Posts Tagged ‘reading

Of our library hauls, favourites have included Dear Zoo (Rod Campbell) and most of Taro Gomi’s work. You enjoy lift-the-flap books, like Where’s Spot? You cry, “Oh no!” in response to an illustrated sad face (you lamented theatrically through all of Madeline).

Yeah, she reads 400-page novels too ...

Yeah, she reads 400-page novels too, strange child.

In fact you partially read along with me; you remember and anticipate the words. This “co-reading” works especially well for rhyming text – you’ll gleefully fill in the last rhyming syllables of each line.

Co-singing is even better! It works the same way: I start off each line and you supply the last word. This came about after I watched Frozen with a friend and came home singing “Do You Want to Build a Snowman?”

S: We used to be best –
S: But now we’re –
A: Not!
S: I wish you would tell me –
S: Do you wanna build a –
A: Snowman!

In early December we all went to see a hip hop dance studio production. It was a spur-of-the-moment deal; a colleague had tickets for his son’s show. I was afraid you’d be overtired, but you loved it, and watched as intently as daddy and I did. More, perhaps, because unlike us you were dancing in your seat.

Cozy Christmas morning.

Cozy Christmas morning.

I kind of dread cooking with you underfoot, because you are perpetually underfoot. Wanting up, wanting to see, wanting neh neh, wanting all three of the above at the same time. And wanting to help. If I haven’t yet been worn threadbare, I’ll let you spoon in seasoning and stir. One day you will cook for me, or so I persuade myself.

The way you pronounce mushroom … sounds very much like “man boob.”

You’re an enthusiastic sharer, to our delight and chagrin. Delight, because you offer so nicely! “Want one?” Chagrin, because you refuse to take no for an answer, and will continue to insist: “Want one?? WANT ONE?!”

Requisite "I dressed up so you'd better take a dang picture" shot.

Requisite “I dressed up so you’d better take a dang picture” shot.

Suddenly, after a single evening with grandma, you’re able to count to ten in Mandarin. Although you tend to miss si (four). You like to recite them while lying supine on the floor, doing leg raises.

This Christmas you decided that you aren’t a fan of Santa, at least up close. (You’re oddly fascinated from a distance.) “Scared [of] Santas!” you tell me, gesticulating wildly, often in the middle of something completely unrelated. “Weird!” HAHA.


You’ve adjusted beautifully to our new place, even though it’s a dramatic downsize. We still managed to play a hysterical three-person game of hide-and-seek the other evening, though. Your first!

The nearest library is only a few blocks away (as opposed to thirteen, before) and we’ve definitely been taking advantage of that! Our current haul has been a major hit. Not only do you enjoy repeated back-to-back readings, you request specific books by name … not always by their official titles, though. For instance, Al Perkins’ Dr. Seuss-esque Hand, Hand, Fingers, Thumb features a refrain that goes, “Dum ditty dum ditty dum dum dum.” You call this book “beer bum.”

Addressing the dearth of female drummers.

Addressing the dearth of female drummers.

You do this with songs, too, and usually have strong opinions about which one you want to hear. The wrong tune is sure to be emphatically rejected. And your pitch seems pretty good so far; by this I am inordinately pleased.

You pronounce f as w: phone is wone, finished is winished, flower is vwower. Tofu is wohwu. Pillow, for some reason, is babu. Toddlerspeak: it’s the best. (I can’t wait till grammatical gymnastics kick in.)

If out of nowhere you start shrieking, chances are you’re playing with a collection of homogeneous items – like a deck of cards – and can’t get them into perfect alignment. Or perhaps you’re trying to screw a lid on but it happens to be crooked. I’m sorry. You inherited this crazy directly from me.

You’re also particular about cupboard doors being closed, and will promptly shut them after us if we leave them ajar (intentionally or otherwise). You like wiping down your own highchair tray. You’ll bring me stray hairs and fluff you find on the floor. “[Throw] away!” you say expectantly.



Once you dropped a woodbug into my palm. It was alive. That was not a good morning for me.

Nor for you, because you streaked into the hallway ahead of me and burned your hand on the nightlight daddy forgot to remove from its socket when he left for work. “Hot!” you wailed tearfully. Poor thing, but you know not to touch it now.

“Want one?” you’ll ask with excruciating sweetness, offering your cup of grapes or pomegranate or goldfish crackers. Feeding us is more fun than feeding yourself, apparently. The generosity dissipates, however, when it’s an exciting new treat … like pocky. (Thanks, mom, for plying her with junk food behind our backs.) In fact, you may offer up a taste as usual, only to snatch it away at the last minute, popping it smugly into your own mouth. I probably find this deviousness more hilarious than I should.



So I’ve managed to keep you in your highchair for meals, but it’s a lost cause to keep you from concocting exotic stews with your food. First you eat, then you ask for a cup of water or soup or milk, and inevitably the liquid ends up in your bowl. Next you start pouring the transmogrified contents back and forth between bowl and cup. The best part is, you still mostly finish everything on your tray. Umm, ew? But who am I to dampen your culinary enthusiasm?

You fall asleep fairly readily for naps, but tend to wake up cranky. You fight fight fight sleep at bedtime, but wake up in the mornings cheerful and chipper as can be.


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