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Pumpkin Patch Diary

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In a seize-the-good-weather moment, we (my mom and I) took the Boo to a pumpkin patch for the first time. That’s right, I did not take him last year — don’t know if that makes me a lame mom or just wise with how I spend my energy, but there it is.

At first, he wandered hesitantly around the outside of the main pumpkin shed. My mom introduced him to the giant inflated scarecrow, which he liked very much. Eventually, we got him inside to look at the approximately 8,000,000 pumpkins, but he was far more interested in pointing out that the doors, propped with cement-filled buckets, needed to be closed.

I plunked him on a bale of straw and got a few really nice photos during the few minutes he was enjoying the novelty of being up there. He patted a few pumpkins and took a liking to one that was off to the side on its own next to a planter he decided was a trash can. My mom fetched a little red wagon, and Boo leaned against his pumpkin, a tiny man of leisure in a festive rolling Barcalounger.

But what he really went apeshit over was the ducks. Between the shed and the actual patch (which we did not ever get to because DUCKS!) they had a few large pens with the aforementioned ducks, chickens, bunnies, a turkey and a pig. He stood watching them, making the happiest noises I’ve ever heard come out of him. I didn’t even take pictures (one of my main motivations for the trip) because I was having such a good time watching the joy pour over his face. Also, I didn’t want to be the parent whose kid gets his finger gnawed by a farm animal while she’s busy taking photos.

The ducks were the epicenter of the rest of the visit. He would run around and put rocks in trash cans (a favorite pastime), but he kept wanting to circle back to those ducks. And his attentiveness was rewarded when a lady came by on a four-wheeler and threw a few heads of lettuce in the pen, causing a really cute feeding frenzy.

The first time we stated talking about going home, he looked up and sweetly asked, “ducks?” and we said sure, let’s go see the ducks again. The second time, he started crying a bit while semi-whining, “ducks!” We were able to placate him with (semi-true) promises of seeing Daddy at home and pointing out that his pumpkin was in the car. Most of the way home, he patted it happily and babbled about his “pop.”

The next day, I decorated it with a Sharpie (I plan to bake it):

You Are 20 Months Old

You are 20 months old.

You still (still!) will not touch pasta, eggs, meat, cheese, cake or yogurt. However you do really like these, especially the cat ones:

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You like to empty your toy bins so you can stand and sit in them. You don’t fit easily when you sit; it’s more like a squat during which you resemble those YouTube cats who like to cram themselves into seemingly too-small spaces.

You can say “cat” now, and your habit of saying “meow-meow” to mean cat is fading quickly.

You sometimes use “please” as a demand, melding it with “up” like so: “Uppease, uppease, uppease, UPPEASE!”

You like to practice taking off your pants. You do this proudly, smiling up at Mama to make sure she knows what a big boy you are.

You have mastered the steps and slides at the playground, though Mama still stands by just in case you get distracted on the stairs. You particularly love the higher, faster slides.

You rush up to other kids on the playground, saying either “hi” or “baby!” We’re working on teaching you “kid” and “boy” and “girl.”

You prefer to walk down the stairs (while holding Mama’s hands or the handrail). You squirm mightily when carried down. That’s when we have short talks about being safe on the stairs.

You are officially down to one nap, though we all struggle through the time that used to be your morning nap. Our watchword for this timespan is “distraction.” Which sometimes translates as “iPad.”

You are adept at climbing onto the couch, chairs and low beds.

You love to run across wide-open spaces, chanting “run run run” or just grunting the whole way. You can easily run for the equivalent of a city block.

You are collecting new words at a blinding pace. Often, they sound shockingly close to what they actually are. But sometimes we have absolutely no idea what you’re saying despite your boundless confidence.

You can find and open the paper toss game on the iPad. You’re not terribly good at playing it though.

You know, and know how to say, blue, red, green and yellow (boo, led, geen and yeddah). You know, but can’t say, orange and brown.

You recognize the letter “a” if it’s capitalized, and will point it out on the covers of books.

You recently went back to wanting a bottle before bed.

You have begun to tell stories of your experiences, the prime example being the time you stuck your hand in a rotten orange and then we threw it away. You also like the one about the time the garbage can pinched your hand. You cross your fingers and get as close as you can to saying “pinch” when you tell that one.

You will beg for a slice of lime, then gnaw on it, pausing occasionally to say “tart.”

You put a stick of sidewalk chalk down your shirt and left it in there for at least an hour this morning, pausing occasionally to take it out and inspect it before putting it back.

You are 20 months old, and it is a great joy to watch you revel in tasting tiny bits of independence.

What’s This?

Here is a photo of a common beverage:

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You’re thinking, “Yeah. Milk, no big deal.”

Wrong.

Not milk.

Meeps.

At least that’s what we call it at our house, now and forevermore.

Lost in Translation

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Some kind of miracle has occurred, i.e., the baby is still napping, so I’m going to try to crank out a quick post.

