The boy of direct address

My mom recently read an article that discussed the development of language skills for toddlers. It seems the experts say that by age three, kids should be speaking in complete sentences. That seemed a bit late to me, but I guess I’ve become accustomed to the chatterboxes that live at our house.

While Cooper is off and running, surprising me every day with words he has somehow added to his vocabulary like “actually” and “asphalt”, Brisco is still trying to master the ins and outs of the English language. However, I’d say it is certain that he’s off to a roaring start. So much so, that I’ve started referring to him as “The boy of direct address”.

With both boys learning and developing their language daily, I am always attempting to decode their dialogue. My instinct is to repeat whatever has been said to make sure I’m on the right track. I suppose my repetition, and my overuse of their names, has given Brisco the pattern by which to follow. He has certainly caught on to my technique.

He’s always very polite, throwing in a “Thank you” or a “Thanks” where appropriate. But what is so striking is his relentless technique of putting the person’s name at the end. “Where are you going, Mommy?” “Can I go wish you, Mommy?” “I need wobby-dobble, Mommy.” “Can I flush it, Mommy?” And on and on and on.

To me, this stage of language development is the most fun. His words have such a sing-song style; they’re slow and melodious and drawn out. Randy has decided he sounds like Thumper from Bambi. I think he’s right. Of course I can decipher most of what says, but Dad has a little more trouble. Even the smallest of errors can sometimes be confusing, but I know when he says, with a look of frustration, “I don’t did it!” that what he really means is “I can’t do it.”

And when I hear, “It’s gopen, Mommy.” I know that something isn’t working and needs my attention. Just the other day, we were coloring at the table. Brisco picked up the white crayon and attempted to use it. He stopped, looked at it intently, and said with a furrowed brow, “Crayon’s gopen, Mommy.” In all my years of coloring, I’d never considered that the white crayon was broken.

I know he listens to me because he is always repeating something I’ve said to him. It just isn’t always in close proximity to when I first said it, which makes interpretation a little more difficult.

One afternoon, I put him in the high chair with a snack while I unloaded groceries and put things away. As I was doing so, I dropped a glass bottle of salad oil out of the fridge and onto the tile floor. It burst into a million pieces. As I crawled around the kitchen on my hands and knees trying to clean up the shards of glass, I could hear Brisco saying something in the background. I guess I was too frustrated to really listen closely because I couldn’t make out what he was repeating…over and over and over.

After about five minutes of hearing the same, unintelligible phrase, I looked up at him from where I was crouching beneath the bar and said, “Brisco! What are you saying?!” He just looked at me, smiled, cocked his head to the side, and said, “Mommmmmyyy, doe bump ‘ee head.”

Traveling down the highway with kids in the car presents another interesting opportunity for conversation, but it’s usually the most fun when it’s just the little guy and me-probably because he has a chance to get a word in without Cooper. And he does his best to make the most of it. He’ll talk from the time we shut the doors until I unstrap him from his “snip snap”.

One of his favorite questions always concerns the route by which we will be traveling. It never fails; once the car is running it seems he can’t wait to ask, at least a dozen times, “Offy inatate, Mommy?”

Like his brother, Brisco is all boy. He loves semis and tractors and work trucks, and he knows them all by name. Well, he knows the names that his books give to them. Like the transporter truck named Bony Tony, and the tanker truck named Tina. He’ll ride in the car for hours just hoping for a glimpse of someone familiar. And when he sees them, he’ll shout at the top of his lungs, “Bone-ty Tone-ty, Mommy!” or “Nina! Nina, Mommy!”

There are certainly a lot of milestones we haven’t reached, but I do believe that if the language experts visited our house, they would be pleased. And although having my name attached to every sentence can be overwhelming and annoying to say the least, I know there will come a day when I’ll no longer be “Mommy”, but simply “Mom” or “Mama” or “Mother”. Of course there’s nothing at all wrong with being addressed by any these, but I’ve got to admit, there’s just something about “Mommy” that makes life sweet.

And that’s All in a day’s work!

Short-sleeve pants

I had a conversation with a friend and fellow mother a while back about the honesty and innocence that can be observed through the words of a child. I told her of the time Cooper picked up a pair of sunglasses and said, “Hey, Mom, I’ve got cool in my eyes!” She recalled a time when her daughter had referred to pedal pushers as “short-sleeve pants”. Yes, a child’s interpretation of the things we take for granted is often simple, comical, and priceless.

From responding to a loud noise with, “You scared my ears!” to discovering that with the lights off, “It is dark in my eyes,” children are accustomed to living life in the literal. I told Brisco one day that his nose was runny. He had no problem correcting me by saying, “No, Mommy, my snot is running.” It seems he could still feel his nose upon his face.

One afternoon while preparing for company, I flew about frantically, putting away toys and folded clothes. Aware of my frenzy, Cooper questioned, “What are you doing, Mom?” With a rush in my voice I said, “I’m picking up the house; it’s dirty.” Cooper responded with a straight forward sigh, “Aw, silly Mom, the house is too heavy! You can’t pick it up! If you need to wash it, get you some water!”

