My Little Pidgin
As it turns out, TJ speaks Gullah.
We never would have known, since he's never been within 100 miles of the islands off the coast of South Carolina, but he's begun to speak a language all his own. Call it Teejish.
When I taught public speaking, I told my students to avoid saying, "Um." TJ has blown right past that-- when he needs to fill in between words, he's just created his own: "Umsah." Plus he seems to have created his own grammar, sort of a shorthand for English. So you get something like this: "Umsah....umsah....bring Bear Binky...umsah...umsah....Bear Binky me."
For those of you who don't speak Teejish, that's "Please bring Bear Binky to me."
His linguistic creativity, interestingly, doesn't hide the fact that he has a giant little heart. After the hurricane, one day I came home and he said, "Umsah....I money....umsah...I money fireman's shoe....umsah...people ho-pital Grandma house."
So, with some translation help from Emily, eventually I figured out he was saying, "I put money in the fireman's shoe for the people in the hospital near Grandma's house." With a second bit of translation, I realized with a start that he was telling me he donated money to the firemen on street corners for the victims of Katrina. (For those of you who are new to our program, "Grandma" is Emily's mother, who lives in a New Orleans suburb.)
After a bit of reflection, I came to the conclusion that it doesn't matter if he talks like Shakespeare or Yoda. His heart's already matured.
Anguish
Normally, of course, I post about the kids. This one's a little different.
You may have noticed in my last post that we flew from New Orleans (Emily's hometown area) to DC. Of course, approximately 30 hours later Hurricane Katrina blew through and changed the course of history. Simply put, there was the world, and New Orleans, before the Great Storm of '05 and there was the very different city after. As of now, of course, we don't know what that new city will look like, whether it will manage to retain or redevelop the character, culture, and color it's known for. After this week the image of New Orleans will likely be flood waters and snipers shooting at rescue helicopters. (Who DOES that, anyway?)
I'm not a disaster junkie, but this is different. I've never felt my heart break like I have this week, and I can only imagine what it's like to be in the city as it pulls completely apart. Sometimes disaster brings out the best in people, and certainly that has been true in patches around the Deep South. Unfortunately, however, to the greatest extent possible this disaster has brought out the worst in humanity.
Em's folks live in Covington, on the North Shore of Lake Pontchartrain, and we didn't hear from them for almost three days. They're fine, as is our dog, Henry, who we had sent to live with his grandparents about two weeks before the worst natural disaster in US history. (Sorry about that, H. Dog.)
I'm from the north of the state, so I don't want to overstate my connection to the disaster, but several of the touchstones of my life happened there: Em and I were married there, and both the boys were baptized there.
It's hard to explain New Orleans to people who've never been there, and I'm not the right person to try, except to say that it's a different kind of place....it's just not like any other city in the US, maybe in the world. Along with the Big Sleazy reputation and the image of New Orleans as Party Central, there's just a casual, comfortable culture there that you don't see anywhere else.
An example:
One summer a few years ago, Em and I were in New Orleans with a friend of hers. We were in Jackson Square, and Em and her friend were looking through a clothing store, so I wandered down to a Ben and Jerry's to get some ice cream. I walk out with my ice cream, and out of nowhere a young woman-- maybe 20 or 21-- approached me. There was nothing special about her; she was just a N'awlins girl out on a Saturday afternoon. She wandered up and said, apropos of nothing, "Can I have a bite of your ice cream?" She wasn't a street person, and she probably could have gotten her own, but for some reason the request didn't seem strange to me at all. So I said, "Sure," and handed it to her. She took a bite, gave it back to me, thanked me and walked off. It wasn't until three or four weeks later, when I was back home, that the incident struck me as strange. It didn't seem weird that she asked, or that I said yes. It just happened.
Only, I think, in New Orleans.
Flight of the Damned
I've never been the parent of That Kid before.
You know the one I'm talking about, The Kid in the restaurant who smears stuff on the wall, or The Kid in the mall who throws a tantrum in front of The Gap...or, worst of all, The Kid who pitches a two-hour fit on an airplane (or The Baby who won't stop screaming from takeoff to touchdown).
Today, it finally happened. TJ's usually a good kid. He really is. But don't tell that to the lady who sat in front of us on the tw0-hour flight from New Orleans to DC, the one whose seat TJ kicked for 90 minutes (despite threats, orders, spanks, bribes, treats, and all the rest). Or the other folks around us who had to listen to him whine, scream and cry at semi-regular intervals throughout the flight. Sigh.
We walked up and down the aisle.....and Teej smacked some guy on the elbow. We checked out the back of the plane....and Teej tried to open the door. (That would be the outside door.) When I told him "no," he asked why, and I had to explain to him the meaning of "35000 feet to the ground, sans parachute."
Usually when I fly alone, I try to block out That Kid and pretend s/he's not screaming/crying/kicking/barfing, but it's hard to do that when he's in your freakin' lap. Ah, well.
He really is a good kid. Usually. At least, I keep telling myself that.....
Power to the People!
Well, I'm back.
After everyone breathes their deep sigh of relief, let me apologize for my short sojourn through slackerdom. I wasn't out of the country for 4 1/2 months, as the last post and my following absence might suggest. I wasn't taken hostage, I wasn't climbing Mount Everest with nothing but a sherpa and a Diet Coke, and I wasn't hanging with Dick Cheney in his undisclosed location.
Nope. I was just lazy.
