Month: January 2008

Happy Half Birthday, Wimmy!

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cupcake.jpgYesterday William turned six months old, and we continued the tradition we started with our first child and celebrated his Half Birthday.  We made half of a cake, put on a tiny half candle, and gave him a “half present” (a sweater I’ve knitted for him that has yet to be sewn up — I’ve gotta do that tonight).

The cake was the Brown Butter and Almond Cake with Caramel Apples from Sticky, Chewy, Messy Gooey — the pretty little cookbook Brian gave me for Christmas.  Sadly, I misread the baking time, so it was a little too brown on top, but it was still delicious.

William did a fine job at blowing the candle half out.  Jeffrey and Eleanor blew out the other half, a task in which they found immense pleasure.

We meant to play “half” versions of traditional children’s party games — like “Pin the Tail!” or “Blind Man!” or “Musical!” but after cake and ice cream (and caramel apples that took just too darn long to make) the big kids were just a little too tired and cranky, and so we packed ’em off to bed.

Just as a side note, if you are a fan of half birthdays (or cute babies in general), take a look at this book:

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Oscar’s Half Birthday by Bob Graham — some of the prettiest writing you’ll ever find in a picture book, with a topic that can’t be beat for cuteness: an urban family taking an outing to celebrate the baby’s first half year.  Darling.

Looking Forward

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On Friday night, I was reading some poetry to Eleanor, and we came across a poem which contained the word “April” in the title. As soon as I read it, she became very excited.

“April!” she squealed. “That’s where my birthday lives!”

I don’t know why, but the idea that certain special times “live” within the calendar is so appealing to me . . .

Just as a side note, this is the book we were reading:

heres-a-little-poem.jpg

Here’s a Little Poem: A Very First Book of Poetry — probably the best poetry anthology published last year, in my opinion. Jane Yolen + Polly Dunbar = Fabulous.

Neighbors as Well as Siblings

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bunk-bed.jpgEleanor officially moved out of her crib and into the bottom of the bunk bed this month.  It’s been interesting and stressful, although the transition from bed-to-crib has been WAY smoother than Jeffrey’s was.

(Let’s just say that when Jeff made the transition, he spent quite a few nights sleeping on the floor behind his locked bedroom door.  It was THE ONLY WAY TO KEEP HIM IN.)

Ella, on the other hand, will gladly stay wherever it is her big brother stays — and that means that we frequently find her curled up on the top bunk with her brother.  She tries to reassure us that she’s safe as she’s climbing up there (“Don’t worry!” she shouts.  “I’m still lying down!”)

Tonight, however, we discovered a switch: Jeffrey had dragged his pillow, blankets, and required reading (Lego catalog) down to Ella’s bunk.  When we ordered him back on top, he protested.

“But I’m doing my Visiting Teaching,” he explained.  Clever fellow.

Good Eats

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baby-bowl.jpgWilliam crossed the Food Frontier this week. And by that, I mean that we spooned some rice cereal thinned with water into his mouth.

Poor kid. For weeks he’s been watching us with intense interest whenever we eat, always trying to swipe the cookies, apples, water, or what have you out of our hands. (The funny thing is that he would always move his hand slooooowly up to the treat, cartoon-character-style, as if that would prevent us from noticing.)

Finally, we set him in the high chair, rope a bib around his little chicken neck, and bring out the bowl. He kicks his little chubby legs, and makes a grab for the spoon, grunting like a pale pink monkey the entire time. I have to hold his hands down just so I can give him some delicious — wallpaper paste!

Seriously, have you ever tasted the rice cereal? Completely flavorless. Who can blame William for the look of disenchantment? Who can blame him for letting the stuff just spill out of his mouth?

I wonder if rice cereal’s similarity to glue is the reason why so many second graders end up eating paste in art class. (“Mmmm! This Elmer’s is just like the kind Mama used to make!”)

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For his entire life, William has feasted on Triple-Cream Mama Milkshakes, served up hot and fresh on demand, but his introduction to the real culinary world seems like something an orphan would eat in a Dickens novel. Is this symbolic of Something?

“Welcome to the real world, kid! Here, have some gruel!”

Nah.

Gross Anatomy

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lips.jpg“Mommy, does Baby William get milk from your lips?”

Eleanor was asking me this one afternoon as I held her on my hip in the kitchen.

“My lips?” was the only reply I could give.  What was she talking about?

“These, Mama,” she replied, patting my ample chest.  “Your lips.”

Ah.

“And I have lips, too!” she said, raising her shirt to show me.

How — how — how did this mix-up happen?  That’s what I want to know.

Glimpses

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Every now and then, I get a glimpse: I’m rubbing lotion onto Eleanor’s back, her hair is pulled over her shoulder, and suddenly I see her when she’s ten, or sixteen, or twenty-one.  The adult Ella is there, masked behind the round toddler tummy and dimpled knees.  It’s like catching sight of an emerald snake darting through underbrush, or the flare of light within a lantern.  Something that catches you off-guard, but seems perfectly natural, once you catch your breath.