And just last week, I teased a friend that it was such a beautiful day, I might just “lay out” all afternoon in the back yard. I looked out the window later that day to find both boys on a blanket and a pillow “laying out” in the middle of the yard.

Taking us literally is only one way in which children are mystified by our words. With the number of figures of speech we throw at them, it is no surprise they seem confused when we speak. Cooper overheard a conversation in which I used the phrase “knock on wood”. I didn’t realize he had been listening and was confused myself hours later when I heard a noise that sounded like a sedated woodpecker tearing apart my home. When I finally found him, he was walking around the house with his toy hammer doing what else, but knocking on all the wood.

After a long bout with a pesky cold I confided in the boys that Mommy had a frog in her throat. With a look of I-may-be-three-but-I’m-certainly-not-crazy, Cooper said, “You don’t have a frog in your throat, Mommy. You’re silly!”

On another occasion, after preparing for a trip to the grocery store, we were half-way there when I realized I had forgotten my purse. I let out a groan and a tired-Mommy sigh, to which Cooper quickly questioned, “Mommy, what’s wrong?” My reply to him was simply, “Oh, nothing. I’ve just lost my marbles.” His effort to help resolve the situation was nothing less than comic relief: “I think maybe they are at home somewhere.”

Many times, a child’s version of a word or a phrase is nothing more than a simple case of mispronunciation. Like the day Cooper went to the park with Dad and smashed his finger in the tater tot. Or the rubber spikes that he wears with his ball suit that Brisco calls “skeets”. Or Brisco’s new favorite baseball team, the “Wankees”. And of course, who could forget the infamous “humpfire”?

Other times, it is when a child learns to think outside the box that keeps us as parents on our toes. On a recent afternoon drive, Cooper was discussing how fast he is with his new shoes. While realizing that he isn’t as fast as his dad, he pondered the thought that he might be able to keep up with Bessie, his dog. I told him I wasn’t sure, that Bessie might be faster than Daddy. He replied, “Bessie’s fast because she has four legs instead of two. Maybe I can take these legs off and get four more.”

And then sometimes, for kids of this age, their verbal funnies are simply a result of attempting to integrate the words they have learned into everyday life. I had to explain to Cooper last week why he can’t just drop his drawers in the middle of the ball field whenever the urge hits him. I used the word “privacy”, and explained that there are just some things that should not be done in front of others. He reminded me of that very fact this morning when I walked into his room to hear his brother screaming, “Let me go!” Cooper, while sitting on top of Brisco’s back, looked up at me and said, “Go away, Mom. We need some privacy.”

It always brings a smile to hear a child’s interpretation of the world in which we live. There’s nothing so sharp, so honest, so witty, so true. Kids can put us in our place with a single word. They can tell stories like the wind blows. They can create moments in our lives that we’ll recall time and again, and for generations to come. I’m glad I’m taking notes.

Until the next bit of comic relief, I guess I’ll go put some “cool on my eyes”, pull out my “short sleeve pants” and “lay out” in the “privacy” of my own back yard. On second thought, maybe I’ll just stay in and watch the “Wankees”.

And that’s All in a Day’s Work!

Big-boy panties

The day had finally arrived when Cooper had determined it was off with the old and on with the new. The new big-boy panties, that is. There were no warm-ups. There was no dress rehearsal. He simply woke up one morning and decided it was time.

That’s not to say we haven’t had any accidents after escaping the diaper dregs. Pooing in one’s pants is a hard habit to break. Especially for a busy little boy.

In the beginning, he found it difficult to discontinue playing for something as petty as the potty. He’d usually hobble into the house at the last possible moment, knees knocking, eyes turning yellow.

One day when Randy caught him hiding in the hall, he asked him what he was doing. Cooper said sheepishly, “I forgot I needed to poop my pants.” Being skilled at interpreting a terrified toddler, I knew he’d forgotten that he had grown up overnight.

His first trips to the potty were somewhat hindered by his bothersome britches; however, with a bit of assistance, he would remove his garments, sit on the potty, and turn to us and say, “OK, now you go away.” He has since learned to pull his pants down, but he can’t seem to master the up. He usually comes shuffling out, with his clothes in a bunch around his ankles, not a care in the world or a clue about modesty or decency.

Brisco is catching on, too. Every time Cooper goes, he wants to go with. He’ll take his diaper off and sit on the singing potty chair. Sometimes he is successful; most times he’s just along for the ride. But he’s learning quickly. As he gets settled into place, he too looks up at us and says, “OK, you go away.”

Cooper is all boy, I must say, but for some reason, initially, he was not interested in taking advantage of the greatest gift in the history of God’s creation: the ability to pee standing up.

On our first major road trip, we stopped at the hospital, and Randy took him into the men’s room. They were in there so long, I thought I might have to go in for a rescue, but they finally emerged, exhausted and cross. Evidently, Dad had tried to get him to go standing up, and for Cooper, that just wasn’t an option. Maybe it was the urinal that had him flustered, but he was so out of sorts that he completely froze up and was unable to perform at all. From that point forward, the poor boy simply refused to stand.

