Posts Tagged ‘words’

Wordless Everyday

Tuesday, March 1st, 2016

linc by the lake

We took the baby gate down this week, because it doesn’t have much use once the baby can climb over it. He’s almost climbed out of his crib the last two mornings and after nap on Monday. He can get things himself with the Get It Yourself stool, which is much more annoying than it is helpful. Caroline was sickly today and asked if I would go upstairs and get her Baby Jesus and I asked Linc if he could do it. He did. He also brought her favorite blanket down, covered her up and gave her a cuddle.

But Linc still doesn’t talk.

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He had his 18 month check up last week (at 19 months) and the pediatrician referred us to Birth to 3 to have him evaluated. She said he should have at least a few words at this age, even if his receptive language and comprehension is very good. I’ve read differing opinions on whether or not signs count when it comes to language, but even if I include please (which he signs a lot) and all done (which he signs sometimes), his only other words are Dada and Dog. And even those basically sound the same. He won’t say anything on command and he doesn’t even try to repeat things if you say them to him. He mostly grunts.

Up until now his needs and wants have been simple enough that we’re able to guess them. If he leads you to the kitchen, he’s probably hungry and I can offer a few things until he picks one. If he’s crying, we can suggest a cuddle or ask if he has a booboo and he can communicate with head shakes or pointing. But he’s becoming an actual full human person with feelings that are deeper than hungry or tired, and it’s becoming very frustrating for all of us that he has no words to help. I know explaining his frustration with full sentences¬†(“Mother dear, I am just SO famished and that sandwich you made me is not what I want. May I please have an orange instead?”) is not what ANYONE gets from their 19-month-old, but “Orange!” or “Milk!” or “Blankie!” would be nice. I would settle for “Yes” and “No” said with intent.

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Evan was also pretty slow to talk, although he had a lot more signs at this age. Birth to 3 came out and did an evaluation and it was very reassuring, even though they ultimately decided he didn’t qualify for intervention. I’d much rather do that again and have them say “Nah, we think he’ll catch up on his own” or “Let’s not do anything yet but we’ll be back in 3 months to check again” or even “Yes, let’s get him into speech therapy” than do nothing at realize at his 2 year appointment that he STILL isn’t talking at all.

Plus maybe he’ll stop punching me in the face if he can just TELL me he hates me? Because that would honestly be better at this point. Oh, toddlers.

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writing on Writing

Monday, August 13th, 2012

This is not another BlogHer recap post, so don’t run away. It is, sort of, a reaction to BlogHer and the many many BlogHer recap posts that have been written. It’s also about what I learned at BlogHer, what I didn’t learn at BlogHer and what I suspect I will never learn no matter how many BlogHers I attend.

You cannot teach someone to be talented. Talent is something you either have or you don’t have, like a super fast metabolism or a crazy drunk grandmother. You’re either someone who can eat cheeseburgers and ice cream and pop all day and still fit in your high school jeans or more likely you aren’t. One may become thin by exercising and watching what one eats and skipping dessert and working hard but it’s never the same as just having it. Talent is like that. You can foster a love of something and learn the technical aspects and search out things that inspire you and work your ass off – but you will always be at a disadvantage to those who were born with a natural skill.

I do not have a talent for writing. I enjoy writing. I like to think I am pretty good at writing. I once had a creative writing teacher read my essay out loud in class. But that was in 2003 and I’m still bringing it up now so obviously the accolades are few and far between. I have no illusions that I am going to wake up one morning and sit down at my typewriter and pound out the next great American novel. At best I might Instagram a photo of myself sitting in front of my dad’s old typewriter making duck lips and holding a gin & tonic.

My blog isn’t poetry, it isn’t how-to, it isn’t deep thoughts, it isn’t photo essays, it isn’t brilliance. It’s in a no-mans land, a junkyard, an oasis of random – except that there are hundreds of other bloggers here with me. It’s the world’s most crowded deserted island and I feel like we spend half our time sharing coconuts and the other half fighting over who gets to sleep in the cool kid’s hut. We’re all struggling to tell our stories and capture a snapshot of our lives with the words we do know, limited as they may be, so people will stand up with us and say “I share this experience” or “Wow!” or even just “Cool story, bro”. Maybe we’re all crazy narcissists for thinking our lives are worth documenting – but does it make it better if we realize that’s what we are? If I’m willing to acknowledge that I have reached maximum saturation among people who like red headed children, occasional recipes and mediocre photography do I win an award of some kind? If I admit I am not that good do I get to keep writing?

Maybe these words right here are some of the most unnecessary ever posted on the internet. Since the fact that everyone is writing about writing has already been written, why bother to publish my thoughts at all? Why am I asking so many questions I have no intention of answering? Why is the rum gone?

In the end, the thing I love about blogging is my space gets to be mine. I am the captain of my blogging destiny, or at least the only one with the login to my WordPress dashboard. I don’t have to be the greatest. I’m not competing for Babble’s list of the Top 10 Bloggers Whose Posts You Think Are Super Deep But You’re Not Really Sure Because Your Eyes Cross Half Way Through or even just Top 10 Mom Bloggers As Chosen By Their Friends Who Also Work Here. The rules for blogging are not actual rules and there are no blog police who can shut you down for not being good enough.¬† There is more than enough room on the internet for everyone.

