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I am sitting on  the balcony of our condo,  overlooking the ocean off the island of Maui right now.   Kenny is sound asleep after a morning of frolicking on the beach, throwing fistfuls of sand, and diving headlong into the gentle waves.   Casey is beside me with a Corona and I am sipping on a crisp chardonay, catching up on the latest blog news while waiting for my massage appointment, which will begin in about two hours.   Tonight we will be dining at a five-star restaurant and looking forward to the next two full weeks we have to spend here, relaxing, eating, strolling, sunbathing and swimming.

Please keep all this in mind as you read the story of how we got here.   I know that I am on this side of paradise, and am a blessed young woman, so though the tone of the story may project a minor nightmare, the ends that justifies the means makes it all melt away like the gourmet macadamia and chocolate ice cream I ate last night.

We have been planning this vacation since last January, when we came here for fourteen days with a four-month-old Kenny.   We planned each detail of the travel with such minute attention that we left absolutely no (we thought) incidental to chance.   Casey even went in person to the airport three weeks ago to confirm that our tickets were perfect.

That didn’t stop a mechanical glitch from canceling the flight that would have taken us to our connecting flight that was supposed to take us straight into Maui.

See, we got up at 4:30 in the morning, got a ride to the airport with Casey’s dad, and checked our exactly-fifty-pound bags, and headed through security.   That’s where they confiscated all of my not-too-cheap Mary Kay makeup because it wasn’t in the proper ziplock bag.   That was the first indication that even the best laid plans are no match for the TSA.   Besides the makeup, the very large and grumpy security lady also threw away my hairspray and Kenny’s sippy cup, because it contained water instead of juice or milk.   A much nicer skinny guy guard fished it out of the can for us and returned it, as Kenny wailed, “WALER!   WALER!”   We got to the gate, played with Kenny, ate a muffin and then heard the announcement that almost caused us to self-combust…

“Ladies and Gentlemen on flight 487 to Phoenix,  we have just received word that there is a mechanical problem with the plane.   Please sit tight, and I’ll know more in thirty minutes.”

Ok, we thought: we had an hour+ layover in Phoenix.   We could still make it.   And hour later, we were being told that the flight wasn’t taking off anytime soon due to a part that needed to be replaced:   “I don’t know what the part is, when it’s arriving, or where it’s coing from,” said the English-accented flight attendant… “If you have a connecting flight please come see me.”

Another hour later, we were told that our only option, for the next three days (!) was to drive to another airport two hours away the following morning and fly coach (our original tickets were for first class) through LA.   We called Casey’s dad, and I went to baggage claim with Kenny to recollect our bags while Casey went to the ticket counter to see if anyone up there had any idea of how to get us to Maui.   We had a lot of bags.   I managed to get them all myself while Kenny cheered from the stroller and get them onto a cart and up the elevator.   Just take a minute to picture a 105 pound woman pushing both a stroller and a cart loaded down with a carseat, a 50 pound duffle bag and two 50 pound suitcases.   I almost made it to Casey but I got stuck getting out of the elevator door at the top when the duffle bag fell and jammed the strolled in the door.   Casey happened to call my cell phone at that moment, which I answered, incredibly, and ran over to disentangle us from the scene.

We returned home defeated.   Casey sprung into action.   He got on the computer and found a flight leaving for Hawaii the next morning from Houston.   If only we could get to Houston.   We managed to convince the airline to book us that afternoon to Houston, put us in a hotel, fly us to Honolulu and then connect us to Maui, causing us to arrive 24 hours after our original arival date.   They consented, found us first class seats on a much nicer airplane and we were off, loaded back into the car, a vacation redeemed.   Almost.   We returned to the airport where they denied any knowledge of booking us on the alternate flight.   Casey yelled.   Kenny looked up, now awake for roughly 16 hours and no nap in sight, and said, “Dadda?”   I started thinking about whether or not it was lady-like to start carrying a flask of whiskey in the diaper bag.   Then they figured out the mistake, and sent us on our way to the gate.  

