Soren Update: August 2010

So the good news is that Soren has been potty-trained for about a week and a half now. HOORAY! Thus far, the process has been shockingly painless. Soren knew how to use the potty, he could use it, and he sometimes used it, so one morning I handed him a pair of underpants and said, "This is it, kiddo. You're a big boy now and big boys don't wear diapers." And he took it like a big boy. Without too much protest, the child took the underwear, put it on, and more or less started putting all of his waste, plus a toothbrush, in the potty. It was like manna sent from heaven. Also, there might have been a lot of candy bribery involved.

But anyway, a few weeks ago, before his miraculous entry into the world of Bigboydom, Abraham and Briar informed Soren that little boys who put poops in diapers were yucky-- and that yucky things needed to go in the garbage. "So I guess we'll have to put you in the garbage and the garbage man will take you away," said Daddy. Soren was panic-stricken. "But Mommy needs her little boy!" he argued.

Mommy and her little boy reading The River Why...

and admiring the sunset.

We keep Soren's Legos and building blocks in his room, so he often wakes up and quietly plays by himself while the rest of us sleep. When he bores of this, he'll start calling for me. "Mommy! Mommy! I awake! Mommy! I AWAKE!" One morning I woke up to the sound of him screaming bloody murder. Certain that a recently hatched nest of poisonous spiders was rapidly decimating the skin on his face, I ran across the hall. I did not, however, find him engaged in a desperate struggle with an army of arachnid assailants; instead, he was hunched over one of his complex Lego creations. "It keeps breaking!" he told me, tears streaming down his cheeks. "It keeps breaking!" So I, still in my underwear, knelt down and helped him resolve the issue. That fixed, he went back to building. After a minute he looked at me as if to say, "You still there?' and remarked, "I didn't call for you." So I left him to build in peace.

Another morning he woke me with the following: "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! I made a fire truck police car! Mommy! Mommmmmmmyyyyy! I made a fire truck police car! Moooommmmmyyyyyy! Mommy! Mom!mee! Mommy! I! Made! A! Fire! Truck! Police! Car! I! Made! A! Fire! Truck! Police! Car!" It took a while, but I was finally convinced that said fire truck police car was an interesting enough inticement to draw me out from under the warmth of my covers.

It was pretty cute.

This is the Fire! Truck! Police! Car! The green thing on the top is a light. He makes all kinds of delightfully creative things like this. And is it just me, or (in this picture) does he kind of resemble the crazy Sicilian guy on The Princess Bride?

A front view. Notice the wad of blankets on the floor behind him. That is where he sleeps, all snuggled up to the crack under the door. I swear to you, people, he does have a bed.

One of Soren's favorite things in all the world is gathering wildflowers. Some might refer to the ones he picks as weeds, but we know better. All summer long my windowsill has been lined with raggedy brown beautiful bouquets. He believes that if someone is picking flowers, they're picking them for Mommy. If I'm picking them, he'll ask, "Are you picking those for you, Mommy?"

Examining some little bit of something he picked out in the garden.

Soren's also begun making attempts at friendly chatter. For example, we recently went for a walk with my friend Amy and her little girl, Charlotte, who is a year younger than Soren. Charlotte, though talking, is not yet entirely conversational, and it was funny to observe Soren trying (in vain) to strike up a conversation with her. "I have a Gramma." And then, when there was no response:"I wike that fing you're holding, Charwotte. It's coo." And then, when there was no response: "My gramma's tree fell down...(pause)....My gramma's tree fell down....(pause)...My gramma's tree fell down.....(pause).....My gramma's tree fell down..."

Soren occasionally puts both his legs down one pant leg and declares, "I'm a merboy!" I should really take a photo for posterity. Or blackmail. (Insert evil laugh here.)

Soren and Grandma were talking about mice a few weeks ago. During their conversation, Grandma noticed that Soren was saying "mouses" when referring to more than one mouse. "Soren," she said, "I know it makes sense for more than one mouse to be 'mouses,' but it's actually 'mice.'"
"No it's not," said Soren. "It's 'mouses.'"
"You know that song about the three blind mice?" asked Grandma.
"Uh huh!" replied Soren, and he proceeded to sing it for her: "Three blind mouses!" he sang. "Three blind mouses!"