Let’s be friends.

evan and caroline friends

Toddler Talk

Friday, April 20th, 2012

Evan: “Mommy, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”


Evan: “I feel sad” *pouty face*

Me: “I’m sorry honey, why are you sad?”

Evan: “Because I can’t put my finger in my butt.”


Me: “Evan, don’t hit your sister.”

Evan: “No, YOU don’t hit sister!”

Me: “Don’t talk back to me please.”

Evan: “No, YOU don’t talk back!”

Me: “EVAN. Stop sassing or you’re going to get a time out!”

Evan: “No, YOU get time out!”

Me: *pressing my face into a pillow* AAAAARRRRRGGGGGGHHHHH!

Evan: *sweetly* “What’s wrong Mommy?”


Me and E: “Good night Evan, we love you.”

Evan: “Good night guys. Love you too guys. Now get out my room!”


Evan: “What’s that?”

Me: “Brussels sprouts, I’m making them for dinner.”

Evan: “Oh, is it your birthday?”


Me: “Good morning baby!”

Evan: “No, not baby. Just Evan.”


The Terrible Twos Are Not Always Terrible. Write it Down.

Monday, December 12th, 2011

I am enjoying the CRAP out of having a 2 1/2 year old right now. A lot of the time with kids, they have SO MANY NEEDS that you expend all your energy fulfilling them and don’t have any left over for fun stuff like playing trains or teaching them to fist-bump-then-blow-it-up or reading The Napping House fifty bazillion times a day. I’ve felt like that a lot over the past year – which is probably the opposite of shocking, seeing as how that’s when I doubled my need-o-meter by adding ANOTHER tiny helpless human to the mix. I’m not saying I haven’t enjoyed anything up until this point, but lately I’ve found myself doing a lot more fun kid stuff instead of parenting stuff. I almost say that I’d be OK with Evan dropping his nap if he wanted (it would free up our schedule SO MUCH!) but I’m not quite there yet. Sometimes I still need a minute to shower, you know?

DID YOU HEAR THAT UNIVERSE? I said DON’T drop the nap yet. DON’T.

I don’t think being exactly 2 years and 8 months old is the deciding factor in enjoying my kid more. I think it mostly has to do with this stage of understanding and development and communication and self-control. I haven’t had to drag him kicking and screaming and crying out of anywhere for almost a month. He understands consequences BEFORE they happen, so I can threaten time out or no games or being sold to a circus without actually having to do it. He has ALL THE WORDS and can tell me what hurts or why he’s sad or what he needs without screaming at me. He can be reasoned with. And since we’re using our words when we’re angry, we’re also using our words when we’re sitting on the couch or riding in the car or watching TV or making dinner. He asks “whachu doin’, Mommy?” Yesterday I told him I was making a pinata for Caroline’s party. He looked it up and down, and then said “AWESOME Mommy! High five!”

How can you NOT love that kid?

Lemonade and Police Cars

Monday, October 3rd, 2011

Little Evan speaks his own language. I think it’s almost English but I can’t be sure, since most English speakers seem to have a hard time understanding him. Maybe it’s a NickJunioreese, a crazy mix of Spanish, Chinese, and speech-impedimented English picked up from those damn Wonder Pets.

“Meenah” is lemonade. Unless it means banana. You have to look around for a banana. “Peesdar!” is police car. He can say “car” correctly, but when he sees “flash lights” he gets to excited it comes out as one word. “Brusey” is our dog Brutus. He used to say Brutus until he spent some time with my parent’s dog Hershey, and now he smooshes their names together. “Ditty” is kitty, which is an improvement over the previous pronunciation. “Fall denoun” is fall down, which is so cute I don’t even care that it’s wrong. “Bushit” actually means push it, although I don’t think anyone believes me.

As much as I love that he’s friendly and outgoing and eager to talk to everyone, I’m getting tired of translating everything he says to strangers at the grocery store and strangers at the mall and strangers at the playground and strangers in general. I’m not tired at HIM, I’m tired at OTHER PEOPLE. I can only say “I’m sorry, he’s hard to understand” so many times. And the truth is, it’s more a matter of busy people not paying attention than anything else. See that pinecone he’s holding? Maybe he’s saying “pinecone!” You asked him if Caroline was his sister, maybe “bebeh siher” might mean “baby sister!” Most grown-ups rush in and say “Oh aren’t you handsome! How old are you? Are you a good boy? Bye-bye now!” all in one quick breath and then breeze back out without pausing for a response. Or if they do they’re really asking ME, and wouldn’t even notice if he tried to answer. Evan could say “I’m two, lady, and your wig isn’t fooling anyone” and they’d just coo some more and wander off to finish their shopping.

I’ve been around enough two-and-a-half-year-olds-who-then-grow-into-three-and-a-half-year-olds to know this is just a phase. His brain thinks thoughts he wants to share but his mouth just can’t keep up. He learns a hundred new words a day and can’t keep them all straight. Whole sentences come tumbling out in a jumble and he gets frustrated. He’ll grown into it eventually and the whole world will hear what he has to say Dino Dan and race cars and big diggers and baseball and everything else. He’ll stop saying “More meena peees!” and start saying “Mama, can I have a banana?”

Although yesterday he called me “MOM”. I am not OK with being MOM yet. MOM is for surly, eye-rolling teenagers. So maybe I don’t mind translating just a little longer.