This time, all of our liquids were in ziplocks.   Good thing, too, because the ticket agent, in an apparent act of revenge, marked our tickets with an “S” which means, in airport security lingo, search these people in every and any way possible.   Have you ever seen a fifteen-month-old get patted down, run through an explosive-detecting machine (in my arms, thank God) and inspected like he’s the world’s tiniest nuclear bomb?   I joked that they ought to at least offer massages if they were going to touch us like that, but the lady-guard didn’t laugh.   They didn’t laugh either when I suggested that they might want to change Kenny’s diaper while they were at it, as he was carrying more than liquids through the gate in there.

But finally we were seated in the comfy seats on our 747 and heading for Houston.   The seat was big enough for Kenny and I to sit side-by-side, but by that time in the day, he was so wiped out that all he wanted to do was play with my eyelashes and eat my gourmet airplane food.   I shared everything but the double-vodka.    The three hour flight went by in a wink (ok, not really).   We landed, collected our luggage  (which they weren’t able to book all the way through) and headed for the airport Marriott.   We got in the elevator, and kept punching our floor, which wouldn’t light up.   An automated voice answered with, “Elevator in Fire Mode.   Please exit.” and we zoomed to the top floor.   Only then did we realize that we needed to insert our room key to gain access to the proper floor.   Duh.   We got to the room and after filling out the room service breakfast card, collapsed for a five-hour snooze.

We awoke to room service, for which the nice and tidy server demanded cash, as the airline “forgot” to give us our meal vouchers.   We paid, ate, wheeled all of our luggage back onto the tram and paraded to the ticket counter to get our passes to Honolulu.   This time, the ticket agents were sweet, competant and full of Southern hospitality.   We cruised to the gate (after another  special “S” rubdown inspection) and settled into the nicest first class you’ll ever see this side of the pond.   Though it was only nine in the morning, we ordered champagne (I even let Kenny taste it, since he kept insisting it was “JUICE!”   He spit it out and looked at me like I was a maniac for drinking that stuff and defiantly returned to his sippy cup and ritz crackers.) and perused the menu they gave us for the four-course lunch that was being offered on the flight.

The nine hours actually went ok.   We ate for the first two.   Then Kenny slept for two of them, and woke up to play fairly quietly in the ample space in front of our seats.   Casey and I watched a movie.    Kenny enjoyed his first cheesesteak sub (offered just before landing as a “snack”) and ate it whole, not settling for the bits of meat and cheese I started pulling off for him.   And so we arrived in Honolulu revived and happy to be at least close to our destination.

Our flight to Maui was only 30 minutes from gate to gate, and Kenny and I counted “Aapanes!” and “Copters!” out the window as we gazed on the beautiful string of islands and volcanos strung out across the ocean.   We landed and breathed a sigh of relief.

That is, relief until we realized that our luggage was not on the baggage belt.   We decided not to fight it (after all, all we needed to do was buy bathing suits and toothpaste, right?) signed out a loaner carseat, hailed a cab and watched the breathtaking ocean-side forty-minute drive to Lahaina town.

As we were seated at dinner an hour later, watching the sunset over the ocean, we got the call that they found our bags and would transport them to our condo.   And the rest is history.

Not really history, but the beginings of a pretty awesome vacation.   It’s day three, and I need to wrap this up so that I make it to my massage on time.   YIPPEE!   I’ll write more and post pictures tomorrow.   There is more to tell, much more and much more fun.   Hi to Mom and Dad!   (I’ll call soon!)   And a hug to George and Ruby, who are home with Dudley.   (And Happy Birthday, George!   I knew you weren’t 70 yet…)   Thank you!