Jeffrey Waxes Poetic

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bluebirds.jpgJeffrey asks, “Mommy, what are William’s eyes like?”

We had been discussing William’s eye color, but this question was puzzling.

“What do you think they are like?” I ask.  Jeff thinks about this for a moment.

“I think . . . they are like two bluebirds dancing with a sunbeam.”

Awwwwww.  How sweet.  And . . . pretty.  Really, I was impressed, considering that most of Jeffrey’s compliments or similies concern an object’s similarity with the various characters or robots from Star Wars.  (“William’s eyes are like Obi-Wan’s lightsaber!”)

Fashion Is As Fashion Does

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quarter.jpgJeffrey got a haircut today at Joseph’s Coiffures, the barbershop in our neighborhood.  The people who work there know him well and are always sure to make him feel special.  They let him push the button on the singing, dancing statue of Dean Martin while he’s there, and let him use a little broom to help sweep up the sheared hair.  Most importantly, they always say what a handsome gentleman he’s turning in to.

Tonight, Jeff spent time combing his short hair and smiling to himself.

“Mommy,” he said shyly.  “Do you think I look like George Washington yet?”

Ah.  George Washington: Founding Father, First President, and Hairstyle Role-Model.

When I explained to Jeffrey that George Washington wore a wig, he was greatly intrigued.

“Where can I get a white wig like that?” he kept asking.

Oh, yes.  You can just see it now: all the little kids running around the playground, and mine is the one in the powdered wig.

Warning: Reading This Post Could Raise Your Cholesterol

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pancakes.jpgLast night, I asked Jeffrey what his favorite food is.

“Anything I make,” he replied. This was an unexpected answer — usually Jeffrey’s homemade concoctions consist of a vague mash of raisins and Goldfish crackers created in the biggest bowl he manages to haul out of the kitchen. But then I remember that Jeffrey gets to do a lot of cooking at preschool.

“What food do you like to make?” I ask.

“Pancake spaghetti,” he promptly responds. Huh?

“You make a pancake, then tear it up into spaghetti,” he explains. “Then you put sausage meatballs on it.” Hmm. That sounds like it could actually work.

“Do you put spaghetti sauce on it?” I tease him. He makes a face.

“No, that would be yucky,” he says, giggling.

“So what else could we put on the pancake spaghetti that would taste good?”

“Um . . . how about . . . cream cheese?” he says.

Whoa. I was expecting “maple syrup,” but cream cheese sounds AWESOME. But wait — there’s more:

“And then we could FRY it!” he squeals. “And put maple syrup on TOP!”

Good. Gravy. My son is a culinary genius. Yeah, it sounds pretty much like a funnel cake with a cheesecake filling, but would that be such a bad thing? And who would expect it from a five-year-old? If I weren’t trying to lose the baby weight, I’d seriously think about giving the Pancake Spaghetti a whirl.

However, I really think that all this was caused by the influence of my sister-in-law, Kristen, who has stated on numerous occasions that her favorite color is “fried.”

Ah, role models. What would my kids be cooking without them?

Guess What I Am

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question-mark.jpg“Guess What I Am” was my family’s favorite after-dinner game when I was a child.  It’s a simplified version of Charades — family members take turns pretending to be various things, and everyone else guesses who they are.  It’s great to pass on this game to my kids, although now I realize just how appealing the game was for my parents: not only does it allow the kids to beam out adorableness from every pore, but it can be played while lounging on the couch.  Yes!

This, of course, lead to my mom’s infamous “Lincoln Memorial” impersonation (she sat there and did nothing) and also her interptetation of “Windshield Wipers” (she waved her arms back and forth).  We teased her about her these for years — but this evening, I found myself sitting on the couch, nursing a babe under one arm while flapping the other and quacking — quite possibly the lamest impression of a duck, ever.

Here’s what you would have overheard in our game tonight:

Jeffrey: Bsssszt, bsssszt, bsssszt, bsssszt!

Me: Are you a robot?

Jeffrey:  No.

Me: A spaceship?

Jeffrey: No.

Me: A bulldozer?

Jeffrey: No!

Me: What are you, then?

Jeffrey: [looking put out] I’m one of those Star Wars guys!

Me: Which one?

Jeffrey: You know — the one that goes “bsssszt, bsssszt, bsssszt!”

Ah.  Naturally.  Why on earth couldn’t I make the connection?  But at least Jeffrey had a concrete thing in mind when pretending.  Eleanor, on the other hand . . .

Ella: Growwwwr!

Me:  Are you a tiger?

Ella: Growwwwr!

Me: A bear?

Ella: Growwwwr!

Me: Ella, what are you?

Ella:  . . . I don’t know. . .

Me: Were you a lion?

Ella: Why?

Playing games with Eleanor always gives way to something that sounds like faux-Zen dialogue from a bad Kung-fu movie.

When you guess what I am, young Grasshopper, then you will be ready . . .