Wednesday, January 09, 2008


Sometimes it's just important to me to write things down. I'm hopeless at keeping up with the obscenely expensive baby book I had to have, so I write them here. Boring, I'm sure, to all but me and mine, but it is called "Little Dash" after all.

* Dash's relationship with Santa has become more complex. There was the terror that grew into obsession that has now evolved into something slightly bizarre. He still talks about Santa all the time. But now, when he sees a man, any man, with a white beard, there is sheer terror. He clings to my leg and refuses to pass. We tell him that it's not Santa, but he cannot be convinced. You'd think this ought not be a major issue, but somehow we keep seeing old guys with white beards all over the place. And hey, Old-Guys-With-White-Beards? If you're gonna rock the Santa whiskers, you're kinda obligated not to be a grumpy asshole to little kids. Okay? Okay.

* I have many "favorite" rituals with Dash. I love scooping him out of bed in the mornings and holding him on my lap like a baby while he drinks his first sippy cup of milk of the day. I love pulling his socks down below his heels so he can pull them the rest of the way off. This, weirdly, cracks him the hell up. I love when he wants to be chased around the house, and so stands and repeats "go-na-getch-ah!" (I screech, "ah-mon-a-getcha! ah-mon-a-getcha!" when I chase him) until I'm motivated to act. Or when he wants to play peek-a-boo so hides his face and asks, ever so quietly, "where Dashy go?" Oh, or having him demand to be read the same book twice (or more times) in a row before bed. But I think my very most favorite, the one that I know will go the way of the dinosaurs long before I'm ready, is when Josh undresses him for his bath and sends him out to "show Mommy your tushy." And the baby, in all his birthday-suited glory, comes running, laughing, into the kitchen to show me his tushy. There is no more glorious sight than its wobbly little jiggle as he runs back out again to his bath.

* When it's time to go to bed, Dash demands to be put down with whatever he happens to be holding at the time (plus a stuffed elephant that is the only constant toy). This usually consists of some hard and/or pointy and/or sharp thing like two, always two, plastic tigers or scuba divers, a Santa figurine, Mr. Potato Head or a remote control, plus his two favorite Eric Carle board books (Brown Bear, Brown Bear... and Panda Bear, Panda Bear...), plus whatever book we read at bedtime (never one of the Carle books), and his nana (security blanket). In addition, once he's laid down, we cover him with another, thick sleeping blanket. That's a lot of shit in a little crib, and you'd think it'd be a lot for a not-quite-two-year-old to keep track of, but just try to sneak one little thing out and he'll pop up like a gopher and start looking around for whatever is missing. He'll not only ascertain that one of the Carle books is gone, but he'll know which one (in the pitch dark, mind you). Weird little hoarder.

* Dash has become obsessed with bicycles. He points them out every time he spies one, and the worst Target-tantrum to date was caused by our refusing to let him "ride" a full-sized bicycle. We had placed him on the seat for fun (rookie mistake) and he was seriously pissed that we wouldn't let go of him. The other day we had lunch at Chili's (classy) and they had mounted a bike on the wall above the hostess station. Dash was compelled to climb out of the booth about 100 times just to marvel at it. We hadn't planned on getting him a bike until he was three, but (shhhh) looks like this will be his year.

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