Initially, I was pretty concerned about continuing our busy lifestyle with a water-guzzling whale of a boy who has a bladder the size of a peanut. I had visions of stopping every 10 miles at dilapidated old gas stations to beg for their oversized key-on-a-stick. Luckily, he has shown no signs of that. For a while, however, he did take issue with public restrooms in general.

After a recent stay in Sentinel, I learned what may have been the culprit behind his public potty panic. It seems that the shape of the seat plays a major role in a child’s decision to sit, at least to those children more set in their ways. (Somehow a crescent tends to be less trustworthy than the complete circle types.)

Since then, I suppose he has loosened up a bit, but he still has his boundaries. I took him to the bathroom one night at the gym. As usual, he refused to stand, but insisted that “Daddy puts toilet paper on the seat before I sit down.” So of course I was instructed to do the same. In all the fuss of getting the paper on the seat and his hands on the paper, evidently I didn't get his pants down far enough toward his ankles. I was squatting in front of him like a bird on a wire, and before I knew it…I’d been shot.

From play dates to ball games to the middle of church, with little ones the best rule seems to be “When they’ve gotta go, you’d better take ‘em.” Regardless of the time or place, the call of nature is loud after that 3rd cup of juice. But overall, I guess it hasn’t been so bad. Our diaper bags are a little lighter and our billfolds, a little heavier. And it’s just one more sign that we’re making progress. I’d like to think that every challenge we face will come to pass this easily. No squabbles, no battles, just reach for the big-boy panties and pull ‘em up.

And that’s All in a day’s work!

Bedtime routines

Bedtime at our house has always been about routine. I’ve found if we try to keep things consistent, everyone gets to bed easier and, most importantly, earlier.

Of course I discovered that it’s not so simple to keep that routine during the summertime. No one is ready to come in the house or even think about getting our routine going. And forget about going to bed at a time that is decent for a couple of little kids. I know several experienced mothers who say it’s completely normal and that I shouldn’t fret about summer hours, so I tried to relax. And they were right. The summer came and went and we all lived through it without any gruesome scars to show.

Now we’re on to bigger and better battles. The most recent struggle has been about how to get the oldest to go to bed by himself. We made the transition from sleeping with mom and dad to sleeping in his own room, and in his own bed. But how do we get out of the sometimes 60-minute test of patience that comes from getting that boy to sleep?

Like most things parents are charged with doing, we had no ideas on how to get it done, and no options other than the standard, “This is what we’re doing and it’s because I said so,” method, which has been so ineffectively thrown at generations of children gone by. But with a few nights of Dad’s tough love at the bedroom door, and the aid of a Lightning McQueen night light, we were off to a roaring start.

The first couple of weeks, he had the arrangement down pat. It was like he had been coached by some ornery Eddie Haskell on how to worm your way out of staying in bed. He’d need a drink. Then he’d need to go to the bathroom. Then he was hot. After a while, I just wanted to cave, and let the little beggar sleep with us so I could finally go off to bed myself. Our average TTS (time to sleep) each night was pushing two hours. It was exhausting.

From the standard, “I’m just not big enough yet.” theory to waking at 2 a.m. to find a three and a half foot zombie hovering over me whispering, “You’re just not supposed to close my door,” it’s all I could do to maintain sanity. Whatever comfort he was able to muster for himself seemed to be found in the fact that I might be sitting in the living room until dawn. He would plead with his big, brown eyes, “Will you just stay in the living room and work at the computer all night?”

As luck would have it though, a few weeks into the new bedtime routine, we happened to catch an episode of Little Bear. I forget the story line, but what caught Cooper’s eye was the fact that Little Bear went to bed at night alone and in his own bed. That was just the role model he needed for the extra push into big-boy, bedtime behavior.

Since then, when it is time for bed, we call out for “Little Bear” to make a run to the bathroom, put on his pull up, and snuggle in for the night. We get him all tucked in, say our prayers, and go through the same tenet each time: “Good night. I love you. See you in the morning.” And we are always met in response by the same: “Good night. I love you, too. See you in the morning.” Then, in a weak and quivering voice, “Mom, will you keep checking on me?”

I don’t know where he got the phrase, but he nailed it right on the head. And you can bet if we don’t check on him often enough, he’ll pop right out of that bed and come weepy-eyed into the living room, wringing his hands, saying, “I thought you were going to keep checking on me?”

At 6 a.m. on a Sunday morning after Cooper’s second full night of staying in his own bed until morning, I awoke to a sleepy-eyed hug and this: “Mommy, sometimes when I’m away from you at night, I always miss you.” No matter how proud we are when our kids conquer their fears, it’s certainly nice to know they still need their mom and dad.

I guess developing routines and sticking with them is a lot of what parenting is all about. And when it comes to discipline, there is no better friend to a parent than consistency.

I remember having a similar bedtime routine growing up at our house and the comfort that it brought to me. No matter how old I got, I could always count on my mother coming to my room to tell me, “Good night. I love you. See you in the morning.” And my response was the same as my son’s. I guess we all get a feeling of security knowing where we are, that we are not alone, and that we are loved. It seemed to work for me.

And that’s All in a day’s work!