At A.’s doctor checkup last week, which preceded yet another round of scream-inducing catch-up immunizations, we found out that A. has grown 2 inches since he came home, going from the 3rd percentile on the height charts to the 15th percentile after only 3 months of a high-protein, high-calcium, high-hidden-veggie diet. Wonderful, wonderful news, and yet I feel this totally irrational sadness that the itty bitty boy that I brought home from Addis Ababa is getting bigger. At this trajectory, he will soon be too big to scoop up into my arms and nestle comfortable against my hip. He’ll start to develop independence, rendering me irrelevant for dressing, eating, bathrooming, and ultimately transporting. Pretty soon, I’ll be paying a hefty college tuition bill, giving long-distance laundry advice, and nostalgically yearning to hold my little boy again.
I know every parent says this, but oh. This kid is smart. I wonder if not learning English until age 3 will prove to be a neurological advantage. The brain has to work to learn a new language, after all, and his brain is still growing. His head circumference is in the 85 percentile. It’s become a running joke between Mr. P and I that people can tell A.’s not our biological son because his head is so big (although actually, my head is also of abnormally big proportions.) A.’s got a wicked good memory. The other day in the car, Lenny Kravitz’s “Fly Away” came on the radio and A. got excited. “Daddy running!” he kept saying, which mystified us until I remembered that this was the song that was played at the starting line of the Mt. Washington Auto Road Race that Mr. P ran one month ago. And he remembered that! Granted, I did take a video of the start that we watched several times, but it’s been weeks since we watched it.
We are pretty confident he is right-handed but left-footed (or “goofy,” in Mr. P’s snowboarding parlance.) He’ll take a fork or a crayon with his right-hand, but sometimes switch and use his left-hand with little thought. But he is consistent with his left foot: kicking with his left foot, starting stairs with his left foot, and stepping first with his left foot when we give him a little push-from-behind test (which he loves). Mr. P is already plotting his future career as a left-wing soccer star (and it’s true, he’s got a devilish kick for a 3 year old… given that balls are the only toy that most kids in Africa have, he probably learned how to kick soon after he learned to walk).
To stay cool in the ungodly heat wave that just now abated, I took A. to the beach for the past two days. A. has grown to absolutely love the “big water,” as we call it, especially now that it’s hot enough that we can spend more time in the 60-degree water. Our favorite beach has these fantastic tidal ponds that A. enjoys playing in. Yesterday, we were walking in a small tidal river and I commented on how I liked the “warm water.” This is not a concept that A. understands; things are either hot, cold, or “little hot.” But I forgot, and immediately A. started grabbing onto my leg, demanding to be picked up.
“What’s wrong?” I asked indulgently.
“Worm! Worm water! Worm!” he fretted.
“No worm,” I said. “Warm!” but he wouldn’t let me put him down. I walked back to the shore and we played in the gentle low-tide waves, and he seemed to forget all about the “worm” water. Later, we went back to the tidal ponds to dig in the sand, and what did we find wiggling through a pile of soggy sands but three little pink sandworms — something I’ve never seen at the beach.
“Worm water!” A. exclaimed, dropping his plastic shovel and taking off down the beach, his little feet smacking the wet sand with joyful, terrified vigor.
Later, we were sitting in the shallow but chilly waves, facing the Atlantic with the relentless sun at our backs, giggling with shivery delight each time the water crept up further on our broiling skin. A started repeating everything I said, something I’ve done to him a few times when he starts babbling in Sidama. I decided to take advantage by making him say something I’ve longed to hear for many months:
“I love you,” I said.
“I love you,” he repeated, smiling. He has no idea what this means, as it’s a hard concept to relate. When he’s feeling happy and affectionate, he’ll tell us “Mommy is good” or “Daddy is good” and give us kisses. And the thing he wants to hear most from us is “Gobez,” which means “Wonderful good boy!”
“I love you,” I said again.
“I love you,” he repeated, the smile growing ever-larger.
“I love you!”
“I love you!”
“I love you!”
“I love you!” By the ninth or tenth time, his exuberance had grown and he was bellowing loud enough that people started looking at us.
“I love you!”
“I love you!” He didn’t grow tired out it. And neither did I.
Alas, since he’s spent the past week either at the beach or in day care, I don’t have any new pictures this week, so here are a bunch of blurry ones from last week.