Soren's getting to that age where you start to hear yourself coming out in the things he says. Some of it makes me feel a little bad, like when he calls Liam a "nuisance" or tells one of his little friends, "And don't do that ever again!" Some of it is just funny, like when someone asks him how he's doing and he responds, "Very well." Or when something surprises him and he exclaims, "Good heavens!" And some of it is good. He often give me choices: "Mommy? Do you want to walk or run? Which one? Do you want a red block or a green block? Which one?" I was particularly pleased one evening when I was feeling quite sick and Soren pulled his Lightning McQueen folding chair up to the couch where I was lying. He took my hand, saying, "It's okay. I a doctor. I keep you. I sorry you're sick. You want a story?" (He wound up climbing all over me, repeatedly asking questions about why I wasn't feeling well, what kind of bug it was that made my tummy feel sick, why a bug would do that, etc, etc, and generally not assisting in the healing process in any way, shape, or form....but the thought was nice.)

And, of course, Soren continues to offer me heaping plates of Humble Parent Pie. It really is a good thing, because if he was a wonderfully easy child, I would think I was the most fabulously wonderful parent of all time. As it is, I've decided that I'm still a totally awesome mom, I just have a really temperamentally difficult child. This confidence, however, is often dulled by blood-chilling moments in which I am struck by the certainty that all of Soren's flaws are all my fault and that I'm the worst mother ever and that he will be a serial killer someday and it's all because of me and the egregious parenting errors I'm making with him every single day, day after day after day.

But anyway. I won't get into the gory details of his more nefarious antics here, but I will state that at this point in his life, Soren spends probably 80% of his waking hours in timeout because of the pain he inflicts on his baby brother. I will also note that he kicked, shoved, and hit at least four other children in nursery last Sunday, he tackled a two-year-old boy at my work party over the weekend, and fought with a one-year-old baby over her own toys. I might further state that he throws record-breaking, breath-taking tantrums over ridiculous things like having to walk on his own two healthy legs, that he disobeys just for fun, that he has stated a preference to be held down for all teeth-brushings so that he "can thrash and cry," and that he desperately needs naps but instead spends his nap time throwing objects (toys, dirty underwear, clothing, pieces of mattress, bits of bedding, etc) out his bedroom window.

That said, I still maintain an intensity of love for this child that continues to take my breath away.

Crazy kid.

They do occasionally play together. Nicely, even.

Soren: July 2010

Soren has entered the Phase of the Question. I'll be pushing him along in the stroller and it's just one million questions a minute: "Mommy, what's that tractor doing? Why is it doing that? What's construction? What's construction for? Who's that man? What is he doing? What are those lines on the road? Who painted them there? Are they going to get spanked? What kind of bird is that? What's its name? What's your name? What's Daddy's name? What's making that noise? What's the machine? What's it doing? Why is it doing that?"

I always thought I would find this phase irritating, but instead I find it electrifying. Soren is so aware right now, so alive to everything around him. Learning is an adventure, a pleasure, and his mind is so open to new ideas. We spent one snack time cutting grapes and pieces of cheese into various shapes and then moving them around to create new shapes. He was enthralled by the fact that two triangles make a square, that two squares make a rectangle. He loved finding that you could cut a grape in half one way and make a circle....or in half the other way to create an oval. I've also been trying to check out books from the library that coincide with his interests: he was all obsessed with water pipes for a while, so we got "The Magic School Bus Visits the Waterworks." He saw a volcano on Dora the Explorer, so we checked out a book about volcanoes. He was curious about llamas, so we found a book about llamas. We thoroughly examine and question each item on the page.

One night while we were singing Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, Soren stopped me and asked, "Mommy, what's 'are'?"
"Um.... 'Are' means that some things exist.'"
"What does 'exist' mean?"
"Er....'Exist' means 'to be.'"
"What does 'to be' mean?"
"That, my son, is a question for the ages."
Pause.
"'For the ages!' What's 'for the ages'?"

