Noah Likes Christmas

Especially the presents.




Finally, a pen he's allowed to hang on to...

a vacuum all his own...


and a kitchen to cook in, just like Daddy!

Pimp My Lid

A partial list of things Noah has turned into hats:

Clear plastic bin
Grocery bags
Salad spinner
Colander
Pot lids
BYO tote bag
Puzzle pieces
Puzzle boards
Hardcover books
Magazines
CDs
Baskets
Bottle tops
Tupperware
Dinner plate
And of course actual hats, typically repurposed as blinders

First Snow

Morning mission: Dig out the car.

Noah Pities the Fool

Good Morning

Trick or Treat

Noah P. Can Moo, Can You?

No!

"Do you want some water, Noah?"

"No!"

"Do you want to go upstairs?"

"No!"

"Would you like some grapes?"

"No!"

Yes, he does. In fact he wants three helpings of grapes, with slugs of water in between, but why should that deprive him of the pleasure of saying no? Noah has discovered defiance. What's worse, it suits him. Meshes with his whole look. He's evaded a haircut for so long that we might have to just get him a skateboard instead. I can see it now. He could strap on his shades and shred it at Rittenhouse Square, tossing off a few Nos for the cops to chew on. Then he'd cruise home and tell me what I can do with my question about bath time.



But there's a disadvantage to being 19 months old. Your parents can still dress you up in adorable sweaters, and let's see you try pull off that defiant act with a fuschia collar around your neck, big shot. In fact, I think it's time to get over here and trim those bangs. And what's that? You'd like to go upstairs and read a story? Did I hear a please?

I'm a Cob Man

Remembering summer...

The Beach

You might think that yelling red-faced at the ocean is something only crazy old men do. You would be wrong.

The first time we sat Noah down at the water's edge last week, his initial reaction was glee. The waves splashed against his legs and he couldn't get enough of it.

Then, he literally couldn't get enough of it: it was low tide falling, and a few waves in a row failed to reach his anchorage in the sand.

He pointed. He grimaced. He shouted at the inexorable sea. He wailed.

He turned toward his mother with a gesture of outrage. Make the waves come back! I want those waves now!

When we actually took him out deep, we knew we had a terminal case. The kid found nirvana. He couldn't have been happier if he'd been eating blueberries with one hand, raspberries with the other, and petting a dog with both. Unless perhaps if he'd managed to wriggle out of his diaper right before that trifecta, the better to pee in mid-air as the dog licked his face.

Noah Accessorizes

Mischief

This blog entry is brought to you by the letters K, Y, P and O, which, in the form of foam cutouts, Noah can now identify on the first go. Also Q, 2, A, and sometimes D. I never would have thought to even quiz him until one day he picked up the letter P and blurted its name. This at a point when he still seemed unaware that a word could have more than one consonant and vowel. I shuddered to think that he was already taking after his father -- 15 months old and more interested in language than in speech.

A short-lived hypothesis. Yesterday Liz carried him upstairs to the diaper table. He squirmed and thrashed. "Noah, I'm just taking you upstairs to get a new dipe," she told him, putting him down to arrange things for the change.

Whereupon he looked at her, stated "Downstairs!," and scrambled through the child gate and back toward the second floor.

Doubtless he had an object in mind. The second floor is where the kitchen trash can is. He has taken to opening the lid and tossing in toy trucks, stuffed animals, blocks, and the aforementioned letters to mix with the cherry pits and corn cobs. When you sign up for parenthood, no one tells you that you'll soon end your evenings by digging through old chicken bones to rescue Donald Duck.

Funny thing about mastering trash can lids: it awakens you to the principle governing toilet seats. The other morning, sometime after the little bandit's 5 o'clock wake-up shout, Liz emptied one of his diapers in the upstairs bathroom. Noah scampered in there behind her, grabbed her hairbrush, threw open the commode, and used the bristles to collect a lovely little dollop of his poop.

Really, it makes eating finger paint seem like an act of true restraint.

Playground Chimes

The Leprechaun on Holiday

By grown-up standards, the first leg of our journey to County Kerry was the red-eye from Philly to Dublin. For Noah it started earlier: a departures-terminal jaunt in the $15 umbrella stroller we bought for Ireland. He was unimpressed with the cut-rate conveyance.


But his exemption from the seat-belt rule on the plane made up for it. The kid is all about courting danger.


And rambling around ruined castles and such.




Also good for mom and dad to be able to prove that the last year of making sheep and goat sounds haven't been signs of parental insanity, after all. Outside of the city, these animals actually exist, and make noises.



Not to mention being able to demonstrate that he really does have three uncles, who can be assembled, along with his grandparents (and even a great-aunt), from the proverbial four corners every now and again.

Bubbles

Memorial Day Schedule

9 a.m. Art


10 a.m. Recess (Seger Playground)

11:30 a.m. Crepes for lunch!

12:00 p.m. Nap in the stroller

1:00 p.m. Hijinx with Daddy