. Favorite accessories: sunglasses, hats and the occasional markered-on mustache (either by self or sister). Oh, and guys, of course.
Once Milo's English is better, we'll have an actual interview. In the meantime, for the fact that I didn't subject you to the post about how he still has one dimple and I see the stars reflecting in his blue eyes like so many dreams, (agghck) you're welcome.
One year ago today, I had a little ceremony. I sat down at my desk, a desk as thrillingly blank and organized as any desk of mine has ever been. My vintage cup steamed with hot coffee from my own maker. My black-and-white composition notebook was full of ambitious to-dos which I'd filled out with my then-favorite pen. I stood, armed with school supplies, on the precipice of something of wonderful and terrifying. I dove...
I landed just fine. I've been busier than I ever imagined — largely thanks to one amazing long-term client, I am a well-kept woman (do what you will with the analogy that begs to be here). And there's an abundance of work beyond that if I want it.
The moral of this story: be brave and you will be glad.
Today on the way to school, Lucy asked me, "Mom, what's your dream?" Stunned by her question, I said, "Well, um, I guess to write a book."
"Oh, well, I AM writing a book. Except sometimes I get writer's cramp, and I don't know what to write."
"You mean writer's block?"
"Yes, but I call it writer's cramp because it hurts."
Hurts, indeed.
