It is January folks, which no one ever said with enthusiasm. And the pandemic shatters new death records daily but that is below the fold news, because insurrectionists breached the Capitol and delayed the certification of Joe Biden as the winner of the presidential election last week. So it has not been a light news stretch, but here in the Shoyce household, it is business as usual except that Nitin is still working constantly and we are still under partial lockdown because of Covid. We are all eagerly awaiting Inauguration Day next week -- by which I mean the grown ups are, and the kids are oblivious -- and the kids have been unusually chatty lately, so I thought I'd write up a post before I forget the context for their witticisms. Yes, I said kids, plural -- our Myles has more to say these days, beyond "meow" and into the brave new world of "chickpeas," "truck," "popcorn," and "blanket."
Ellie, for her part, has stopped mispronouncing some words, such as "bananas," formerly called "bo-mamas," to our great sorrow. We know she probably cannot enter adolescence still calling them bo-mamas, but these things happen with so little warning. Fortunately, she has started calling french toast "friendship toast," and she insists that "am-ent" is a word -- it is a contraction that she invented, combining the words am and not, so for instance, if I ask why she is crying, she will sob, "No I am-ent." She also calls eyebrows "e-brows" and I am not going to correct her because it is so funny and sweet and I think we can get away with it for a while.
She is plucky and observant and socially experimental. One day, she made up a song about some task that she was completing while we were in the kitchen together, and then looked up and asked, "did that make you cheerful?" And I did not explain that children are not meant to make nonsensical songs to make grown ups cheerful on purpose; it has supposed to be a happentstancial byproduct of something they do for their own amusement. But it did still make me cheerful.
When I run on the treadmill midday during workdays, Ellie will frequently make a short visit. One day, noticing my new shoes and remembering a complaint about my ankles from a week or two ago, she asked whether my new running shoes were making my ankles feel better.
I drive Ellie to school every weekday, using various tricks to get her out the door in approximately a half hour, including dressing her while she is still tangled up in her bedsheets and half asleep, and bribing her to come downstairs with the prospect of chocolate chips in her cereal. Mary Poppins I am not. On our way to school, Ellie and I trade off telling stories about an eponymous protagonist, Elliefish Jellyfish, and her sidekick, Peppa Pig. Last week, Ellie told a story about how Elliefish and Peppa both caught the germs, and there was no one to take care of them because everyone in their families was sick; but I always make sure that we keep telling the story past the anxious moment when fear materializes, and by the time the story ended, everyone was able to cuddle on the couch and watch Sesame Street, and they were feeling better. Six years of therapy to learn to keep telling the story past the frightening moment, but well worth it.
When we arrive at school, if we are on the side of the playground where the kids can play with chalk, I draw two hearts, one for each of us. Ellie picks the number of parting hugs and kisses she requires every day and she tells me very seriously to save a very special kiss for when I pick her up, also reminding me to "recharge my kisses." For whatever reason, this ritual works, and her days at school are good ones, without reports of noticeable separation anxiety these days.
When I pick Ellie up, I ask her about her favorite thing that happened today, and it is nearly always whatever activity she was doing when I picked her up. But I do not trust her account, because actually, school has been transformatively wonderful for her, so I doubt that the best part about it is that it every day, it ends at some point. One day, she reported that she felt grateful when an aide who taught her last year said I love you, my sweetheart. She relishes unambiguous demonstrations of affection. Like me, I think she hates not to know where she stands, which is why both of us ask our people repeatedly to make sure. For both of us, trust is not necessarily the thing.
Nitin noticed that Ellie seems to have a lighter appetite these days, which I think is correct. She does still appreciate a decadent dessert, and her favorite treat is ice cream, in a cone, with sprinkles and whipped cream. Ellie acknowledged recently, "ice cream doesn't make you grow big and strong, but it puts a smile on your face."
We still get some pretty regular sass from Ellie, which is to be expected. While we were driving home recently, Ellie mentioned that the big kids at her school did not have problems, and I seized the opportunity to talk about how everyone has problems, but we can ask for help and take steps to try to solve our problems. I was so pleased with the hard-earned wisdom I was transmitting; I learned this basically in the last twenty minutes, and Ellie could learn it at four years old. But Ellie interrupted me and said, "Can we skip the things that you're saying?" Yikes. I think I said that was not very nice, but I did stop talking.
When she had a crummy listening day last week and started off the following morning on the wrong foot, I said that I hoped today was not going to be another day like yesterday. Ellie replied instantly, "Another day like yesterday, coming right up!"
And sometimes she is just funny. She was discussing skin colors with Nitin and me one night and said, very seriously, "Mama has white skin, Peppa has pink skin, and Daddy has fur skin." To his credit, Nitin also thought this was hilarious.
Myles paints a contrast with Ellie in many ways. His appetite is so robust that I swear he can house most of a box of macaroni and cheese by himself. Having Ellie around can feel like having another neurotic mid-30s conversation partner, but Myles is neither neurotic nor remotely adult in his conversation patterns. He derives great joy from trotting around naked on his tiptoes, and he is frequently naked, because he tends to shed his clothes just because even though it is January and the temperature in our house seems to hover around 66 degrees. Myles is terribly interested in his toothbrush, sometimes demanding to carry it around the house, and frequently stepping up to the sink in search of his toothbrush. This is fortunate because little guy also has a sweet tooth; he often chants cookie, cookie, cookie for no reason in between meals.
Myles is also a great mimic. We make strategic use of this. If you ask Myles whether he wants something, the response tends to be no, no matter what you have asked about. But if you suggest "yes, please" in a singsong voice, he usually relents, repeating "yes please" and accepting whatever item was offered. But, be warned, he repeats everything. For example, Nitin was relating some public health conversation he had had with someone and said, within earshot of Myles, "...people will die." Myles chanted "die, die, die" gleefully for the next several minutes, but thankfully, the new vocabulary word does not seem have stuck.
That is all for now, and now there is nothing that I can do to further procrastinate cleaning the kitchen.
