There are two water fountains at this spot: one for adults and this shorter one for children. Or short adults. Whatever. Both are too high; so, this is an entertaining solution. Moments later, she was on all fours in a puddle, lapping water like a dog. Fortunately, I stopped her instead of taking the shot – A sure sign I was destined to be a grandfather and not an artist.
My granddaughter hung out with me for an hour on Saturday while her mom did some last minute birthday-gift wrapping. When mom came to pick her up, she sat on the floor to finish watching Daniel Tiger and get her hair brushed. I have about five minutes of hairbrushing video, but I have to publish this tiny snip. We’ve met many kids at the park and haven’t run in to another practically-two-year-old who would understand the phrase “shake some water on the brush” let alone actually do it. The whine beforehand is perfect. She needs to learn to say, “oh mo-ther!” Maybe I should work on that…
This is the second year my daughter and granddaughter have walked in the March of Dimes’ March for Babies. It’s a good cause, at a time of the year when there are many good causes. And it looks like it will be cold and raining. Ah well. I know they’ll still be there. We’re all committed to the folks who made it possible for this little one to make it through her first few weeks in Geisinger’s NICU. There were many others there at the time, and some didn’t make it. Many. That’s my granddaughter’s word for more things than she can count. Many balloons. Many cookies. Many babies. Many causes. We’re so fortunate that she was able to master an understanding of the concept many. I hope she has many friends tomorrow.
I read a post in one of the caregiver blogs that talked about a two-year-old’s vocabulary. I tried to document this kid’s at 22 months, but just can’t keep up. The other night she slept over. For a late afternoon snack she had cheerios and milk. It takes a fairly long time, as each banana slice gets a thumb through it and occasionally the cereal is eaten with the fingers- piece by piece. When she finally neared the end she sat up and said,
“More? More?” Well of course there’s more. I sprinkled new honey-nut cheerios on top of the milk still in her bowl and she took a spoonful. She chewed for a moment, then raising her eyebrows she looked at me.
Yes they are indeed.
Two quick photos:
Her mom found great snow pants for her and we all hoped for a decent snow fall so we could use them. We finally had an inch or two and my granddaughter was excited to get her snow pants and purple boots on. We went over to the park and she did enjoy the snow. The brick walk that runs over the canal was bare, though. There were ducks, of course, but a few good puddles, too. The puddles gave us both a bit more joy. In the clip, my granddaughter actually says, “Yee-ha!” at about eleven seconds in. I have no idea where she learned it; could it just be spontaneous?
Let me be clear: This wonderful little drawing is not my work. I found the cartoon just as it appears here: lying in the street in a zip-loc bag.
I was walking to my car early Sunday afternoon and saw the bag on Spring Street at Cherry Alley. I realized it wasn’t litter from a few feet away; it was spread flat, and smoothed out as if intended for clear presentation. I slipped it into my pocket to review later. It turned out that I couldn’t wait long; after I started my car, I pulled out the bag and dumped the contents into my hand. It contained a small, folded, very stylish cartoon and a glass marble. My instincts told me the placement of the bag was intentional, and the method of random distribution only made the thing more endearing. I may replace it in an alley somewhere, but maybe I’ll frame it. I’m not sure.
After I ran my errands, I messaged the folks at Comic Swap and walked to Jack’s comic and Game shop on High Street. I asked if they recognized the style. I knew Comic Swap sold the work of a number of local cartoonists but wasn’t sure about Jack’s. Neither was able to shed any light on the work. I posted a snapshot to twitter, and it, too, resulted in no response.
The work is beautiful. Whimsical and gritty, I think the piece is just stunning. Stumbling onto it, finding it in the street, feeling like it’s a personal message – all these things just make this package a little jewel.
I don’t need to know who did it, but I’d sure like to let them know how much I like it. And I’d like to pass it on to keep the story alive, but the “thingness” of it is so wonderful I’m hesitant to give it up. Will posting on twitter or this blog help keep the story alive? Not sure. Will the post eventually reach the creator so they can ignore it, reclaim it, add some backstory, whatever? I have no idea. By all means, read it. Enjoy the drawings. If you recognize the style let that artist know about this post.