Doesn't he look so handsome and ridiculously grown-up?

Soren's been into girl stuff lately. He likes for me to paint his toenails, he enjoys applying chapstick, and he often begs to wear my clothes. This somewhat perturbs his father, but I'm not overly concerned. He's simply imitating what he sees--the poor child does live with three women-- and I'm not one enforce arbitrarily created gender stereotypes. His peers and cultural experiences will take care of that, I'm sure. And no, we haven't yet checked out any library books about transvestites.

Soren woke me up one morning by calling from his room, "Mommy! There's a baby in my belly!" I opened the door and saw this.

The bubba also really enjoys music. I've mentioned before that he loves to sing. He also loves to listen to music with grandma: Songs for Toddlers; Peter, Paul, and Mary; Abba; Neil Diamond. He likes to "play" Grandma's piano and does so with a surprising amount of expression. And he connects with music on an interesting level. For example, when he hears a song written in a minor key, he'll ask, "Mommy, is it dark in that song?"

Funny stuff he says/does:

Nano (aka Uncle Quentin) taught Soren to say, "Open Sesame," and Soren says it all the time. Sometimes when we ask him to say "the magic word," instead of "thank you" he'll say "Open sescapee!"


Soren is obsessed with people's full names and makes sure to remind me of my own several times daily. I also engage with him like a child and play a game in which we repeatedly tell each other that we're crazy. It's wildly entertaining to him, and it goes something like this:
Mommy: You're crazy.
Soren: No, you're crazy.
Mommy: No, you're crazy!
Soren: No, YOU'RE crazy!
Mommy: Nooooooo......YOU'RE crazy!
Soren: No, you're crazy!
Mommy: No, YOU'RE CRAZY!
(ad nauseum)
And if I say "No, you're crazy!" before he can say it, he'll collapse into fits of laughter, remarking, between giggles, "We're laughing! We're laughing!"

Modeling my Scenic River Classic 5K t-shirt.

He has also become delightfully responsive to verbal affection. I'll say, "Oh, you're my sweet boy!" And he'll respond, "You're my sweet girl!" I'll say, "Will you be my little boy forever and ever?" And he'll say, "Yes! Will you be my little girl forever and ever?" Sometimes I'll swoop him up in my arms for a cuddle and, before I can say anything, he'll say, "You're so cute!"

He's also taken to remarking on the weather. "It's a beautiful day," he'll say, or, "It's not going to rain today."

Soren loves his Grandma. I would also love anyone who always let me have my own way.

Soren's new favorite person in all the world is our next-door neighbor Koen, who is but a few months his senior. Koen's family moved away for about eighteen months, but when they moved back, it was like Soren and Koen had never been apart. Soren ALWAYS wants Koen to come over. And when Koen does comes over, they spend the bulk of their time fighting over toys. Even so, they're usually both distressed when play dates come to an end. One day when we were taking our leave at Koen's house, Koen's mother Katie suggested that Koen give Soren a good-bye hug. Koen did so, and then Soren grabbed Koen by the cheeks and planted a gigantic wet one right on his lips. Koen was horrified, said, "Yuck!" and began frantically wiping at his lips and trying to spit off any remaining kiss particles.

You can almost hear him screaming, "NO! IT'S MY TOY! DON'T TOUCH IT!"

So anyway. Soren is real cute. I love him. Except for the naaasty poopy diapers, I wish he could be three forever. The end.

Brothers

I'm not gonna lie: my children do not really like each other. Soren decided that Liam was Satan's spawn the first day he laid eyes on him, and his opinion has not wavered far from that original assessment. Liam would probably be more apt to develop a friendship with his big brother were he not terrified that pain-- or at least yelling-- might result from any contact they make. But right here on my blog, in full color, I have captured my two children passing a few peaceful moments within close proximity.

Media really can bring us together.

No Room Service. Need Sleepy.

If you asked me to pinpoint the single topic that has caused me the most stress as a mom over the past couple of years, I would have to go ahead and point an accusing finger at sleep.

