Ain't No Mountain High Enough

Henry has been able to climb out of his crib the better part of a year now.  However, this was a skill he seldom chose to display.  This week he has been a climbing machine.  Perhaps he's just been honing his technique.  At any rate, every single time we put him down to sleep, be it for a midday nap or at night, he has almost immediately freed himself from the confines of his crib to play, explore, and ultimately fall asleep in front of his door, thus forcing Todd or I to inadvertently whack our boy in the head upon entering.  Twice, I even found him nested in the dirty laundry.

As I saw it, he was able to climb out of said crib, no problem.  Climbing back in was a bit of a sticky wicket.  Our course became clear:  convert the crib to its toddler bed formation, a la the lamest transformer of all.  Thus the problem should be resolved--he can totally climb back into bed.  Yesterday, I once again hit Henry in the noggin when he instead napped on the floor in front of his bedroom door.  Duct tape ain't looking so bad now.  Or at very least, a helmut.

The Artist

As of late, I have been taking advantage of Henry's nap time and taking my own.  This may have to stop.  When I woke, I went in to grab Henry from his crib.  Whilst I slept, he fished poop out of his ample diaper and began painting.  Now, I always suspected he would have artistic inclinations, but I do wish they had not been realized thusly.  In addition to the poo smeared on the wall and the interior of his crib, there was a good cup's worth that had fallen to the floor and baseboard betwixt them.

In the grand scheme of things,  I suppose I should be grateful it wasn't of a "watercolor" consistency.

Does it Float: Henry tests the theory that my cell phone is in actuality a witch.

Saturday, March 3 2012. A day that will live in infamy. We were celebrating March birthdays with the Freedberg family so I had gotten up early to make my dish to pass: blanched green beans tosses with sesame oil, a wee bit of fish sauce and sesame seeds. I was all sorts of productive, making food, coffee and picking up the house.

When it came time to wake the boys, I roused them and then brought Henry down for breakfast. And here I made my first mistake: I left both my coffee mug and my cell phone on a low lying table. And I quickly made mistake number two: I put Henry down while I made his food. Henry immediately dashed off. Three minutes later, I entered the living room bearing oatmeal, yogurt and fruity goodness. He was holding my phone above said coffee cup. Leaping forward, I snatched the phone, thinking I had gotten there just in time. Oh, foolish mommy. I had arrived in time to prevent additional dunkings. It was already dripping with coffee and cream.

I took it apart, wiped it down and plunged it into a bowl of rice, hoping for the best. After two days, it would still only turn on and give me a white screen of death, against which faint shadows of what I can only assume was internal bleeding could be seen. I gave up. Reviewing my contract online, I discovered that immersion in food or liquid was specifically not covered by my extended warranty. Sad face. So, I transferred a discount Todd's line had to mine and ordered my certified pre-owned Samsung flip phone. When that arrived, I discovered the brilliant minds of Verizon had packed the wrong battery. Le sigh. After driving to three different stores and much waiting, I had a working phone again. And the village rejoiced.

But the saga continues. The other day, Todd grabbed my poor deceased phone from my purse, not realizing it was the dead one, and turned it on. I handed him the new one to place his call and promptly forgot all about it. Until, that is, this morning. As I got ready for work this morning, I heard a cell phone alarm going off. Picked up mine, nope. It was my previously deceased phone, somehow resurrected. The screen was functioning and everything. So, it turns out, my phone is a witch.

Actions Speak Louder Than Words

Monday nights this semester I am taking a class that meets from 6pm to 9pm. This can create a little panic when it comes to finding someone both willing and able to hang with the tiny human. Last night, Rachel took the honor. I had just put Henry down his after tea nap when she arrived, so was able to fill her in on his latest exploits before dashing back to school.

When I got home three hours later, she in turn recapped their evening. While Henry is still working on English, he seems to be an effective communicator in his own right. Apparently at one point he realized his diaper was soiled and so he got a new one out of the box, handed it to Rachel and proceeded to lie down in front of her, as if to say, okay, let's do this. That's my boy.

If Cleanliness is Next to Godliness, What Will Get me to Purgatory?

I have never been one to obsess about things cleaning. Certainly I like things to be tidy, but I only blow the cleaning ship out of the water when I am angry and need something on which to focus my wrath. As such, I have gotten intensely good at whirlwind cleaning--the kind that crops up hour(s)before guests arrive. Since Henry's birth and subsequent mobility, some areas have slipped while others get more action.

I now pick up the living room approximately five times daily. This entails straightening pillows and throws, clearing the minefield, er, carpet, of small, feet stabbing toys, and putting the umbrellas, bats and swords back into their respective corners. Five times. And while this lets me maintain sanity in the living room, if I venture anywhere else, I figuratively strike myself blind. Out of necessity. The dining room table is a catchall of things we keep from the tiny human. Dishes are a little slower to make their way to the dishwasher and cupboards respectively. Sometimes, I just cannot bring myself to give a good damn about cooking food for myself so it's Triscuits and cheese for dinner. Again.

Also, virtually all my shirts since I turned 18 and began drinking coffee have sported drips of said coffee. These days, shirts and pants both bear the patina of yogurt and/or oatmeal. If I'm really lucky, peanut butter and strawberry jam make an appearance. More and more I consider dressing Henry and myself according to what he's eating. Or, the converse, only feeding him foods that "match."

I Yam What I Yam

Henry hit the eighteen month mark this week He's growing like the proverbial weed. The unnaturally strong and intent, not to be swayed, weed. Apparently, he is no longer content to just hang out with me int the living room, gated off from the rest of the house. He wants to explore. Specifically, he wants to explore the upstairs area.

The other night, as I sat watching my Jeopardy, he walked over to the staircase, surveyed the situation, and after performing the calculations in his head, he locked his tiny fingers through the chinks of the baby gate, lifted it over his head and then threw it out of his way. At which point, he scurried up the stairs. I laughed in surprise and then followed. By the time I caught up with him, he had the toilet brush in one hand and the plunger in the other. Perhaps it was just my imagination, but he seemed to have a manic glint in his eye--a devil may care daring if you will.

This happened three times that night. Henry was not to be deterred. He had seen the new land and was not about to return to the workaday existence below. Who could be content with tiny electronic drums or a piano when there were toilet accoutrement to be had? Not this guy.