But by any and all means: Pass it on, and keep the story alive.
The question being answered quite clearly here by my granddaughter, is “what is the proper way to twirl long pasta with a fork: On the plate, or, against a spoon?”
Traditionally, foodies frown on using a spoon. The only time that pasta —say, angel hair— would be twirled against a spoon is if the pasta is in broth and twirling it arranges it neatly in the soup spoon. The spoon then carries the pasta to the mouth. But really, who cares? Isn’t the spirit of good food one of personal enjoyment? Tradition be damned?
Can you see them? The mittens? They’re drying on the lamp shade. Imagine a viewpoint that’s several inches lower; my granddaughter’s viewpoint. Pretty difficult to spot unless you know they’re there.
We’d been out romping in the first decent snowfall. Of course, after playing with snow, the mittens were wet. My granddaughter’s mittens are cute little knitted things, not insulated or waterproof, but enough to protect little hands during a short excursion on a 30° day. We came in as soon as I noticed how wet the mittens were. We took off our hats and layers of coats, and I draped the wet mittens on the inside of the lampshade, then went to make lunch.
Five hours later we were getting ready to leave. My daughter stopped by and we talked about the day, the three of us played together, then it was time to rummage through the big pile of blankets, sweaters, hats and coats to find clothing for the trip to the car. The monkey hat was easy, but the mittens are small; I couldn’t see them anywhere. Static could have them stuck to any of the blankets that draped, with the coats, over the old playpen, but they just weren’t there.
“Where are those mittens?” I muttered.
My daughter was about to help, then stopped and said, “Dad, did you see that? They’re here on the lamp.”
What my daughter had seen that I hadn’t was my granddaughter spinning halfway around across the room and stabbing her finger at the lamp. “She pointed to where you put the mittens.”
She hasn’t said mittens nor does she say lamp, though she’ll point to it and say on or off. At just over 18 months old, my granddaughter understood that I couldn’t find the mittens and she helped. I’m truly amazed. I’m thankful that we have the time to notice and appreciate the behavior. It really makes me wonder what else my granddaughter notices and understands even though she doesn’t talk about it? What is she thinking when, during a nap, I notice she’s awake and staring off into the distance?
It seems like it’s all of a sudden that at eighteen months my granddaughter has radically increased her vocabulary. She calls a horse a ‘neigh-neigh’, a pig an ‘iggy’, and a turtle is a turtle. She asks for ‘more’ and clearly says when she’s ‘all done’. She has a new found passion for ‘oh-nits’ which, considering the shape, may make more sense than ‘do-nut.’ But we’ve had a sense that she understands far more than she says for a few weeks.
Well over a month ago my granddaughter was on the floor paging through a book while her mother and I talked. I noticed a picture on the page she was looking at and on a whim said, “Honey, can you show your mom where the basketball is?” Without hesitation, she put her finger on the basketball that the boy in the drawing was holding. Several weeks ago, before a walk, I said, “Honey, could you go in my bedroom and get the umbrella?” After hearing that, my granddaughter seemed to perk up and toddled through the apartment and into my darkened bedroom. She came out hugging the large umbrella, one a few inches taller than she is. We put a small hairclip in her hair to help hold the hair out of her eyes. It gets pulled out pretty regularly and if I see a clip on the floor I pick it up and clip it to my shirt pocket or lapel till I get a chance to use it again. Last week she was sitting on my lap letting me brush her hair back. I held her hair with one hand and looked down at my shirt pocket. There was no clip. I looked on the end table and my desk without getting up and didn’t see a clip anywhere. I half muttered, “Where is that hair clip?” and my granddaughter turned her head toward me grunted as she stabbed a finger up at my shirt pocket. I hadn’t been able to see it because my pocket had flaps covering the clip. My granddaughter understood what was going on, and helped.
So I’m thinking she understands far more than I had been giving her credit for. That makes so much sense; haven’t I always thought that my clearest thinking came without words? Haven’t I solved the toughest problems without an inner conversation? And hasn’t my granddaughter learned to spend most of the day with someone who doesn’t really talk that much?