More Milestones

It’s an amazing thing to see your baby grow.

Marcel, for instance, is in the middle of spurt that’s making her taller than everyone else in her class. Of course, we see the most growth in Tristan, who turns 11 months old, soon. Her growth isn’t just size, though. Her growth is also in strength.

The most shocking growth in strength was her crawling.  Marcel never crawled. Instead, she would, while in a kneeling position, hop whereever she wanted to go. Then, fourteen months into life, she started walking.

The most remarkable growth, though, isn’t physical. It’s mental.

Marcel started reading this week. She can’t read sentences. But she can pick out words that repeat in a story. She picked out the words “scrub” and “row” from Sandra Boytons’ “The Going to Bed Book” and the words “daddy” and “cuddles” from Gutmen’s and Hallensleben’s “Daddy Cuddles.” I have looked forward to the day I taught my children to read since before–long before–I even had children, so this was huge for me.

What I didn’t expect to be even more amazing and more huge to me was the day that Tristan learned to play.

A few months ago, Tristan was sitting in her high chair, drinking from her bottle, when she got bored and threw that bottle on the floor. Marcel retrieved it and returned it to Tristan in her high chair, then went back to what she was doing. Tristan, however, simply threw it, again.

Marcel, again, got up, retrieved it and went back to what she was doing but, this time, went back with one eye looking over her shoulder at Tristan. Tristan, again, started to throw her bottle but, this time, she waited for Marcel to come back to her.  When Marcel came back, Tristan smiled and dropped the bottle at the feet of the waiting Marcel.

And thus, Tristan, for all she knew, invented the game of “catch” and taught her big sister how to play.

It was an amazing milestone to behold.

 

The Magical “I Can’t”

As is the prerogative of the toddler, Marcel is learning to express contrarian opinions. She does it in interesting ways.

Lately, she’s been saying “I can’t”. Of course, this raises all kinds of concerns for a parent. Is she defeatist? Have I failed to effectively teach her the benefits of hard work and effort? Did she learn those dreaded words from me and my defeatist attitude? Fortunately, in our case, those questions are quickly dispelled.

Marcel doesn’t always use words to convey their definition. Sometimes, Marcel uses words like they are talismans. She uses them like one would use “abracadabra”, like magic words that mean nothing in and of themselves but are capable of mysteriously bringing about a desired result.

For instance, Marcel realized that the words “too small” would magically get her out of undesirable clothes. Clearly, she learned this because my wife or I would take clothes off of her after saying the magic words, “Oh, that’s too small.” Neither of us ever stopped to explain the concept of size to her. In fact, when we commented on the undesirable size of the clothes, we probably we’re talking to ourselves and ignoring Marcel, and what her view on the clothes might be, altogether.

But she wasn’t ignoring us. She was watching and learning and figuring out that the words “too small” would get you undressed. And thus, to this day, Marcel invokes the magic words “too small” any time that she doesn’t want to stop what she’s doing–watching TV, perhaps–to get dressed.

The first time Marcel used magic words was to get out of diaper changing.

Marcel can sit in a dirty diaper all day. That, and her penchant for liking to push our buttons, can make the process of changing Marcel’s diaper an adventure. One of the things she likes to do is jump when you’re changing her diaper, no matter how much poop.

The first time–well, the first few weeks–I didn’t realize that she was playing. I feared that, in my unfamiliarity with cleaning a girl’s bottom, that I might have been making mistakes. I feared that I might have been causing my little girl pain. So I often asked, “Did I hurt you?”

Marcel picked up on my hesitancy right away. Before long, whenever I tried to change her, she’d exclaim, “I hurt!“, giggling the whole while. Unfortunately for me, it took me awhile–and some pestering my wife with questions and even a trip to the pediatrician–before I caught on.

But caught on I did, just in time for the “I can’t”s. By the time of the “I can’t”s, I had realized that this wasn’t evidence of Marcel defeatist attitude, but of her triumphant spirit. In Marcel’s lingo, “I can’t” isn’t a surrender, but a successful strategy. For Marcel, it’s magic.

 

No Cheese

Marcel loves pictures but is ambivalent about being the subject. I didn’t expect that.

My youngest sister’s daughter loved being the subject of pictures when she was Marcel’s age. She would literally bring you the camera. We even have a picture of her bringing a camera to the photographer so that she could have her picture taken! Now THAT’s a ham.

We don’t have any pictures of Marcel bringing anybody cameras, but we do have a picture of her going ga-ga over a pile of magazine pages torn out by her mother for inspiration on fashion or furnishings.

Also, the two photographers in her life, my dad and her Southern Belle godmother, also happen to be two of her favorite people.

So because of her genes, early behavior, and obvious preferences, I thought she’d love to be photographed. But she’s not so hot on it.

