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One Month Update

Language

The receptive language acquisition is increasing exponentially. I swear that he understands everything I say, but then I’ll say something like “Does A. want to help Mommy put all his toys back in the box so she can reclaim her sanity?” and he’ll say “Yeah,” but I’ll find out seconds later that he doesn’t really mean it.

The expressive language acquisition is steady. New words: Big. Boy. Girl. Goggles (for swimming). Wheels. Music. Money. Bus (acquired after an adventure to Cambridge, see below). Baby. He is counting well up to ten. He is now putting “no” in front of nouns (“no meat,” instead of “meat no.”) He repeats the names of the colors when I point them out, but doesn’t use them himself. He is frequently asking what things are by pointing and saying “It-ay?” He is still maniacal about pointing out “machina!” every time we see car or truck; he calls the Jetta “Daddy Machina,” though I’d like to point out that I paid for 2/3rds of it.

Food

We’ve had to wean A. off of bananas because of a new medication he’s taking, but luckily he doesn’t seem to miss them. He is now eating copious amounts of meat (which he calls “meat-ee”), which is ground beef, pork, veal, or whatever I get from our meat co-op, stir-fried with grated zucchini, carrots, onions, chicken broth, and berbere spice. (I could probably sneak in some more vegetables, but they have to be easily camouflaged by the dark red berbere). He can eat this three times a day along with whole-wheat bread (still known as “dabbo”). Peanut butter, yogurt, and cereal bars round out his diet. We’re mixing his medication in his orange juice, so we’ve become big juice pushers, which probably is the reason why he’s losing interest in it.

Music

I bought a new pair of earbuds for running, the kind that gently hook onto your ear A. immediately wanted to use them, so I plugged them into my Mac, opened iTunes, turned the volume low, and tried out various songs:

Likes: “Thunderstruck” by AC/DC, “On to the Next One” by Jay-Z, “Dominoes” by the Big Pink.

Dislikes: “Pump It” by the Black Eyes Peas, several songs by Guided by Voices, “Go” by Moby (this one actually made him mad — he kept insisting “Mommy, music!”, implying that Moby is not music), and the A-Team theme song.

Bus Ride

So, yesterday evening was the bus adventure to Cambridge. I am running a 5-mile road race on Sunday with some co-workers and I volunteered to pick up our team’s packets in Porter Square, which is a ten-minute bus ride. A. was in a cranky mode before it was time to go — in fact, he was kicking and fussing as I put on his shoes and jacket. But I could tell he was intrigued by the prospect of going on a “big machina.” Not intrigued enough to walk himself to the bus stop (my biceps were screaming), but at least he stopped sulking.

Of course we waited 15 minutes for a bus that’s supposed to come every 8 minutes or less, but that’s because it was drizzly, cold, and I was holding a 2-year old who refused to stand on his own two feet. When the bus did come, A. behaved impeccably, as he always does whenever we’re in an unfamiliar location. He didn’t say a word until after we got off, when he excitedly buzzed in my ear “Big machina! Big machina!”

So we pick up the race packets, do a little bit of shopping, and hop back on the bus for home. By then it was rush hour but we found a seat, this odd single seat next to the back door. We were facing a man who was stretching his legs across three seats, which was an immediate clue that this man was a tad deranged (in addition to the unshaven face, stained clothing, and strong beer smell). When we sat down, I could tell this man was staring at us and I immediately felt wary. We get stares, and it doesn’t really bother me because I understand the stares and thus far the stares have not delved into any nasty remarks. If a stranger chooses to say something, it’s usually harmless and directed at A. (“I love your sneakers! Do they light up when you walk?”), and he’ll just stare back and I’ll answer for him, trying to engage him. A few times I have gotten questions. (“Is your son adopted?”), and only once did the person immediately start asking where he came from and what happened to his parents — out of curiosity, but still, that’s just beyond rude.

Soon this drunk/deranged/derelict man starts fidgeting around, obviously impatient with the slow progress of the bus, and I begin to relax when suddenly I hear: “Hey Mom.”

Slowly my eyes turn to the man, and he says again “Hey Mom.” He suddenly leans over the aisle, his arm outstretched to me, and I hug A closer to my chest.

“Can I give these to him?” the man asks, and I see he is holding a pair of red dice. “He’s watching me with them, and he wants to play with them.”

“Oh, oh, thank you but no,” I say. “He, um, might eat them.” As if.

“You sure? You think he might eat them? Oh, okay.” The man retracts his hand but I’m still in high alert. We’re surrounded by other passengers, including a very tall man in a gray business suit who looks like he could squash the man like a bug, but I don’t feel physically threatened. I just felt uncomfortable, because I could sense what was coming….

“So, is he, like, your son or your child?”

I think he was trying to ask if I give birth to A. but luckily he phrased it in a completely cryptic way, perhaps in an attempt to be socially couth.

“He’s my son,” I said firmly.

“Well, he’s sure interested in what I’m doing. He keeps looking at me,” the man said, a cutesy tone in his slurred speech. A., who was watching the man, suddenly turned his head to the front of the bus. I swear that kid does understand English, or at least he just sensed the unsavoriness of this man. Thankfully the man got off two stops before we did. I walked home in light rain, clutching my son, my child in my aching arms.

The night before we left Addis Ababa: This kid is ready for anything!

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