Though it’s not Kenny’s first Christmas, this is the first time he has understood the excitement of  ripping open packages, of  seeing new toys and games and books, and  of feasting on  a gorgeous Christmas dinner surrounded by  a loving family.   He ate more pumpkin pie today than any 24 pound animal should be able to consume.   Yesterday was a whirl of  church services,  as I  was the reader in the morning, and one of the singers  in the evening (at two different churches, mind you, our church in the morning, and my parent’s church at night).   In the middle of the first song  of last night’s service, Kenny sat on my Mom’s lap in  the front row, pointing and yelling with excitement, “Mama!   Mama!!”   It was like being a rockstar, only better.   And he was really excited to say “Ah-men!” so many times in one day.   That’s my boy!

And now, after a wonderful day with family and friends, we are packed to the gills  with the maximum amount of baggage allowed, and are preparing to leave at five am tomorrow to catch a plane for our Hawaiian vacation!   A twelve hour flight with a fifteen month old… are we insane??   Ah, but what is a mere twelve hours of little feet digging into my thighs, pulling my hair, playing with my eyelashes and begging for one more “cwacker!” compared to nineteen days of bliss in the Maui sun?   (Casey’s folks are staying at our house to Dudley-sit.   They are the ones who need lots of hugs and prayers sent their way.)   I am sitting here supposedly paying bills and making sure the household is in order, while Casey and his Dad and brother watch the Jets / Dolphin game on TV.  

So Merry Christmas, friends.   I hope that your day was filled with joy and gratitude.   I hope that you not only had things to be grateful for, but also Someone to be grateful to.   I’m not just talking about spouses and kids and parents and friends.   I’m talking about our Creator, the One from whom all things are given.   I hope that you remembered during all the chaos (even the chaos of going to church services!) that today is the day we celebrate Jesus’ humble birth, and remember his  humiliating death and  glorious life anew.   I  hope that as you hugged your family today,  you were able to catch a glimpse of the love that we feel only because He taught us first to love.   I hope that you got goosebumps and surprises and saw your children dance with joy.   I hope that you can  imagine the peace  that comes from knowing Him.  

Merry, joyous, miraculous Christmas!

Kenny has embraced two new habits, one an endearing heart-tugger, and one heart-tuggingly hysterical.  

 

   Ok, climbing into the cabinet underneath the stovetop to play drums on the pots and pans isn’t one of them, but it’s pretty darn cute, wouldn’t you say??

   Ok, climbing into the cabinet underneath the stovetop to play drums on the pots and pans isn’t one of them, but it’s pretty darn cute, wouldn’t you say??Anyway, the first is that he has really gotten the hang of saying grace before meals.   He will fold is little hands, look at me expectantly and wait with baited breath to shout, “AH-MEN!”   A couple of times I’ve accidentally started feeding him without praying, and he’s clasped his hands furtively and whispered, “Ah-men, ah-men!”   He will also start mumbling “Ah-men” when I’m taking too long to fix his food.   And mealtimes is not the end of his new  praying habit.   He will fold his hands and look at me mischeviously and sweetly from under his lashes at bedtime when we say “Now I lay me…” and “God Bless” each family member, waiting to join in with a resounding “AH-MEN!!”

I have to say, it fills me with this tingly kind of joy, knowing that whether he understands it yet or not, he does know that praying is a normal and happy part of our day.   Just like he likes me to sing “Jesus Loves Me” and “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” and “How Great Thou Art” and “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” all in a row.   And I love that.   I love that God is part of his life already.  

The second thing, the funny one, is that he has started pulling all the stops when he doesn’t want to take  a nap.   Remember, this is the kid we’ve called “No Nap Joe” since he was six weeks old.   Lately, on days when he doesn’t catch decent zz’s in the stroller or the car, I’ve been rocking him and then putting him in his crib at the same time everyday and leaving him there for twenty minutes, even if he cries the whole time.   It’s not the most relaxing part of my day, but at least I’m giving him the opportunity to nap, right?   Anyway, yesterday and today, in amidst the wails, cries, screams and whines, instead of calling, “MAAAAAAAAAMAAAAAAAA!” he’s been giving me one chance (often a whimpered, “Mama?”) then moving on to more likely jail-breakers.   That is, here is what floated over the monitor today:

“Mama?   Dudley?   Duuuuuuuuudley?   DUDEE!   Dudley?”   I was collapsed in a heap of laughter outside his door.   Like Dudley is going to gallop in there to his rescue, right?

