BrooklynGirl

Gender Studies

The Boy and Dora go way back, but recently, he's been expressing a strong preference for Diego as his televised opiate.  So much so, that I started to wonder if it was a gender thing: did he prefer Diego simply because he was a boy?*  I decided to ask some questions:

Me:  Buddy, is Diego a boy or a girl?
Boy: A boy.
Aha--just as I thought.   But then:

Me: Is Dora a boy or a girl?
Boy: A boy.
So much for that theory.  I wonder if he knows the concept of "boy" or "girl."

Me: Is Pablo a boy or a girl?
Boy: A boy.
Hmmm.

Me: Is Tasha a boy or a girl?
Boy: A girl.
Interesting.

Me:  How do you know Tasha's a girl?
Boy:  Tasha's...Tasha.
Good point.

Me: Is Tyrone a boy or a girl?
Boy: <Giggles>Tyrone is....a moose.

*Personally, I think Dora kicks Diego's ass, at least in the old school episodes before the explorer star/super baby ridiculousness.

Sentences I Never Thought I'd Say

Tonight at dinner:

"No, you can't have any more apple sauce until you eat one of your tater tots."

Yes, they're organic, no trans fat tater tots, but they're still tater tots.  Lunchables here we come!

Comparison Shopping

The Boy is obsessed with apple sauce--he can  finish a 23 oz jar in one sitting if  left to his own devices.   I tend to  buy Santa Cruz, because it's unsweetened and organic and because we are always running out of it, I tend to buy it everywhere.  Since it's something we absolutely, positively must have, I have tended not to focus too much on the price: it costs  what it costs.

Recently, though, I started paying attention and couldn't believe the difference.  Here are the prices for the same jar of apple sauce bought around the neighborhood over the period of a month (with the exception of the first place, all these stores are within a 6 block radius):

Fresh Direct:     $2.49
C-Town: $2.99
Union Market: $4.49
12th Street Market: $4.99
Village Market: $5.99

Everyone's a Critic

Yesterday we got home from picking The Boy up at school and everyone was cold and crabby so I suggested a movie viewing.  The Boy looked through my old collection of Disney tapes and demanded The Lion King.

He's seen bits of it before, but I had to ride the fast forward button pretty hard to get past the scary parts (and there are A LOT of scary parts). I reminded him that it was a scary movie, but he was set on it.

So, we watched it. I hit fast forward a lot on my own, but sometimes he would ask me to fast forward, saying, "This part is TOO scary." 

Finally, we  get  to the middle of the movie--the  love scene between Simba and his  long  lost love as "Can You Feel The Love Tonight" swells in the background--and I thought this would be a good, non-scary opportunity to sneak off and deposit The Girl, whose nursing session had been the real reason for this little film festival.  As I'm tip toeing out of The Girl's room, The Boy comes barreling towards me, screaming, "Mommy!  This part is TOO sing-y!"

Walking Right Into It

The scene unfolds over dinner...

The Boy: Can I have some chips?

BrooklynGirl: Some what?

The Boy: Some chips.

BrooklynGirl: No, no--we don't have chips.*  Chips are a treat, not dinner.

BrooklynGirl continues spooning pureed carrots into The Girl's mouth when she notices The Boy's not eating.

BrooklynGirl (exasperated): What's the matter?

The Boy: I'm sad.

BrooklynGirl: Why are you sad?

The Boy: I'm just sad.

BrooklynGirl: I'm sorry.  Is there anything that would make you less sad?

The Boy: Chips might make me feel better.

*We have plenty of other junk; chips are just not my junk food of choice.

Christmas Revisited

As I have mentioned before, I am a badly lapsed Catholic so until we sort out a religious philosophy, Christmas seems to be about presents, Santa, and evergreens.  Right now I'm okay with that--and The Boy marked his first Christmas as a sentient gift recipient being very okay with that.

But, as we took down our decorations, he got sad.  "Christmas is over," he announces somberly whenever we see old Christmas trees waiting for recycling on the curb.  He is ecstatic when we pass a house that still has its decorations up--including, most recently, a giant inflated nativity scene:

"Who's that?" The Boy asked, pointing at the manger.

Hmmm.  The only begotten son of God, who died to take away the sins of the world?  Too much information?  I decided to go with, "That's baby Jesus."

"Who's that?" He asked,  pointing at Mary.

"That's Jesus's mom."  Easy enough.

"And that?" Pointing at Joseph.

"That's Jesus's dad."   Basically true.  Sort of true.  I looked around for lightning bolts or mortified neighbors.

He was quiet for awhile looking at the nativity scene, and I wondered if he was thinking about the Big Question: Who is baby Jesus and why is he so special that he gets his own inflatable form?  I hoped he wouldn't ask because I wasn't ready to go there.