It all started when I was in labor with Soren....for three days. I didn't sleep for two straight nights, and let me tell you, that does something to a person. Especially a wound up, slightly neurotic person like myself, whose brain responded to the sleep deprivation, not by sleeping, but rather by kicking into overdrive, counting frantically by 7s, 11s, or 18s, and refusing stubbornly to calm down enough to get some decent rest. Soren, being a newborn, was waking up at least every three hours at night to nurse, so my nights (and days) went something like this: get baby to sleep, lie awake in bed for 1 1/2 hours, sleep for 1 hour, wake up to feed baby for 45 minutes, lie awake in bed for 1 1/2 hours, sleep for 30 minutes, wake up to feed baby for 45 minutes, etc, etc, etc. It nearly drove me to the brink of madness, and I must say that I am DEEPLY grateful that we were living with my parents at the time, because they were there to shine light into my muddied, confused consciousness by taking the baby and making me sleep during the day. Otherwise I might have (completely) lost my mind.

But this is a digression. I meant to write about my children, who are horrible sleepers, and whose horrible sleeping causes me much angst. From the very beginning of their lives they have been awful sleepers: up at least every three hours for the first six months of their lives, refusing to sleep through the night until they were....until they were...okay, let's not lie: neither of them sleep through the night. Soren generally does okay, but he has nightmares a couple times a week that require mommy's comforting presence-- and Liam still thinks he's a newborn, waking up two or three times a night for a bottle.

This causes me some discomfort, for sure. But even worse, I worry about what it's doing to them. You see, in my desperation to find some rest for the whole family, I've done a lot of reading on sleep: Sears, Pantley, Weissbluth, Ferber, Babywise-- and while none of these books have succeeded in assisting my children in sleeping through the night (I'm telling you people, some children will scream all night long for weeks rather than giving up and falling asleep) some of them have scared the pants off me. Ol' Dr. Weissbluth, in particular, gassed on and on in his book about how sleep deprivation is the root of all childhood problems: behavioral issues, ADHD, academic problems, emotional issues, developmental delays. The man has done a lot of research on pediatric sleep and now has me thoroughly convinced that sleep plays an essential role in all aspects of a child's development.

So when I put Soren in his room for his nap and he spends two hours throwing things out the window and putting on every article of clothing that he owns, I worry. Especially when he emerges from his room with dark circles under his eyes and a penchant for throwing hurricane tantrums, I worry.

And when Liam, at age 16 months, is still waking up twice a night for a bottle and napping for only an hour or two during the day, I worry. Especially when he fusses all the day long for no reason and is barely army-crawling, I worry.

I know other parents who don't worry about sleep at all! Whose kids stay up with them until ten or eleven, who sleep in 'til nine, who don't always take naps, and who do just fine. Whose kids will sometimes just randomly fall asleep....sitting in the high chair, driving in the car, playing with toys.

My kids, on the other hand--if they don't fall asleep at eight, sleep through to seven, and get a decent nap during the day--are little wrecks. Liam gets all whiny and twitchy and tic-y; Soren behaves like the ill-begotten bastard child of Animal and the Tasmanian Devil. And heaven forbid either of them should just drift off on occasion because they were tired...oh no. They have to be carefully primed and prepped in order for sleep to occur. Because when my kids are tired, they don't slow down...they just get crazier and crazier. If we put them to bed too late, they have a tendency to stay up all night counting by 18s. (And by "counting by 18s," I mean screaming and/or grinding one's own feces into the carpet.)

So I worry constantly about sleep...if my kids are tired, if they're ready for a nap, if their behaviors and issues are rooted in chronic sleep deprivation. It's honestly an issue that makes me want to stop at two children. The very thought of dealing with this yet again makes me want to lie down and weep hot, bitter tears.

Soren Update: May 2010

There's a section in my "Positive Discipline for Toddlers" book entitled "Sleeping, Eating, and Toileting: You Can't Make 'Em Do It." My response to that? "AMEN/AAAARRRRRRGGGHH!" Sometimes it feels that my entire life with my three-year-old is one never ending power struggle, generally centering on these three things—plus sibling rivalry issues. What frustrates me the most is Soren’s utter lack of ability to use reason. I realize this is a developmental thing that will come with time, but his complete irrationality drives me to the brink nearly every day. An example:

Mommy: Soren! You smell poopy. Go lie down and we'll change your diaper.

