No I haven’t retired the blog. I could bore you with excuses but it really comes down to me just being lame.
Baby Boya arrives this Friday. Number three’s true name remains confidential so as to preserve some excitement for the big day. We’ve also had to prepare Greta mentally for the reality that the baby’s name will not actually be Boya but she can call her new little sister whatever she likes. And, no, the baby’s name will not begin with a G despite Vegas laying the odds at 2:1 for “Guinevere” or “Gertrude.”
Come this Friday – assuming Boya waits that long – Greta will be two weeks shy of her third birthday and Gus will have just turned 18 months old. Apparently, there’s some kind of unintentional 18-month symmetry going on between the three mini Ts. This is probably a good moment to take a quick snapshot for the family chronicles. We’ll start with the eldest.
As of a few weeks ago, Greta decided that she wants to pee on the potty all the time. Finally. After bribes with candy, toys, pee pee charts, fancy underwear, cash, a convertible, and a declined offer that we pay her college tuition, Gigi is batting about .900 since she took the plunge.
The only remaining challenge now appears to be aim. I’m not much of a coach in that department. I’ve been trying to help when pressed into duty, but the geometries of her stream and body positioning is still a work in progress for me to process. For the first time in my life, I understand why gals do the whole squat thing.
Poop is a different story. Basically, Gigi requests a diaper when she feels a movement coming on, which is fine by me. THE WIFE and I are just relieved that Gigi’s not intimidated by a toilet anymore. Now if only we could get rid of the bed time binkies. Speaking of which, of all the ridiculous products out there that parents waist money on, I can’t believe there isn’t a patch/gum/methadone-like gismo to wean a kid off a pacifier. Wait, I think I’m on to something. Get me Gerber’s research department on the phone, stat. Forget we had this conversation.
Before we move on to her brother, two new and frequent mannerisms that merit recording are: 1) her hands on the hip and 2) the run-on sentence using “because.” In either or both cases, Greta is usually in the midst of an animated lecture about an important event from her day’s activities. Here’s the scene:
DAD enters the house after getting home from work. GRETA comes running to the door to greet him.
DAD: Hi everybody. (closing the door)
GRETA: Daddy!! (wiping her hair from her face)
DAD: Hey! How was your day?
GRETA: (placing one hand on her hip and moving the other as she speaks) Good. Augey took my dolly because he was being fresh because … because … we were with Mommy and then we had cheerios because I ate them because we were watching a show because… Daddy, do you want a sticker? Here is a princess sticker. But you can’t have it because I need it because we sang songs today -
And so on. Overnight, she’s morphed into this totally entertaining little girl. She owns me and I think she knows it already. Now onto her brother.
August is equally entertaining and impressive. He adds a new skill to his repertoire almost every day it seems. He isn’t walking just yet, but he can stand and shuffle along the edge of a couch or ottoman with skillful ease. We just started to practice using a walker from P.T., which has been a hit.
Of course it may not be quite as important as walking, but G-man’s dance moves are already off the charts. Whether he’s sitting or standing, the shoulder shimmy is textbook perfect form. Give him a beat, and he’ll start grooving. Doesn’t matter if it’s the Final Jeopardy theme, Jam’n 94.5, or if we’re practicing Happy Birthday at the dinner table. As soon as Gus hears a song, he starts boppin’ around and the dance-off is on.
As for talking, Gus practices his words and uses sign language with pretty good success. Ask what a lion, pig, or cow says, and he will probably give you an endearing roar, snort, or moo. Or he might ignore the request. Or he may just motor boat an inviting bosom. You never know.
Naturally, the little guy isn’t a total angel. Gus never resists an opportunity to yank Greta’s hair. On any given night at dinner, he may eat like the glutton from 7even or he could react like Tom Colicchio eating parsnips. My biggest gripe about the G-man, though, is his total disdain for being dressed. Every time I put clothes on his body, he thrashes, spins, ducks, weaves, and gripes about it to the bitter end. The one analogy that always comes to mind is a rodeo cowboy lassoing a runaway calf.
At the end of the day, though, we hug it out and patch things up by bed time. Around 8:30 p.m., I carry Gus up the stairs to his room while he blows kisses or blinks pretty eyes to THE WIFE with his legs wrapped around my waist like a little monkey. Too cute.
And that’s that. THE WIFE is ready to burst. She stopped picking things up off the floor about three weeks ago. My close calls with death due to tripping over unseen hazards are off the charts. Most recently, a middle of the night leak brought me into unexpected contact with Uggs on the bathroom floor and what would have been a sure concussion and ACL tear if not for my Jedi-like reflex to curse and stumble into the towel rack. I said nothing, of course, lest I endure an exaggerated eye roll, a loud and dramatic sigh, hands on the hip (I wonder where Gigi gets that one,) and the “You don’t even care that I’m pregnant” comeback that ends any disagreement.
Now I’m second guessing whether to leave that last paragraph in or not. Eh, screw it. We’re in the home stretch.
Seriously, though, THE WIFE has been a trooper. Once she gets to the point when the bottom of her shirt starts to ride up on the belly, I know delivery day is close and THE WIFE’s been through the ringer. Between the heart burn, the waddle walk, the sleep “hots,” the post-salty dinner cankles, and not having seen her toes while standing in a while, the poor thing’s ready.
Bottom line, Boya needs to get here. We’re all waiting for you, young lady, you hear me? See you on Friday!