"Okay," he said, meaning that he was ready to go.  He took a few steps away and turned around to wave goodbye.  "Bye Donkey!  Bye Sheep!" He said to the heretofore undiscussed animals on either side of the Holy Family and trotted down the street.

Huh.  I guess I've got  some time.

Gone to the Dogs

I have come to the realization that I am not a dog person.  In particular, I am not a city dog person.  There is a woman who lives across the street from us who, several times a day, walks her dog across the street so it can pee on the sidewalk in front of our apartment.  Then she walks  back across the street where she lives and goes inside. 

There's no question that dog pee is less disgusting than dog poo, but still.  Ewww.  The sidewalk smells like dog pee when it's hot or when it rains, and when you have a toddler who loves, loves, loves to color with chalk on the sidewalk in front of his apartment (even if that is a crime), well, there's not enough Purell in the world to make you feel clean.

And, of course, there are the charming individuals who won't deign to clean up their dogs' shit.   May they be sentenced to a Dantesque hell in which they spend eternity covered in the droppings they leave behind.

Nonetheless, the Boy, has all the makings of being a dog person.  He loves them.  Or is at the very least dog curious:  he likes to look at them and excitedly yell, "Dog! Dog! Dog!" while wrapped tightly around the leg of a parent.  One of his favorite things to do is visit a spot in the park known as Dog Beach, where dogs can swim in a little man-made lake and children can watch them and/or feed  the ducks.  Last week sometime after we left that area, a large dog attacked and nearly killed a small dog. 

We have not been back.

But dogs are everywhere, and it doesn't really matter to me whether they're small balls of fluff or large masses of sinew--I tense whenever we get close.   And I'm not sure whether it's the dogs I mistrust or their owners because, really, if you think  it's a reasonable thing to let your dog pee in front of your neighbor's house every damn day,  how rational a person can you be?

He's Crafty

As I believe I've mentioned before, we're pretty lenient with the TV around here.  Sometimes a liberal dose of Noggin is the only way to keep The Boy in one reasonably safe place while I nurse The Girl.  I feel guilty about it though so I try to limit it: there's never adult TV on when The Boy is awake; there's never any TV on when The Boy eats; and on the weekends when there are enough grown-ups in the house to mount a successful man-to-man defense, there's as little TV on as possible.

Those are pretty lenient rules so they're not generally hard to live with.

Except when the Yankees are  locked in a tight race for the AL East, and they have two day games scheduled over the weekend.

We watched some of the games while The Boy was napping, but as soon as we heard him begin to stir, we turned the TV off. 

He came into the living room unhappy and sniffling.  "Wanna watch Wonder Pets," he  moaned.

"How about baseball?"  we offered.

"Wanna watch Wonder PETS!" he was resolute.

We went back and forth for awhile and finally we relented--one episode and then off to the park.

When he returned,  again  he  started in with, "Wanna watch Wonder Pets," but this time, we hung tough.  We denied several requests, and he seemed to step back for a moment to think.

"Wanna watch...baseball?"

Two

I am the mother of a two year old boy. 

He is a bundle of will these days: he only wants to drink out of certain cups, eat a small selection of food (that shrinks a little more every day), walk on a particular side of the street, use a special kind of bubbles in the bath.  He has tantrums all the time, dramatically throwing himself on the ground and then slyly peeking to see if you have noticed and are bending to his will (and far too often we are).

He surprises me all the time--for example, recently saying "bless you" to his sister after she sneezed, not something my husband or I (both confirmed "gesundheit" fans) ever taught him.

There are times that I still can't believe that this is my life, when I have to pinch myself to prove that my husband, my son, and my daughter are real.  Even typing that sentence is surreal.  My husband.  My son.  My daughter.

Happy birthday, sweet boy.  Here's to many, many more.

Tug of War

Last week I cried at the playground.

The Boy just would not get into his stroller.  I had tried every bribe in my arsenal, but he was not tempted.  Even walking with me and pushing the stroller was unappealing.  What he really wanted  to do, it seems, was scamper into the swing area, run directly into the path of a swinging kid, and get knocked down.  Understandably (well, perhaps to the non-toddlers among us), I couldn't allow that.

So, after he had had tantrums in front of every occupied bench in the park, we were reduced to a tug of war: he struggling to get to the nirvana of the swing area, me holding onto his arm trying to keep him safe.  I had The Girl strapped to my chest in the Bjorn so I was physically incapable of picking up The Boy so we seemed to be at an impasse.

The Boy wiggled out of my grasp and, luckily, was distracted away from the swings to go play in the sprinkler.  I felt so defeated, so utterly at a loss about what to do--except perhaps to vow  never to set foot in the playground with two children again.