Who's the boss?

A major disruption this morning. Hustled the boys to day care, only to arrive and find out that our provider needed to rush a 94-year-old aunt to the hospital (more on that later). She did call the house, but I never heard the phone in the mayhem that is our morning ritual.

So, I had to turn around and return home with the boys and wait for Michelle to come home to relieve me. Soon after I got home, I called my supervisor to let her know I'd be out this morning.

As I was finishing the conversation, Nathaniel took a break from his yogurt to ask, "Who are you calling, daddy?"

"My boss," I replied.

"That's mommy," he said in a matter-of-fact voice.

Indeed. Michelle's indoctrination of the men and boys in her family is working well!

First word (sort of)

Last week or so, around the time that he turned seven months old, Isaiah said his first word: "Da da."

I didn't hear the first utterance. Michelle did, and so I heard about it when I returned one day from work. I remember Michelle telling me how Isaiah says it over, followed by shrieks of joy, like a rebel yell. I believed that he was uttering his first words but I was less convinced by the vigor behind them.

Until I heard it myself. Many times, Isaiah starts off slowly with a soft string of "da, da, da, da" that kind of floats in the air, at a level a little above the whisper. Once he's warmed up, though, the words get louder, more emphatic, the bursts of "da, da, da" more forceful and staccato-like. Now he's humming along, and he's finishing his "da, da, das" with a screech on the last "da," followed by gleeful, wild yelling. Sometimes, he gets so wound up it's downright scary. He sounds like he's going mad. And then you look at him, and you can see that he's just so pleased with himself.

It's really fun to watch him get all revved up. When he says "da, da," his mouth drops open so violently that he looks like some wooden puppet whose lower jaw has become unhinged, only to snap back shut, before suddenly opening again. His jaw muscles are sure getting a good workout.

I'd like to think that he is talking about his daddy. Advantage father, right? Well, it's hard to know whether he's calling for me. Really, the evidence points otherwise. Isaiah blurts out "da, da, da" when I'm around and when I'm not around. He'll yell it when he's alone in his crib. He's shrieked it in when he's riding in the car. He lets it go when he's twisting around on his blanket on the floor. So, who knows, really, what's going in his head?

The good thing is something is going on in there, enough to propel him to want to let all of us know about it.

I can't wait to hear more.

Budding writer?

Nathaniel may be blessed (cursed?) with the writer gene.

Here's my proof:

On a normal weekend day in our household, Nathaniel approached his mother, Michelle, and said to her, "Mommy, you're not cute."

Good sentence. Grammatically correct. Strong. Direct. Introduces suspense. A cliffhanger, introduced.

He actually paused a beat or two and then said, "You're pretty."

What flair, what flourish! What a surprise! What a payoff!

Two sentences rolled into a short story that any writer can appreciate. Well done, young scribe.

Arrested Development

Home with a sick Nathaniel today, so an unexpected opportunity for a quick post, while both are napping.

We'll turn to Isaiah today, who hasn't gotten nearly his fair share of publicity. Unfortunately, he probably won't care much for this story, for it has to do with his latest checkup at the doctor.

Before anyone gets too concerned, our six-month-old is just fine. Healthy and happy. Smiling and waggling. Flopping and rolling. (although he can't roll from his tummy to his back again) Talking and screaming. Delighted whenever his big brother gives him attention. Observing and taking notes of all that's around him. In short, progressing as he should be.

You may recall that Isaiah had shown remarkable growth at his three-month visit, sprouting some 3 1/2 inches since his birth. That, we were told, put him in the 85% percentile for height among his peers. I was overjoyed; Nathaniel had never broken 35% for either height or weight, so I had pinned my hopes that at least one of the boys had inherited my "tallness" gene (if you count 6'1" or so as being tall). Don't get me wrong, we're not fixated on these percentiles; I'd like to think I'm smart enough to realize they are quick and dirty averages for parents to get some sense of their child's development. And each child is different. My father grew something like 5 inches when he was in junior college. I didn't fully develop until my freshman year in college. So, I know these things are relative.

But they are indicators, and so I was heartened (maybe overjoyed is too strong an adverb to use) to hear about Isaiah's height ranking. Then came the six-month checkup: Isaiah had grown just a half-inch – a 1/2 inch! – from three months to six months. His percentile had plummeted from 85% to 35%. He was back in Nathaniel territory. And I was heartbroken. OK, not quite that sad, but let's say mildly dejected.

A little later, our pediatrician walked into the room. Examining the chart, she said, "Your child is a runt."

A runt.

He's not big.

He's not tall.

He's a runt.

And that's the way it is.

Ouch.

When Michelle told me this, I about swooned. Cue the seven stages of grief. Then she told me how her grandfather (on her mother's side) was 5' 2" when he finished high school. He, too, had a growth spurt, and ended somewhere in 5' 9" territory. But he never shook his nickname, Shorty.

Now past denial and into acceptance. Past acceptance and into fantasy-like hope. Isaiah, like my father and I, will have late-stage development, only his growth spurt will be something like 8-9 inches. He'll end up 6' 4" – a strapping, robust chap.

I must be dreaming.

Of course, I also hope that I'm smart enough to realize this doesn't matter in the scheme of things. Isaiah is whole. Isaiah is healthy. Isaiah is (or at least appears to be) normal. Isaiah is perfect.

