Today Mr. P went to the Social Security office to obtain a card/number for A. He needed to take all of the official documents we currently have for A. (at least until the readoption takes place later this year and we can get a US birth certificate and a final adoption decree). I made Mr. P promise to guard everything with his life. These documents are priceless … not just because they are irreplaceable and if anything should happen to them, our son will essentially have the legal status of a cat, but also because of his facial expressions, which run the gamut from teary (that would be his Ethiopian birth certificate, issued just prior to leaving Ethiopian so it has our names on it — it’s the earliest-known photograph of A. and also the first photograph we saw of him when we got our referral) to surprised (his Certificate of Citizenship, issued upon entry to the US, although the picture was taken a few weeks before in Addis Ababa) to terrified (Ethiopian passport, from the same photo session as the Certificate of Citizenship — you can see the white of his eyes, poor boy.)

This weekend, I caught A. (ensnared him, really) in his first lie. He was sitting on the toilet, doing his business. Normally I sit with him to keep him company, to clean his ears, clip his nails, rub oil on any ashy patches on his scalp, that sort of thing (taking advantage of captive audience!), but we had just gotten home from the beach and food shopping so I had groceries to put away, towels to hang, sand-crusted toys to stash outside, and a million other little domestic distractions to tend to. When I hadn’t heard a peep from the bathroom in about five minutes, I stuck my head in to check on A’s progress. He avoided my eyes with uncharacteristic bashfulness, and when I stepped in the bathroom I noticed a large amount of the current roll of toilet paper had been unrolled and then clumsily, probably hastily re-rolled. 

“A.?” I asked, softly but with an edge of disapproval, pointing at the haphazardly-wound roll. “Did you do this?”

He said nothing and stared at the floor with sad eyes. He knew this was bad. His first month home, he had done this repeatedly to the toilet paper. I let a lot of bad behavior slide those first tumultuous weeks, but I could not tolerate anything unhygienic, and after 4 or 5 firm rebukings A. found the inner strength to resist playing with the toilet paper. Until…

“Did you do this?” I asked again, and again no response. So I took another approach. “Did Daddy do this?”

He looked at me, his eyes widening a little with what I surmise was surprise. Maybe he was thinking, Oh boy! She doesn’t suspect me, she suspects Daddy!

I stifled a laugh and asked, “A.? Who did this?”

A. took a deep breath. “Daddy do it,” he said very, very quietly.

“Daddy?” I asked, nodding knowingly. “Daddy unrolled the toilet paper?”

Embolded, A. nodded. “Daddy do it!” he declared with a hint of self-righteousness, and I promptly burst out laughing. I know I shouldn’t have been laughing — not only was my child lying to my face, he was tattling on his father — but it was hilarious. My response actually infuriated A., who glared at me fiercely when realized that I was making fun of him the whole time.

“Mommy do it!” he said meanly, as if hurling an insult, and this really cracked me up. My laughter only made him madder and I was scared he was going to jump off the toilet and go into one of his rare hitting tantrums, so I immediately calmed myself down and began touching his hands and arms reassuringly.

“Honey, it’s okay,” I kept saying. “A. is a good boy! It’s okay!”

“Daddy do it,” he whispered, and then almost immediately, “A. do it.”

“Oh,” I said, acting surprised. “Well, you know we don’t play the toilet paper, honey. It’s bad.” (This is a word that holds tremendous sway with A., probably because some months ago I stupidly demonstrated its meaning to A. by pretend-slapping my own wrist. Although we never ever punish A. physically, the nannies at the orphanage would slap the children’s hands to make them stop or drop something, and though I regret my implication that “bad” actions would be addressed with light violence, it immediately gets A.’s attention when something is “bad.”)

“A. bad?” he asked sadly.

“A. not bad, A. is a good boy,” I reassured him, our typical. “But playing with the toilet paper is bad!”

Though I spoke very gently, something I said re-triggered his anger. “Mommy do it,” he told me. “Mommy bad.”

I started to giggle, and this time, after a moment of stoniness, A. joined in.

Mommy's Little Angel

Three months. Three months? Three months!

Day Care

A. just finished his first week of part-time day care at a premier “child development center” down the street from my office. I call it “school,” he calls it “e-cole” (ironically — he’s speaking French before we even taught him). Last week, I took him on three mini-visits so we could spend time in his classroom together, so he was rather shocked when we arrived on Monday and I said, “Mommy working, A. school.” The tears welling in his eyes told me he understood. He clung to me as we went inside, attached himself to my leg as I put his things in his cubby, and refused to sit down with the other children for the morning snack. When I said good-bye, he went wild with cries and screams and latched himself onto my shirt (which he totally pulled down, exposing my bra to the class), and when the teacher picked him up he hit her repeatedly. Oh boy, assaulting the teacher, not getting off to a good start…

But things improved. I went to the director’s office and watched him on the closed-circuit TV, and he had stopped crying and was staring at the other kids. So I felt a little better about going to work, although all morning I couldn’t help wondering if A. thought I was leaving him there forever. When I called the center at noon, the director told me he was napping, which either meant he was relaxed and happy or stressed out to the point of exhaustion. I left work at 4:30 to pick him up. When I came into the classroom, it reminded me of when I came back to the orphanage on my second trip to Ethiopia — he looked at me with a shy half-grin and waited happily to be scooped up in my arms.

Days 2 and 3 went much better, and he seems to be thriving. He is making art projects (crocodiles, elephants), playing with lots of educational toys, having a ball on the playground, and his English had already improved a touch. When he starts full-time in August, I can only hope he is still this excited about school. (And I hope I am still this excited about going back to work — the second day, my ankles swelled from having sat down for nine hours straight, something I haven’t down in, well, three months.)