The Boo has begun to manufacture his own words for things. See if you can guess what each one means. (A great way to get an idea of what my days are like.)

Duck…

Chuck, our neighbor, much adored by the Boo.

Yeddah…

Yellow, his favorite color.

Mimi…

Music, duh.

Nay-nay….

Ned, his beloved bedtime buddy.

Yay-yay…

Raisins.
Yeah, I don’t get that one either, but that’s definitely what he means.

My Return to the Stage

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Hello friends,

No, I have not fallen off the face of the earth, but close: shifting naps, insomnia and teething have taken a vicious toll on my writing time. So until I get myself and the baby figured out, please read this this lovely blog post by my old pal Chris King about a musical event I’ll be performing in. And about which I’m very excited, between moments of nascent tantrums and sleepy stumbles to Target.

Xoxo,

Mama Dean

What I Learned Yesterday

1. A 19-month-old can throw a snack cup — the kind with a twist-to-lock lid — such that it pops open when it hits the floor.

2. Cheerios travel impressively far on highly polished surfaces such as the floor of our local Target.

3. Saying there’s been a Cheerio disaster gets a smile from a worker bee.

A Riddle of Sorts

Baboo: Please?

Me: Please what?

Baboo: Ice!

(I fetch ice and give it to the Boo.)

Me: Here you go!

Baboo: No!

Me: Okay!

(I ditch the ice.)

Baboo: Please?

Me: Please what?

Baboo: Ice!

Listen and Repeat

Me: Say “please.”

Baboo: “bees!”

Me: Say “pee.”

Baboo: “bee!”

Me: Say “daddy.”

Baboo: “dah-DAY!”

Me: Say “yes.”

Baboo: “yesh!”

Me: Say “house.”

Baboo: “housh!”

Me: Say “ice.”

Baboo: “eyesh!”

Me: Say “kitten.”

Baboo: “nyow-nyow!”

You Are 19 Months Old

You are 19 months old.

You have somehow learned that this symbol means “trash”:

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You have been collecting new words: nice, trash (which was “dash” and is now “tash”), Elmo (much to Mama’s chagrin), go, pop, boom, help, pee, beep, please, eat, on, in, baby. Not that these words sound exactly like they’re supposed to

You now eat bananas like a normal person (previously Mama fed them to you on a spoon because you either refused to touch them, or smushed them and then complained about your banana-covered hands).

You adore your Daddy more and more as time goes on, running to see if he’s home after every nap and sticking as close as possible to him when he’s home. If you see a picture with a man and a baby, you call the man Daddy.

You occasionally get into a temper, usually when you’re tired. And it’s not really a temper so much as a very pathetic display of tears and sadness over a profound disappointment such as the kitchen gate being closed when you’d prefer to roam the entire first floor.

You sometimes take Mama by the hand to lead her to an activity you’d Iike her to participate in. Usually it involves a book. With kittens. Because…

You love, love, love kittens. Love them. When you see a dog you make your kitten noise. So it’s really cool for you that Grammie bought you a book that actually meows.

You enjoy play dates for the most part, though you tend to hang back a bit and remain puzzled by the concept of sharing.

You have become adept at going though play tunnels.

You love to “help” Mama sweep.

You will sometimes stamp your foot if you’re not getting something you want. We have absolutely no idea where you learned this charming little behavior. Seriously. Mama hasn’t stamped her foot since she was enduring the third fitting for her wedding dress.

You eschew all vegetables except carrots, sweet potatoes and the stems of broccoli.

You know what toilets are for, and you ask Mama if she needs to “bee” every time you see one. If she does, you enjoy getting paper for her, and you try to flush it while she’s still doing her business.

You can go up and down the steps of the jungle gym all by yourself. You can also get into and out of your little chair by yourself. You tend to throw your arms in the air and squeal whenever you get out of the chair successfully. Mama may have taught you that part.

You love to put on one of Mama’s or Daddy’s shoes and clomp around in it.

You said “no!” when you saw the needle for your flu shot, but you didn’t even cry afterwards.

You are 19 months old, and you are edging gently into Toddlerville.

The other day in Target I was standing agape in the sippy cup aisle once again (Why so many? Why?) when I saw something that made me smile. A bunch of somethings, actually. A bouquet of babies:

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See, when you’re the white mom of a mixed-race baby, you start to notice these things. I’ll never forget how bummed out I was when I realized that all the babies represented on one of Baboo’s toys were lily-white. It took everything I had to resist grabbing a brown crayon to amend that situation. I mean, which America are you living in, toy company that shall remain nameless? Even here in the Midwest, any outing makes it clear that this country’s beautiful melting pot is all around us.

So thanks, Munchkin, for your cute and diverse bib-hanger babies. You made this mom’s day.

I'm over 50. I'm raising a high schooler. Sometimes he posts too.

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