No matter how tall, or short, he turns out to be.

Bossy Pants

Our older boy, Nathaniel, is by all accounts, a big-hearted, kind and energetic soul. On Mondays and Tuesdays at day care, he runs around like a banshee, a smile permanently plastered on his cherubic face. He always waves bye to his day-care friends an usually has hugs for each. He adores his provider, whom he calls Sue Sue, and regularly bursts into tears when it's time to leave.

Everyone thinks he's so nice, and in general they're right. But lately, our little guy has been feeling his oats, a little too sure of himself. While still adorable a large part of the time, he has been slipping more and more into a new role, Mr. Bossy Pants.

What I mean by this is Nathaniel likes to order us all around. Mommy, Daddy, baby brother Isaiah, the animals in his bed, and anyone else who happens to be in his verbal line of fire. They are pawns in his game of Who Can Get the Upper Hand. And it's a game that Nathaniel doesn't like to lose.

Some are pretty innocuous and could be seen pretty much as invitations to interact and play:

Tickle me, Daddy!

You color with me! You draw! Draw Elmo!

Chase me, Mommy! Now, I chase you!

Hide, Daddy! Now I go hide!

Close your eyes, Mommy! Now, open them!

But lately they've entered the realm of outright orders:

Don't sing, Mommy!

Don't speak, Mommy!

Sit down! Sit here! No, don't sit there!

Mommy, get up! You get up now!

Don't pat your stomach, Daddy! (Daddy pats his leg instead.) Now, don't pat your leg!

Even when it's meant to be nice, it still feels akin to an edict:

Play with me! This is said in a sharp, bossy voice, like a commandment My will be done.

Ah, yes, our little preacher from on high. Mostly Michelle and I shrug and just take it. It is pretty amusing, after all. But we are taking mental notes, keeping track of how long this phase lasts and keeping tabs on the type of orders and whether they escalate in quantity or get plain nasty. Then we'll put a stop to it.

And our little general will be back to being a subordinate again.

Six Months

Isaiah is six months old today. Hooray!

To commemorate the occasion, let me tell you some things about the little bugger.

He's cute. OK, most babies are. Duh.

Let me be more specific. He's cute because:

• He has a smile as wide as my home state of Texas

• He has dimples

• He has a veneer of hair that is either light blond or light red, depending on the light

• He smiles and coos madly when I hold him up in the air

• He smiles, coos madly and stares intently at my mouth when I chant to him, "Ba, ba, ba, Ma, ma, ma, Da, da, da, La, la, la, HA, HA, HA! (This is my thoroughly unscientific way of helping him form his first words and to distinguish between words that sound alike and that require you to use your mouth differently. On the latter point, try it, and you'll see that you use different muscles in your mouth and your tongue differently with about every word.)

• He even smiled and cooed when he was beset by an ear infection, a cough and conjunctivitis in both eyes.

• He is a great counterbalance to his hyper kinetic brother, at least so far.

• He wiggles and waggles with delight every time he sees his brother.

• He slept the entire night last night, as if he knew it would be the best present he could give his mommy and daddy.

As if on cue with his birthday, the Japanese cherry tree started to bloom today. It's a beautiful sight, a riot of little cupped pink flowers spouting in all directions from our tree's haphazard branches. The bloom is confined to the upper branches so far, and I guess because the tree is on the north side of the house and the sun is still relatively low, the upper areas get the most sunlight. I wish I had been noting the first bloom of this tree since we got it five years ago. It would be an interesting, although wholly unscientific way, of knowing whether springtime blooms are occurring sooner as is the trend with climate change.

But that's a story for another day. The story for today is all about Isaiah. Six months, folks. Wow. Can't wait for the next six!

First Planting

A whiff of spring blew in this weekend, and that means one thing: Time for planting.

It's our version of outdoors of spring cleaning. In our seven years in this house, we have ringed our premises with several flower gardens, a vegetable garden and two raised-beds vegetable gardens. Cleaning out all those plots and getting the soil ready for new flowers and food is a lot of work. Did I mention the compost pile? Yeah, that baby needs attention, too. There's good soil there, you know, and we turn it over with the new season to get that rich supplementary soil for the main vegetable garden.

Now that the calendar had turned to April, we could feel the tug of spring, the lure of being outdoors. So, on a cloudy, windy, chilly Saturday, Michelle and I were out there, laboring away, as the boys napped inside. Michelle cleared the leaf cover we had put in the circular garden around the lone tree we had left standing from the area that had been, for all intents and purposes, the neighborhood dumping ground. (An aside: As I dug in the compost pile, I found a metal circular saw piece and an old film reel. The surprises never end.) I turned the compost and wheeled over several barrows full of soil for the vegetable patch. I then borrowed a motorized rototiller from our neighbor, Bob. This contraption, Bob told me, is from his grandfather, and is at least 60 years old. It's rusty, yellow and cranky to start, but the 'ol geezer keeps on chuggin' along. And it did the job yet again this time.

Soil tilled, and time to sow a row. It's early in the season still, so the best bet for now is lettuce, and we opted for black Simpson, or something like that. There are so many varieties that I can't keep track what we like and what we don't. That's Michelle's domain, and thankfully she's good at it. I planted the black Simpson and hours later, the rains came.

Let it grow, let it grow, let it grow.