LB’s latest linguistic kick is identifying things that he likes as “good.” On a stroll to the playground yesterday, he periodically paused to point out cars and say “Machina good” or “Machina good no.” This kid has a taste for cars, let me tell you, preferring Audi convertibles and vintage Fords over minivans and compact sedans.

From his mastery of “good,” last night we got his first English sentence. He identifies his cereal bars as “little bar” and kiddie granola bars as “big bar.” While chomping down a cereal bar, he told Mr. P. “Little bar ‘esa good.”

The move to our new condo went smoothly, thanks to lots of help from my father (who endured heavy labor) and stepmother (who kept LB out of the way.) LB seems unfazed by the move; it probably helps that our new place is roomier and sunnier, a definite improvement over our shambly apartment. An added bonus: about a half-mile away, there’s a tot lot with spraying fountains for kids to frolic in on hot days, a real life-saver during the recent heat wave that has now subsided into cool sunshine.

Cooling Off

The last time we were there, I sat near two women who were watching their daughters (around 6 years old) play together. One of the girls seemed pretty crazy. She was drinking the fountain water with a plastic shovel, and her mother hastily made her stop. “Well, that was a new one,” she said to her friend, referring to her daughter’s errant behavior. The girl then began standing over a water spray so that it indecently adjusted the position of her bathing suit, and her mother quickly made her move. “Well, that was a new one,” she again told her friend.

The girl then approached LB, who was watching water swirl down the drain. She started touching his hair, at first gingerly and then by placing both hands on his head and rubbing it like she was scrubbing a plate.

“We don’t touch other people!” her mother called, and the girl dropped her hands and ran away. A. looked at me and pointed at her with this priceless expression of “what the eff, Mom?”

“Well, that was a new one,” the touchy girl’s mother sighed.

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!

This morning I took A. to Gymboree, where I had cheaply purchased one month of classes on Groupon. As I expected, A. did not really get into the instructor-led activities, preferring to sit on my lap and watch the other children as they gathered for a story, danced to lame kid music, ran drills on the kiddie equipment, and hugged Gymbo, the scary life-sized clown-doll that the instructors perpetually trot out as a mascot (and conveniently sell in the lobby). The other mothers glanced at us with sympathetic understanding twinged with pride that their children were joiners.

One particular woman was very nice, chatting me up about A. and expressing amazement that he has only been home for about a month. Later, she caught sight of his underwear poking out from his pants as he bent over to pick up a ball.

“He’s toilet-trained?” she asked in amazement. Some nearby mothers looked at us, awaiting my response.

“Yes, lucky for me! I said. “They toilet-train much earlier in developing countries. They don’t have diapers, so most kids are trained soon after they start walking.”

“Amazing!” one of the mothers breathed.

“We could probably learn something from that,” said another.

Yes, that’s right, ladies. My 2-year old may not have the developmental fortitude to hug a stuffed animal or run under a parachute, but at least he doesn’t shit himself. Score one for the kid from Ethiopia.

We’re well into Week 4, and A. is beginning to let it all hang out. In many ways, he’s an embodiment of all terrible 2-3 year old behavior: He’s bossy, willful, prone to hitting, not prone to sharing, and wants to do everything by himself (except play, eat, and toilet). It’s a good thing kids are so cute, or the human race would be long extinct.

Luckily, he has his totally endearing moments. Like when we were all horseplaying on Mr. P ‘s and my bed last Saturday late morning, and he kept saying “tenny” (his word for sleep) to us while stroking our hair and arranging our heads on the pillow, and then, satisfied we were napping, he snuck out of the room. Or when I gave him my Mac to watch YouTube videos of Elmo, and he mimicked what I sometimes say if he overly bothers me while I’m using the Mac: “A. working.” Or when he just comes up to me and hugs my leg. I’ll forgive him most anything.

This week, yet again, the list of foods he has refused to eat is longer than the list of new foods he put into his mouth. I have tried most of the surefire kid junk foods, only to be meet with resistance and a demand for bananas and peanut butter. Surely this is the only kid ever who has refused waffles, french fries, Cheerios, popcorn, soft pretzel, and pizza. Pizza! He refused take-out pizza!

On Sunday, we took A. to the pool at my gym for the recreational swim time (aka Kids Gone Wild). We didn’t expect to get him in the water at all, but he looooved the pool. In two minutes, he was submerged up to his neck and bobbing around in Mr. P’s arms. In 30 minutes, he was doing a supported doggie paddle. And by the time we left 90 minutes later, A was holding our hands and jumping into the pool with enough force to submerge his head. He didn’t want to leave, but I think hunger won out. Hunger for bananas, of course.

A. can count pretty well in English up to 10, although six becomes “sec-es.” Parts of English speech still seem enigmatic to him… anytime anything is cleaned (car, clothes), he’ll say “wash-your-hands.” Trains, cars, trucks, and buses are all still machina, although he is accepting that we call those things something different. Squirrels are rabbits, no matter what I say. He hasn’t picked up as much English as I imagined he would, but I think it will come all at once. One day, he’s going to realize that Mommy and Daddy are talking about him, and it isn’t always about what a little angel he is.

Snack Time on a Hike

Snack Time for the Birds