Then he kicked it up a notch:   “Dink?   Diiiink?   Dink!   Dink?”   Here’s the kicker:   “Dink” is the foreman on our renovation job.   He’s been at our house everyday, nearly all day, since before Thanksgiving.   Kenny really loves this guy, for some reason.   In fact, in the morning, right after he’s gotten a chunk of banana in each fist, he waddles over to the renovation area and starts looking around, calling, “Dink? Dink?”   But little did I know that he was going to start calling on Dink to spring him from an undesired nap.

I think Kenny cried more than he didn’t today.   All morning, he kept signing “hurt,” yet shook his head when I pointed to his tummy, his throat (which has got to be raw after all the coughing he’s doing), his nose, etc.   Finally, he tugged at my sleeve and pointed to his teeth, saying, “Menine?”   Boy – I haven’t seen that in a while.   That’s his request for Orajel, which means that another tooth is coming in.   We’ve had almost three full months with no new teeth (since two molars came in around his first birthday), but it turns out there’s a big nasty one coming in up top.

A cold, a cough and a new tooth.   How did we get so lucky?

I pulled all the stops, trying to alternately sooth and cheer him up, but even the scarcely offered chocolate chip cookie was spurned.   Kenny is honestly the happiest kid I’ve ever seen, no naps and all, so it’s tough to get used to a day when he’s a bona fide crank.   By this afternoon, I finally locked us both safely into his room, poured out all his blocks into the floor, and ignored him for twenty minutes while I read a magazine.   It actually worked, and he played contentedly by himself until dinner time.   He still wouldn’t eat much, but he went to bed without a fuss.

On a more fun note, Kenny got his second haircut today!   We were starting to go mad from the construction noise and the cabin fever-inducing weather, so I figured that a jolly trip to the mall and Cartoon Cuts would save the day.   I have to say, Cartoon Cuts is the greatest invention… he sat in my lap, watched a cartoon about that Thomas Train guy (we have a book about him from my Mother in Law, and a toy train that sings “choo, choo!” but we’ve never actually seen the show, so Kenny was pretty amazed), and let a stranger cut his hair.   He looks so adorable!!  

I’d post a picture, but I wasn’t able to get one of him today that didn’t either have a lava-flow of snot coming from his sweet, tiny nostrils, or one without him crying and sucking on his fingers, or one without him trying to help the construction guys drill holes in the wall in the three seconds my back was turned to pick up the camera…  

A toddler with a wicked cold, a dog who needs a walk, three construction workers that need us out of the way, and a Mommy who didn’t drink enough coffee when she woke up.   That was the recipe we started off with this morning, when I decided it would be a good idea to make the guest room ready for the mass invasion of company coming for Christmas.  

It is very difficult to tuck in the fitted sheet when there’s a weimaraner on the bed trying to help.  

Then there was  Kenny next to the bed, holding tight to the back of my knees and  yelling, “Up!   Up!   Up!”  while rivers of snot ran out of his nose.  After the bed was made, I decided that it would look better against the other wall.   No problem: the bed was on wheels and the carpet in there is short.   I put Kenny on the bed for a ride, and kicked Dudley out the door.   Moments later I hear a gruff, “Hey!” followed by the unmistakable sounds of Dudley’s paws on the Pergo.   Kenny and I peeked out the bedroom to see Dudley flying through the house with a stack of ceramic tiles in his mouth.   With Kenny on my hip, I headed out in hot pursuit.   Dudley was actually laughing at me as I tried to catch him.