Soren: NO! I DON’T WANT YOU TO CHANGE MY DIAPER! IT HURTS ME!

Mommy, patient and cheerful: I know it’s not fun, sweetie. But it will hurt a lot more if the poop stays on your bum for a long time.

Soren: I DON’T WANT TO HAVE MY DIAPER CHANGED!

Mommy, patient and cheerful: Just think: if you put all your poopoos in the potty, you would never have to have another diaper change again! Wouldn’t that be great?

Soren: NO! THAT NOT BE GREAT!

Mommy, a little less patient and cheerful: But anyway, for now we need to change your diaper. Come lie down.

Soren runs and hides behind the chair.

Mommy, trying to maintain semblance of patient cheeriness: Soren? Would you like to have your diaper changed on the rug in the hall or the one in the front room?

Soren: I DON’T WANT TO HAVE MY DIAPER CHANGED! I DON’T WANT TO HAVE MY DIAPER CHANGED!

Mommy, hurling positive discipline book over the stairwell: Dammit, Soren, if you don’t come out here and lie down by the time I get to three, you’re going to go to your bedroom for a long, long time! ONE…TWO….THR**

Soren comes and lies down. He waits until he is in a very precarious position in which poop could potentially be smeared given a wrong move, then starts thrashing around and kicking. This, of course, leads to lots of mommy fury, enraged bum wiping, and an unceremonious flight into his bedroom. And when Soren has been freed from his room, a similar battle follows. (Mommy: “Soren, here’s a rag. Come wipe up this poop.” Soren: “NO! I CAN’T CLEAN UP THE POOP! IT’S YUCKY!)

But Soren’s lack of rationality really rears its ugly head when Liam is around. Soren might spot Liam looking at him and immediately break into a series of convulsions and shrieking that closely resemble a multi-spirit exorcism. Last week Liam smiled at and began crawling towards his big brother. I initially thought this was cute; however, seeing Soren’s reaction, I had to look at Liam again to make sure he hadn’t morphed into a homicidal maniac crashing unleashed through the room with a freshly sharpened chainsaw. And if Soren reacts this way to Liam’s existence, you can only imagine what happens when Liam looks at or—oh, my various gods!—touches something that Soren thinks is his.

But it’s not all chainsaws and exorcisms. Sometimes Soren is cute, too. This is why I have not yet succumbed to the urge to list him on Craig’s List as “Free to a Good Home.” For example, last Saturday I took the boys to watch their cousin Arielle play in a volleyball tournament at the middle school in Shelley. Soren became quickly bored with the game but turned his attentions to the two “older women” sitting in front of us: a couple of volleyball players from Aberdeen waiting for their team’s turn to play. To win them with his many charms, Soren asked them their names (Kayla and Ashlee) and then proceeded to sing the alphabet song to them— not once, not twice, but three times. He informed me that Kayla was his “favorite,” and then told her, “I love you, girl.”

Soren’s been working on developing his sense of humor. It’s not uncommon to hear him say, “I was just teasin’ you, Mommy,” or asking “Are you just teasin’ me?” Occasionally when it’s time to change his diaper, he’ll lie down in front of me with his head where his bum needs to be. “Change my head!” he’ll say, and you can tell he thinks this is frightfully clever. (And yes, I do put a clean diaper on his head; it turns out that diapers make pretty decent adjustable hats.) One morning I put him in his room and told him not to come out until he was dressed (he is fully capable of dressing himself; he sometimes just thinks it’s more fun for mommy to do it instead). He was quiet for a few moments and then called, “I dressed, Mommy!” I came to check and found him still wearing only a diaper. I closed the door and waited a few more moments until he again called, “I dressed, Mommy!” This time when I opened the door he was running around the room with the upper half of his body stuffed into his pillow, bumping into things and giggling like a madman. “See Mommy?" he said, "I dressed!”