And, of course, while I was napping on my couch, the boys were doing some serious growing. Jackson now brushes his gums with a vibrating purple elephant (more on that in a moment) and TJ talks like a Ph.D. candidate (which I should know-- I was one, during the longest 6 years of my life, but that's another story).
Let's start with Jackson. He has occupational and physical therapy multiple times per week, and I got the chance to take him to his session yesterday. The first 90 minutes were the usual thing-- making him stand, getting him to roll, having him practice gripping stuff-- but the last 20 minutes blew my socks off. The little guy was sitting in a high chair, working on feeding himself (dip hand in pudding, rub in hair, shove in mouth, repeat) when the therapist put a vibrating purple elephant in his hand. I asked what it was-- "Is it a toothbrush?"-- and she said, "Nope, it's a vibrator." I let that softball float on by, then watched in amazement as Jackson began opening his mouth wide and diving at the elephant, grabbing an ear in his mouth so it could vibrate against his gums and teeth. Now, I know this doesn't sound like much, but you have to keep in mind that I've never seen Jackson make this kind of effort for anything. He opens his mouth for food, and occasionally grabs at a light chaser, but that's about it. This was virgin territory for me. He ducked and bobbed and weaved like Arturo Gotti and grabbed that poor elephant like the TRex grabbing the raptor at the end of Jurassic Park. All in all, a bravuro performance. Mark Daddy as suitably impressed.
Then there's the Teejinator. He talks in somewhat complete sentences (which isn't bad, considering he just turned two) and knows the answers to questions like, "What beds can we jump on, TJ?" (Answer: "Hotel beds!") And he says some weird stuff that nobody can quite figure out. Example: If you point at Jackson and ask TJ "What's his name?", he says, clearly and articulately, "Jackson!" But if you ask TJ "What's your brother's name?", he says, just as clearly and articulately, "Oink, oink!" That's right....TJ's brother is named "Oink, oink!" Go figure.
So anyway.....we're back and as weird as ever. More later.
Gone Fishin'....
I'm going to be out of the country for a couple of weeks, so I won't be posting until sometime around May 7. I've got my arm loaded up with my Typhoid and Tetanus and Polio, and all the other good stuff, so here I go....
First Chink in the Armor, Ted....
So we're at swimming yesterday, and I give TJ his snack pack (otherwise known as the "30 minute killer"). Unfortunately, someone (and I'm blaming him) didn't open it quite far enough, and he can't get his little fingers in there to get his Teddy Grahams out. Next thing I know, there are 10 little bears drowning in the staid puddle on the ground in front of us, and TJ's giving me a look (painfully familiar to me, unfortunately) somewhere between pity and outright disgust.
Long story short, the 30-minute killer lasts only about 10 minutes. Next thing I know, TJ's running around, playing, up and down the bench, and then, suddenly, he jumps in the water and begins to swim like Mark Spitz!
Okay, I made the last part up, but the rest of it's true. And it's also true that he tried very hard to fall off the bench and hit his head on the floor, but luckily I grabbed him. Anyhoo....luckily Em wasn't around to see most of this, or I'd probably be writing from my hospital room....
A Little Navel-Gazing
I'm new to the blogosphere, and in fact until relatively recently spent more time disgusted with them than interested in them. (I think the phrase I used was "self-interested navel-gazers....") But now that I'm in the blogocracy, and the blogometer is running, it occurs to me that it's entirely possible I enjoy navel-gazing more than most.
Here's what I mean. I'm endlessly fascinated by the doings of my kids-- right now, particularly TJ. Remember, 12 months ago he was a screaming little red menace, not quite devoid of personality but not quite swimming in it either, and now he seems to gain new words and ideas and possibilities daily. For quite a while he relied on some stock phrases in his conversation, but now he seems to have branched out and gained the ability to be more reactive.
"TJ, how's your nose?"
"Running!"
"TJ, how's your bottom?" (Necessary info: He had a diaper rash.)
"Okay!"
"TJ, what'd you do today?"
"Ghoshi's house!" (More necessary info: Ghoshi is the pet name for his babysitter, used by the kids she keeps.)
Meanwhile, I think I drizzle away more time watching him turn into someone interesting. It's sometimes very hard to believe how much he changes, and how quickly; it's also sometimes very hard to remember how he was as an infant. So much has changed (not least his color-- now that he's not screaming all the time, he's not red nearly as much).
I'm not sure if I'm accomplishing anything-- putting off necessary work, like studying-- but it sure is fun.
The Lone Arranger?
TJ has the heart of an actuary (they have hearts, don't they?). He doesn't play with his toys, he arranges them. When he was younger, he would just stand or sit there and pick up as many as possible, like he was trying to categorize them. ("Okay, we have two purple blocks, one purple dinosaur....")
Now he just organizes, like a little Trapper Keeper with feet. On Saturday mornings, when we're trying to get a little extra sleep, he makes what you might call "toy runs" between the living room and our bedroom. Rather than getting one of his thousands of toys to play with, he just brings them and lines them up behind me on the bed. If I'm awake enough I can hear him, but often I'll just wake up and turn over to a toy car, a fake cell phone, a veterinary play set, a couple of random puzzle pieces, a fake thermometer, all lined up in perfect order like they're waiting for pickup. It's like I went to sleep and woke up in Santa's workshop-- I even have the little elf running around.
So does he grow up to be something thrilling, like a skydiver or a cowboy, maybe an Extreme Fighting Champion? Or is he destined to be an accountant, or (yikes!) a librarian, or maybe a Major League Baseball statistician?