Once that fiasco subsided, Kenny and I returned to the guest room to finish what we started, this time with Dudley.   I left Kenny to play in the pile of pillows while I moved the bed the last inch.   For the thirty seconds my back was turned, Kenny obviously tripped on something and the crash and cry that followed nearly stopped my heart.   He managed to fall against the door hinge, and a nasty bump and cut swelled out like an egg on his temple.

Once that was cleaned and soothed, he was back to being the happy rascal, so we traipsed into the other guest room to make that bed.   Unfortunately, that room has become a dumping ground for everything that came out of the laundry room and bathroom for the renovation.   Not only is the washer and dryer in there, but all the cleaning supplies, the vacuum, two extra end tables, piles of towels and blankets, stacks of books and CDs and two baskets from underneath the old bathroom sink.   I realized soon enough that it was hardly safe to do anything in there with Kenny and Dudley at my heels, so I thought I’d take thrity seconds to throw in a load of laundry before heading out the door.  

Big mistake.   Kenny decided to use those thirty seconds to go through the bathroom baskets, and though I thought they were merely full of old nail polish bottles and hotel soap, there turned out to be an old razor in one.   Talk about making your heart stop: I closed the washing machine door to see Kenny with the business end of the razor in his mouth.   I screamed (a gut response) and he dropped it like a hot potato.   There was a single drop of blood on his perfect lower lip and I scooped him up, rushed upstairs and called the doctor.

Kenny thought my panic was funny, and started covering my face with kisses, saying,   “Ah, Mama!”

The Doc said that there is most likely nothing to worry about, as he’s up on his shots, and as the cut is so miniscule that I can no longer see it.   They told me “what to watch for” and I told them about an article I read in the checkout line at Safeway on the epidemic of staph infections in kids.   The doctor calmed me down and repeated what to look out for.

Kenny and Dudley and I spent the rest of the morning in a sterile, padded cave.

Not really, but if there had been one at my disposal, I probably would have.

We just returned from a quick weekend trip to New York.   Casey’s parents watched Kenny on Saturday, and Casey and I  had a grown-up night on the town: drinks at the swanky W Hotel  lounge in Times Square, dinner at Swizz  with his brother and his girlfriend, and then fantastic seats at The Lion King on Broadway!   A whirlwind weekend, and an early Christmas present!

The highlight of the weekend for Kenny, though,  was  the early Christmas present from Gramma and Papa: a real rocking horse, complete with saddle and stirups, springs and a harness.   He took to it like a one-year-old boy on a plastic steed.

Wait… he is a one-year-old boy, and it was a plastic horse…

Anyway, he loved the imaginary gallop through the living room, with Papa safely holding onto his belt buckle, and Gramma singing “Pistol-Packin’ Kenny” two hundred times in a row.   The strange thing was that the horse is almost exactly the same size as Dudley, and as we had to leave the horse in New York (they will bring it down on Christmas day), I’m a little concerned that Kenny might really try to ride Dudley in the interim, now that he knows how to hold on tight and ride like the wind.  

Unfortunately, on returning home, Kenny has the wicked cold that I had last week: runny nose, raspy voice and dry cough.   It looks like we may be spending the morning at the pediatrician’s office again, instead of finishing up our Christmas shopping and going to his gymboree class.   He’s sleeping now, but with a definite murky snore.   My poor, sweetest little guy.   He didn’t get sick at all the whole thireen and a half months I nursed him, but it seems like he’s been battling a perpetual cold / pink eye / ear infection / flu ever since.   Then again, it is wintertime, he is involved in more “social” activities and we are still victims of an overtime renovation…

Thank goodness vacation is just around the corner.   As long as we can make it through the germs on the plane, we should be home free in the sunny south pacific!