My kind parents, may peace be upon them forever and ever, took Soren to their house this fine Sunday afternoon around nap time and, after much ado, Grandma finally got him to fall asleep on her lap in front of the TV upstairs. Grandpa, not realizing that Soren had drifted off, began hollering from the basement: "Kathy! Kathy? Kathy!?" Soren stirred, woke up, and then said, just like Grandma would, "Yes, dear?"

And I must write about Walter. Walter is the name of the sunglasses holder on the ceiling of my car. Soren decided one day that the sunglasses holder, with its mouth-like veneer and two ey-lights above, was a man and that he, Soren, wanted to talk to "that man." Through their conversations, it came out that "that man" was named Walter, and Walter and Soren frequently have conversations when we're driving places. After we've arrived wherever we're going and Walter goes back to sleep, Soren frequently remarks: "Walter is a nice man. I like him."

Soren's been singing a lot lately— he sings a lot of childhood classics: “Skip to my Lou,” “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” “The Farmer in the Dell,” “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad.” He also sings the Dora the Explorer theme song, a couple lullabies, a few primary songs. He makes up his own songs as well. Several times a day he'll ask me, in all sincerity, "Mommy? Do you know the muffin man?"

Tonight when I put Soren to bed I lay down with him and sang a few songs. He sang along a little, but my favorite was when I sang him “La La Lu,” and he sang along with me in his quavering little boy voice. “Wah wah woo, wah wah woo, my widdo star sweeper…” That sweet little human being, those gigantic blue eyes, the uninhibited little voice, the “w” sound instead of the “l”, the innocent tenderness captured in that disproportionate little body…it was enough to give me the strength to sustain his little life for at least another day.

Wearing--we counted--ten t-shirts.

Being all cute and waiting for a snack after church.

Wanting birthday cake.

Trying out Daddy's boots. Walking was a bit arduous.

**No, I do not actually swear at my child. But sometimes I want to.

Soren's Identity Crisis

During the past week, Soren has dressed up as the following:

A pumpkin.

A little girl.

(Note also that he is drawing on his hand with marker. He told me, "Mommy, I want to look like that man in the store with the green colors on his arms.")

A cheetah/pumpkin.

Dionysus

Looks like he's already going through that adolescent "Identity vs. Identity Diffusion" stage. I knew my kids would be advanced.

Brothers

Abraham has a knack for taking pictures of our newborns when they're pulling the most fabulous faces. I like these two shots because they truly illustrate how (phenotypically) similar our children are.

Soren, aged 15 days, January 2007.

Liam, aged 5 days, February 2009.

Summer Fun

Every Friday morning my sister watches Soren while I go to work; in the evenings, her kids come over to our house while she and her husband have their date night. Here we all are, frolicking in the backyard. Soren was not a fan of the sprinkler.

My Sweet Little Boy,

You are now 18 months old. Eighteen months! All at once eighteen months seems enormously long (weren't you born just yesterday?) and tremendously short (could I ever have not known and loved you?)

Last month I wrote about how excited I was about taking you to nursery. I was so excited, in fact, that early in the month, after a particularly trying sacrament meeting, I cornered the Primary president and held you toward her. "He's seventeen and a half months old!" I begged. Without hesitation she jerked her thumb over her shoulder, toward the nursery door. "Send 'im in!" After curtsying gratefully, I took you to the nursery, told them your name, and left you happily digging through the toy closet, throwing balls and trucks and dolls over your shoulders. "Bye honey!" I said. You didn't even look up.

It seems that every newsletter needs to include a park story. This is not intentional; it's just that I take you to the park several times a week. It seems like a good way to pass the time and it gives us both some much-needed sunshine and exercise. But my park story this month isn't really a story at all; it's just a moment that my mommy heart's internal camera captured, and wants to relate to you. We were at Goodsell Elementary, climbing around on the playground toys (incidentally the very same playground toys I played on when I was a student there), and I sat down on a swing while you ran off to play. Looking out across the paved portion of the playground, I reflected on those years of running across that blacktop-- the skinned knees, the double-dutch jump rope contests, the games of kiss tag, the huddles of half-frozen children, the alliances formed, the enemies established--when I looked up and saw you. There you were, running in your bumpy toddler way across the blacktop yourself, swinging your arms up to clap in the front, and then in back, a little rooster tail of soft hair poking up on the back of your head. You looked so little. And so grown-up. And so vulnerable. And so brave.