She does love pictures. When the camera comes out, she’s quick to look beyond the lens to examine the camera. We have plenty of pictures…great pictures…of that. And she loves my dad and Southern Belle as much because they let her look at the picture display on their digital cameras as because they’re family that love her back. But if you’re trying to take her picture to teach her how to be a ham instead of to show her the picture, like my niece (that I’ll call Hammie) does, then she won’t necessarily be cooperative.

For instance, Marcel’s first daycare had picture day, recently. School pictures are important to everyone, right? They certainly were for my wife and I and, so, we were very excited that Marcel was about to take part in this great American tradition for the first time. I was particularly excited because I got to pick out her clothes and dress her. Marcel, however, wasn’t so excited. She pouted throughout the entire photo session and not one picture featured her with a smile.

The session wasn’t a total waste though. The daycare has a great program where, for free, they put the photo in a digital database that police can access if Marcel were to get kidnapped. They gave us a photo id card that features her picture and an ID number that we can give to the police so that they can quickly track the photo down. For that purpose, this glum picture is perfect! In that picture, Marcel’s expression simply shouts, “Will somebody save me?!?”

There was no saving her from Hammie, though, who, like all the women in my life, is pretty damn resourceful when it comes to having her way. Hammie had this ingenious plan to use Marcel’s growing excitement over learning new words to trick her into taking better pictures. Thus, the directive to smile, “say cheese”, would be camouflaged as instruction on a new word.

Unfortunately for Hammie, Marcel is pretty damn resourceful, too. She knows how to have her cake and eat, too, by both learning a new word AND avoiding those hated photo shoots. Thus, when Hammie held the camera up and directed Marcel to “say cheese”, Marcel responded with a wave and a curt “No cheese”, then walked away.

 

Getting “A” Point Across

Marcel has a funny habit of saying “A” in front of a lot words. For instance, “yogurt” becomes “ayogurt” in Marcel lingo.

The youngest of my three sisters and her daughter recently learned that when Marcel, with pacifier firmly in mouth, walked up to them and calmly said “ajuice”.

Thinking that the pacifier was corrupting her speech, they asked her to take out the pacifier and try again. She complied.

“Ajuice.”

That didn’t help clarify things, so they asked her to repeat herself. Again, she patiently complied.

“Ajuice.”

Sensing their continued confusion and, thus, her impending need for comfort and succor, Marcel put the pacifier back in her mouth. Meanwhile, the dynamic duo started offering suggestions.

“Are you looking for mommy?”

“Can we change your diaper?”

“Do you want to take a nap?”

That was it. Marcel had reached her limit. So she took the pacifier out of her mouth and, while pumping her hands for emphasis, screamed , “I’M THIRSTY!”

That got her a juice.

 

Favorite Sounds v.2

“Shit.”

That was Marcel’s first curse word. At least, that’s what I thought she said. I wasn’t 100 percent sure, though, and decided to ignore it as the accidental blabber of a two year old.

Then she said it again.

“Shit.”

This time I looked at my wife to see if I was hearing right. It just so happened that she was looking at me to see if she were hearing right. It was clear that we both heard something, but, perhaps because we didn’t want to hear what we had heard, we remained unsure. So we went to instant replay.

“Marcel. What did you say?”

“Shit. Shit. Hurry up!”

Those were Marcel’s third and fourth curse words.

Before you laugh, please realize that it sounded like gunfire in the distance. She spit them out in a low voice, with great urgency and agitation. In the best of circumstances, saying it that way, with that inflection, is scary, but from a two year old, it’s down right ominous.

I guess it’s my own fault. Now, I don’t mean to say that she hears me say that. I’m not afraid to admit I have a sailor’s vocabulary. In fact, I’m a connoisseur of all types of vulgarities. Since Marcel was born, however, and when I’m in her presence especially, I have no reason to swear like that. I might emit a very pleased “shiiiiiiiiiiiit” from time to time, but not gunfire obscenity.

This long weekend, however, was spent in the town where I was born. It’s the home of my mother’s family. Several cousins have children her age. There are lots of things that would excite her.

It was particularly exciting to bring her that weekend. My grandmother is rebuilding her home after a tornado ripped through the town and her living room. Moreover, she wasn’t just rebuilding but was expanding and adding new landscaping.

More importantly, it was a family reunion of the descendants of my great, great grandparents and their five daughters. I was eager to see the family, and was hopeful that I’d meet people I’d only known from old stories.

As I expected, Marcel was having a grand time. It seemed like every moment we spent in our motel room, she was scratching at the door trying to get back out to see the people and the house—to see her people and to see her house.

She had gotten so caught up in the excitement that at the end of one evening, when people were cleaning up for the next day, she grabbed a mop, started sweeping and, when someone tried to take the mop, batted away their hand and grandly exclaimed, “I working”, which were new words, too.

So, if she was excited enough to bat hands to work for this event, in this town for this family, then I shouldn’t be surprised that she’d be willing to kick our butt a little bit to get there quicker. Maybe, I should be a little proud.