For the past two weeks, Kenny has discovered the joy of saying a word and repeating it 368 times, as loud as he can.   In the car yesterday, our conversation went something like this:

“Papa.   papa.   papa… papa… papa… papa…” (multiply that by about 50.)

“Yes, Honey, I know you love your Papa.   He’s at his house in New York…We’re going to see him on Saturday…”

“Ryrun… ryrun…ryrun…ryrun…” (again, times 50)

 “Ryan’s at his house in Boston…”

“Duddee!   Dudee!   Dudee! (this one times 75)

“He’s in the back seat, sweetie.”

“Hep, hep, hep, hep, hep…”

“You like to help when we walk Dudley, don’t you?”

“Papa?”

“In New York.”

“Ryrun?”

“He’s in Boston…”

“PAPA!   PAPA!   PAPA!    PAPA…” (and on and on for five or six minutes with no pause)

There comes a time when I wonder, does he really want me to continue a conversation about the person he’s bringing up, or is he just delighting in repeating the name until his vocal chords falter?   Do I ignore him, or try to engage him?   Is he practicing his vowel sounds, or does he really want to hear more about it?

Ah, the mysteries of living with a one-year-old!

Not all of it is maddening or mysterious, though.   Kenny is absolutely the best hugger I could ever have imagined.   He will wrap those skinny arms around my neck so tight it’s like they’re glued in place, then lays his head on my shoulder and hum, “Maaaaaaaaaaaa….”   His hugging is not limited to his Mama, though.   I think his favorite hug target is poor Dudley.   Anytime that sleek grey ghost lays on the floor, or curls into a chair, Kenny pounces like a cougar and climbs on top of him, hugging and singing, “duddee!!!!”   Yesterday, Dudley stood up so gently that Kenny actually remained on his back for a moment; the Lone Ranger on his trusty steed.

Maybe I should get him a saddle for Christmas…

A typical  morning in our house goes something like this:   We wake up anywhere between five and six, depending on how hungry Kenny wakes up.   His first word in the morning is either, “Nack!” (snack), “Waffle!” or “Lay-lay” (banana…. I don’t know how banana becomes “lay-lay,” but it is what it is…).   Oh, and sometimes it’s “WALER!” (water).

So Kenny and I traipse downstairs where he devours a banana while I fix my coffee  and put a waffle in the toaster.   As soon as he hears the toaster *pop* he  reminds me  that it’s ready with a gentle, “WAAAAAAAAAAAAF!” and then wanders around the living room with a waffle half in each hand while I wait for the caffine to hit my brain.   Near the end of his whole grain treat, Dudley wanders down the stairs, lured out of his warm bed by the scent of food being waved around by a small boy with a tendancy of giving him a bite or two.   As I swat the crafty canine out of Kenny’s path,  Dudley remembers that we still haven’t taught him how to use the toilet, and he darts out the dog door to water the azaleas.   Kenny thinks that the dog door is really cool, and will bee-line over to it, waffles still in hand and call, “DaaaaaaDEEEEEE!” until Dudley crashes back through, at that point usually winning whatever waffle pieces might be left in Kenny’s hand.

As the chaos begins its crescendo, I will hear the shower start; Casey needs his shower like I need my coffee first thing.   While the water runs, I pour my second cup and chase Kenny around the living room in an attempt to take him back upstairs to get him changed and dressed.   Me too, as we have had contractors at our door by eight most mornings since October!   I balance a cup of coffee for Casey, my own mug and  a wiggling one-year-old up the steps, all the while hearding Dudley and trying not to trip on the belt of my robe.

Getting Kenny out of his pajamas and into clean clothes is roughly similar to wrestling a wet seal in a tub of jello.   Enough said.

By quarter to eight, we are usally back downstairs to make breakfast (my first, Kenny’s second) and make a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich for Casey to take on his commute.   Kenny helps me find what to fix…

…  getting him back out of the refrigerator is like convincing Dudley to drop  a t-bone.   Enough said.    (Again.)