This past month you've discovered your mother's Achilles' Heel. You've found that if she's busy and you want attention, whining at her legs might gain you a sympathetic look and a pat on the head--but holding a book and whining at her legs will cause her to involuntary stop whatever she's doing, sit down, cuddle you in her lap, and read to you. You've also noticed know that you can push back your bedtime by a good fifteen minutes by begging for more stories.

Also, it turns out that I've been letting my politics infiltrate my parenting style. I discovered this one evening when Uncle Sue brought a politically active friend, Nathan, to documentary night. At some point during the dinner-making process, you got whiny, so I put you in your high chair and handed you some graham crackers, then turning my attention to other matters. Auntie Loriann, however, was watching you quite closely. "He's eating those crackers all wrong!" she exclaimed. "Look at him! He's shoving them all into his mouth! He just wedged one in sideways! Somebody needs to stop him!" I glanced over, saw that you were still breathing, and said, "He'll gag if the crackers get pushed back too far. He's fine." Nathan immediately pointed at Loriann and declared, "Liberal," then at me and assessed, "Libertarian." And he was dead right.

On that same evening, surrounded by a group of adults all terrified that you might touch the oven, you learned one of your now-favorite words: "Hot." It being summertime, this is a word you use a great deal. "Hot," you'll say when you step outside onto the balcony. "Hot," you'll repeat when you take another step. That puts your daily vocabulary up to: "Yes," "No," "Don't," "Meow," "Hot, and "Shoes." There are other words you might be saying (including the perennial "shit"), but we're not sure that you mean them yet. And I promise you didn't hear the s-word from me. Honest.

Your life's greatest comfort right now is hair. When you get tired or sad, you stroke the hair on the back of your head. If I'm holding you and you feel uncomfortable, you stroke my hair. You stroke Grandma's hair, you stroke Daddy's hair, you stroke Grandma's kitty's hair. The Relief Society president held you at church a couple weeks ago, and you stroked her hair. I'm really a short-haired person, but I have to keep my hair long because you love it so much.

The following is an excerpt from a note I left for your dad the other evening:

"Soren was so darling this afternoon. He slept until 3:30. When he awoke, my visiting teacher was here with her two children. Soren ignored Sydney, who's a year older than him, but was fascinated by Corbin, aged 7 months, who has a gigantic head and enormous blue eyes just like Soren's. At one point Corbin, who was lying on his belly on the floor, started to cry. Soren walked over, laid on the floor next to him, and smiled into his face. He also stroked his hair very gently. Then he tried to sit on Corbin's head. All of this--except for the head-sitting--served to lift Corbin's spirits. I was proud of Soren for responding to Corbin with (what at least looked like) compassion."

Speaking of your dad, I hope you know how much he, too, loves you. On Wednesday this week, the day that work takes him away from 8 in the morning until 11 at night, he commented to me over the telephone how much he was missing his "little toad." Later that night you woke up and I went into your room to comfort you. Your daddy, however, followed me in, hoping for a chance to cuddle you. He cuddled you in his arms and rocked you back to sleep.

Love,

Mommy

Rub a dub dub...three kids in a tub.

Soren's cousins Maya (12 months) and Chase (2 1/2) came to visit a few weeks ago. They brought along their parents, Lara (Abe's sister) and Nathan. It was a really nice visit and the kids seemed to enjoy interacting with each other. Even in the nude. See below for details.

Soren and Maya started out with friendly introductions. "Hey there! You come to this tub often?"

Soren was pretty excited about having someone to bathe with.

He was more excited still by the addition of a third party, who decided that Maya and Soren shouldn't have all the fun.

The kids have all found something pretty awesome in the middle of the tub. Said Something Awesome was so cool it even illicited a Garfield-esque "oooooh" from Soren.

