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.