And Dudley, byu this point tired of watching  us make and eat food without offering him any, takes a short nap until we remember to feed  him…

Casey comes downstairs, and Kenny runs over to greet him, them points to the stereo for his Rodney Atkins fix, and Daddy and son dance to “These Are My People” while I finish making breakfast.

I have to move fast, though, because as soon as Kenny sees me pull out my cereal bowl, he starts tugging on my leg and calling, “bow!   bow!”    until we strap him into his highchair and take “my” cereal over to the table (always the same: Kashi Go Lean, soy milk and plain yogurt).   I hand Kenny his spoon (“POON!”) and put my bowl on his tray, so that we can share.   And the kid can eat: I typically eat less than half of the hefty portion; my growing boy manages to scarf down the rest.   Dudley likes to watch:

 

We race to the last bite (ok, I usually let Kenny win), kiss Casey goodbye, and greet our contractors.   Kenny is facintated by them, and waves with excitement when he sees the foreman.   Dudley is also facinated by the workers, though he hasn’t learned the fine art of waving hello, and instead seems to think that the crotch-sniff is the prefered greeting the men with toolbelts.   So with Kenny in my arms, I grab Dudley’s collar and we head our for a walk before he gets too antsy…

All of this by 8:30 in the morning.   Who says stay-at-home Moms don’t get anything done??

Casey and I, after a full fifteen months, finally left Kenny for a whole  night.   It’s about time, right?   My parents stayed at our house;  we went to Casey’s company party, then stayed downtown in a nice hotel, slept in (ok, 7AM feels like sleeping in when you share a house with a baby and a weimaraner!), ordered room service and then picked Kenny up at my parent’s church after service.

There was only one thing wrong with the experience:   Kenny obviously didn’t miss us at all.   My parents said that he went to bed perfectly, didn’t cry once and ate breakfast like a champ.   He did seem  super excited to see us, and he give me an extra long hug when I swooped him up, but then it was back to eating his bagel and flirting with the ladies in the church narthex.

This can mean only one thing:

It’s time for Casey and I to go away to Paris for a  weekend.

Yesterday and today, Kenny and I spent at least a cummulative two hours looking through the big picture window in our master bedroom, waiting for airplanes to fly by.   Kenny would sit on my lap, wired with energy, softly whispering, “Aa-pane,” and staring outside.   Oh, we also noted the birds flying by and  the ducks swiming in the water; we sang songs, and patted Dudley.     But when our patience was rewarded with a Southwest jet flying overhead (we are in one of their flight patterns), Kenny would snap to attention, bounce on my lap and try to stand on the window sill, and shout, “AAAAAAAA-PAAAAAANE!”

This was cute enough by itself.   What amazed me was his desire to talk about the airplanes; that is, he initiated conversations about them long after we finished our jet-gazzing.   Tonight when I rocked him before bed, he looked up at me and said, “Aa-pane, Mama.”   I almost said something like, no there aren’t any airplanes in here, when it hit me: he wanted to talk about them, and about what we had seen today.   So I recounted all the airplanes we saw, and then just talked about them for awhile.   I usually sing to him before putting him to bed, but tonight the mini-conversation seemed to hit the spot.   After ten minutes or so of me telling stories about our day watching airplanes, with him occasionally adding an, “aa-pane!” or “sky” or “i-ney” (shiney), he wrapped his arms around my neck, cooed, “Mamamamamama,” then pointed to his crib and said, “Nigh, nigh.”   What a kid.

It gives me pause, though, to remember the importance of talking to Kenny, and not just to narrarate the day.   There’s a little brain working inside that fifteen-month-old.   A little character growing; a tiny person with preferences and passions and interest.   He’s taking it all in, watching and listening and learning.   It makes me love him all the more, and makes me all the more excited about seeing him grow.   Part of me is eager for him to really start talking so that I can learn more about what makes him tick!