Maya showing off one of the many classy, expensive, and high-tech bathtime toys we've purchased during our many travels abroad and given Soren. This one we bought in Paris. It's called a "Boogre Suckre."

Newsletter: 17 Months

Dear Soren,

Your turning 17 months old means one thing to me: in 1 month you'll be old enough to go to nursery during church. Wandering around with you in the halls for three hours while you ransack other people's diaper bags and tear the fake grass out of potted plants is great and all, but I think it will be nice to put you into a soundproof room with four walls, other small children, and lots of supervision-- and just walk away. (I think you'll enjoy being there too, actually, but that's not what's important here.)
Words you now say on a regular basis include: "Uh-oh" (usually before you intentionally throw something off your food tray or down the stairs), "No" (pronounced "oh" and said in a very forlorn tone), "Ow" (generally accompanied by hair-pulling), and "Meow" (upon seeing a cat, of course). You have also said "shoes" on a couple of occasions and your Uncle Sue swears that you recently whispered "horse." Also, it would seem that you frequently up and out with an "Oh shit," but I'm pretty sure that you're saying something else, like, "What's this?" and it's just coming out all wrong.
Earlier this month you and I walked to a park and you pushed your umbrella stroller around in the grass like it was a plow and you a little plowboy. Then we went down the spiral slide together, you giggling every time, until my calves couldn't stand the thought of climbing to the top again. Instead I talked you into playing in the playground's wood chips, an activity that amused us together for quite a while. Later we drove to Auntie Collette's house, where you were passed from child to child while we sat around a campfire and roasted weenies.
You are the family darling, and generally loved and adored by all. Your Grandma Hanson, for example, insists on referring to you as her baby, and when you spend time together, she'll periodically burst out with, "I love Sorenelli! I love Sorenelli!" Grandpa Hanson is always happy to take you outside or roughhouse with you on the carpet. Auntie Collette calls you "Little Nephew," and practically begs me to let her babysit you. When we visited Yellowstone National Park this week with the Smiths, Little Marty insisted on riding in our car so that you could play with the K'Nex airplane he had made that morning. Tessa also had to take a turn riding with you. Calysta pushed your stroller along the boardwalks. And when the kids made a teeter-totter out of a felled tree, Arielle pulled you onto it and helped you ride. It was quite a sight: five kids on one side, Big Marty on the other.
Even Auntie Loriann and Uncle Sue, neither of whom would consider themselves big "kid people," and who do not take to just any old child, delight in your presence.
Today, however, you had a sad initiation experience into the Real World. Your dad took you to the park and-- because school is out now--it was full of other children. He sat down on a bench and let you wander off on your own. Pretty soon you were approached by a sour-looking little boy of about 5, who leaned down and pointed his fingers in your face menacingly. You stared at him blankly, then turned around and toddled off. The mean little boy then proceeded to shout at and kick you. At this point, your dad intervened, yelled at the kid to back off, and scooped you up into the safety of his arms. Your were shocked and saddened but recovered quickly, as you always do. I think I cried more about the incident than you did. At first I contemplated hunting down that kid and kicking his butt, but then I realized that a kid like that doesn't come from nowhere. I imagined his big brother or dad kicking or hitting him for no apparent reason. And I felt worse for him than I did for you. You had a pair of strong arms to protect and comfort you; what did that little boy have? So tonight when we helped you say your bedtime prayer, we asked that the mean little boy from the park feel loved and safe.
I frequently make lists of things that I hope to instill in you as you slowly grow into manhood. They vary, but a few things stay the same. I hope that I give you a sense that you are loved and lovable. I hope that I help you develop a sense of competence and courage. I hope that you learn to be compassionate, kind, respectful, and reverent towards every living being you encounter. I hope that you become self-disciplined and self-controlled, that you won't let what you want now keep you from what you want most. I hope that you develop the capability of thinking for yourself; I particularly hope that you will be able to think through the consequences of your actions. I hope that you will enjoy life and be happy.

Anyway, sweetie, I love you. I'm so glad we've got to spend another month of life together. You are my sunshine.

Love,

Mommy