Babies Will Be Boys

NOAH: Ta Ta Ta Ta.

DAD: Hey Noah. Guess who's coming today.

NOAH: Ta Ta Ta Ta.

DAD: Michael! Your uncle Michael!

NOAH: (...)

DAD: Can you say "Michael"?

NOAH: Cock!

DAD: How about "Mike"? Can you say "Mike"?

NOAH: Cock!

DAD: That's not a charitable way to talk about your kin, Noah. How about "Hi dad"? You just did that one. Try it again. "Hi dad!"

NOAH: Cock cock cock.

DAD: Good talk, Noah.

**

It's a recurring conversation. Last week we had it in the park. Sunshine, loads of people lazing on the lawn. My spelling is a little misleading -- "kak kak kak" would be more just -- but seeing as Noah had launched into it after hitting me in the face for thirty seconds, there's no telling how it sounds to a bystander.

Plus, he was clearly protesting. Doesn't like grass, the city kid. Here we've been waiting all these months for spring, and then you put him down on the greenery and this look of "why the hell are you smiling when you put me in this stuff?" takes over his face. Doesn't want to touch it. Doesn't want his knees on it. Not even through his pants. So he pulls himself to his feet, hits me in the face until I stand, grabs the legs of my jeans, and toddles around me in a circle yelling "Cock! Cock! Cock!"

Good thing, then, that to maintain balance he has to grip my denim well below the knee.

Birthday Boy

Noah turned one today. His mom and dad grinned and giggled, and felt a little shocked to think of how fast he has grown. Noah moved through the usual pleasures of a Tuesday: watching the garbage truck, napping and playing, free from any awareness of time or change.

Then we brought out the funny hats, Noah had his first cupcake, and discovered the sweet, sweet pleasure of being the birthday boy.

Don't Call Me a Mama's Boy

"Noah," said his mother, her exasperation tempered by laughter. "Why is it that you can say 'truck,' 'teeth,' 'cup,' 'daddy,' and 'zzzzz,' but you won't say 'mama'?

"And you only say 'zzzzz' for Daddy."

This was the truth, as far is it goes. Only a parental interpreter could decipher 'truck' and 'teeth' in his last-consonant-only locution, but there's no doubt what he's talking about when he says them. 'Cup' anybody could recognize. And when we get to the end of Goodnight Gorilla, Noah likes to imitate my rendering of Gorilla's snore. But as for the theory that 'mama' is a child's first word, Noah is the bull-headed exception to that rule.

As bull-headed as his mother, one might be tempted to say, were it not for the fact that his old man makes a draft mule look yielding.

After a week of fatherly prodding, Noah did manage a string of 'ma ma ma's last night. But not before, according to Liz, dropping both 'owl' and 'hoot' in the preceding 24 hours.

Today he said 'cheese.' Then went back to his usual button-pushing routine, turning the stereo on and off on extreme tiptoe, pulling the hair around my belly button, stealthily removing all the Kleenexes from the tissue box, nibbling the nap off the stairway carpet, stuffing avocado chunks between his butt and the high chair, and making me read My First Truck Book in a never-ending loop.

Swings

On the first Sunday the thermometer finally nosed its way into the 60s, we joined the small legion of other families who opted for the playground over the pew. Noah's ecstasy on the swings bordered on the religious...