Language

New words are coming fast and furiously out of that little mouth: Tree, sand, hole, wave, bug, towel, slide, swing, down (as in “go down,” which he says when he is finished eating), sleeping, seat, open (“open-it!” he’ll demand, holding out a cereal bar), doctor, shot, soap, fingers, hand, leg, eyes, mouth, more (and “no more” is a favorite, used when something is totally gone — “no more yogurt” when he is done, or “tree no more” when we were watching a nature documentary that showed a tree getting cut down), paper, broken, hair, cooking, home, and animals. And he understands a lot more than that.

We are getting lots of simple sentences, (“Mommy cooking meaty pasta” “Daddy is working outside?” “This one!”) In fact, “This!” has replaced “Ho!” as his expression of amazement.

When something is big, he’ll point and say “Big one!” (This started at the beach, when we were playing in the waves at high tide. I’d tell him “Look, a big one!” and he’d repeat “Big one!”)

He just started responding to me with “Okay.” I’ll say something like “We’ll go outside when I finish cleaning the kitchen, okay?” or “A. brush your teeth, okay?” and he’ll say, usually resignedly, “Okay.”

There was a stunning moment at the playground today when he was pointing at a truck in the sandbox and calling it a “car” rather than a “machina.” It  killed me to correct him: “Truck, honey. It’s a truck.” I would bet money that this sudden departure from machina has something to do with peer pressure at school.

Food

Not much progress here. He starts the day with medicine-spiked yogurt and then usually doesn’t eat again until noon, when he’ll enjoy a plate of vegetable-spiked ground meat mixed with tomato sauce and pasta, which he’ll eat with bread. He also enjoys peanut butter, hard-boiled eggs with ketchup, cereal bars, and cheese. He was on an applesauce kick for awhile but this has ebbed. He likes salmon but doesn’t eat a lot of it. Since all of his snacks and meals are included at the day care, I am expecting school will expand his palate, which is good and bad (since snack is usually graham crackers and fruit loops… would much rather have him chomping down eggs.)

Building up an appetite (note feet touching pedals --only works downhill)

Gymboree

Today was our last day of Gymboree, as it doesn’t make sense to continue it now that day care has started. A. enjoyed going to the indoor play gym, and honestly, on rainy days it was a lifesaver — a great way to get him out of the house and active. But the Play and Learn classes were just grating. Do parents really need to be coached on how to play with their kids? Do we really need a “professional” throwing a bunch of rubber blocks on the floor and telling kids to pick them up because it’s yummy, yummy ice cream? And Gymbo… egads, that effing clown. The hokey music. The contrived product placement (“It’s bubble time! Our bubbles have great hang-time, are non-toxic, and are available for sale in the lobby!”)

A. loved the indoor gym equipment, and I loved playing with him on the equipment, but if I had to sit through another Play and Learn class I was going to add a new verse to the Gymbo song (“Dance, Gymbo, dance… hug, Gymbo, hug… punch, Gymbo, punch…”)

Catching bubbles at Gymboree

(“Wordless Wednesday” is such a Mommy-blogger cop out, a toss-of-my-hair subtle way of moaning “I’m in the throes of the work week and there’s no way I can string together actual words to describe how endearing and cute my kid is, so I offer you these pictures simply so I can cross out this blogging to-do from my to-do list and go be productive elsewhere.” Of course, it would be less egregious if the rest of the days weren’t also wordless, but I do what I can.)

Discovering the joys of sticking your hand out the window of a moving car on the way to the beach

I thought this was the cutest-ever 'sleepy time' photo...

...until I saw this one. Love that little tushy!

Mr. P., sensing in his sensitive Euromale way that the pressures of work, home, money, and family were pushing me to the brink of uncharted mental terror-tory, gave me the night off. He took A. to go see Cars 2 in 3-D… nevermind that I also took A. to see Cars 2 in 3-D this very afternoon (and that he refused to put on his 3-D glasses and thus watched the whole movie in blurriness), it’s a good escape from the heat and a nice treat for a little boy who is about to leave the comfortable domestic nest for the cold reality of day care, and it’s a nice two-hour long respite for Mommy, who can’t stop wondering if allowing A. to go see Cars 2 twice in one day will permanently ruin his brain and/or temperament.

I decided to walk to the library. Ah, I remember when I used to walk everywhere… what freedom for the limbs and the mind, to wander down a sidewalk on a hot summer evening! At the library, I carefully perused the selection of books that I would never have time to read and DVDs that I could never watch with a 3-year old around, and wound up selecting “Some Girls: My Life in a Harem,” written by the wife of the bassist from Weezer who I heard give an interview about the book. After silently thanking the public library for instituting self-checkout,  I walked home, using my phone to answer emails on the way, and then I paced around the condo. I should really vacuum and Swiffer the floors. I should really pick up A.’s toys. I should really do some work. I should really practice my yoga backbends. I should really wash my face properly for the first time in a month.

Next week, A. starts day care part time for the rest of July, then moves to full-time in August. I am excited but sad. Though I wasn’t the most content stay-at-home Mom ever, I viewed this time with A. as a once-in-a-lifetime chance to bond with the little boy whom I am blessed to call my son. I gave him all my love and affection and built up an attachment that will probably cause a difficult transition to day care but that will serve him well for the rest of his life. He is an amazing boy, bright and funny and happy, and I am spending on my night off blogging proudly about him. (Now off to read about modern-day harems…)

First Trial Day at Day Care