Category — The Leaf Baby

Leafy knows

that even really amazing

incredibly strong superheroes

have trouble keeping their capes out of the mud.

That’s why they need mamas.

When I woke up this morning, Leafy was attempting to glue pieces of paper together with my Burt’s Bees chapstick.

And on that note, he’d like to demonstrate the proper way to enjoy a cup of hot chocolate.

Leafy sincerely believes that a spoon is necessary for maximum hot chocolate enjoyment. Some people may find this method slow, but Leafy says, “Oh no, no no no.  It’s delicious.”

Beyond even recommending this hot chocolate, Leafy would like to endorse it.  And he’d like to do it wearing a muscle shirt with a tiger on it. (I didn’t buy it, it was a kick down.  But I think it’s cute.)

You really need to make sure that you get the hot chocolate all the way into your mouth.

Taste sensation!

Whew.  Time for the next sip.

(PS.  That time of year has come again, when one of our nearest and dearest bravely makes his way to a remote spot in Turkey.  I may not say so much directly about it, right now, but know that the fort is being held down by my sister and I, and that I am hoarding the chocolate so as not to go crazy before the middle of next month.  Send money.  I mean, chocolate. I mean, prayers for sanity.  Thanks.)

The good news is that it’s a baby tooth.

The bad news is that it will be three to five years before it grows back in.

The good news is that he’s cuter than ever.

But still… I have this wistfulness that comes from knowing that his appearance is changed permanently, now that there was pushing going on in the shower and he slipped and fell and he cried for about five minutes and then was better, now he will never look the same.  I wasn’t ready for that baby tooth to be gone yet.  Sigh.

***

I have added new layers of BUSY to busy.  We are beginning a meditation center in the Christian tradition, here in our village, and construction is commencing right now on our rooftop.  (Eventually we may get a building, but, as they say here in India, slowly slowly.)   The construction has nothing to do with me- Cate is designing and overseeing the building, but what DOES have to do with me is the week of teaching and workshops taking place right now.

Our friend has come to do some lectures and expand our knowledge of meditation: Eastern, Western, and all the middle bits.  He leads a monastic life with his wife, the type of life where one prays in a cell and builds buildings with rocks that one has quarried, and one bakes bread with wheat that one has not only ground, but grown, harvested, and threshed.  And one has no electricity.

His knowledge is of the doctorate variety, and his presence with us is of the fun and fresh variety.  We’re enjoying the lectures, the meditations, and the conversation.

(Kid A:  I had a conversation with Evan the other night.

Me: I noticed.  What did you talk about?

Kid A: Oh… almost grownup things.)

But we have been busy, meeting until almost eleven every night, and then starting over in the morning.  Yesterday everyone drove off to look at churches and ruins in Old Goa, and I stayed home because, as I told everyone, it wouldn’t be fun for them or us, to drag the kids around for the day.

Staying home looked like this:

Watering the garden. (I’m obsessed.  I touch and whisper to the new growth on our plants everyday.)

*

Walking to the painting for kids workshop.

(Me: If you can’t behave, Kid A, I won’t bring you back.

Kid A: That’s okay- I don’t really like painting.

It’s true- he never has.

Me: Sigh.

Kid A:  Do you know what my real job is? (Announcing to the class.)

Elaborate pause.

Kid A: STUDYING DOLPHINS.)

I refrained from telling the teacher that once upon a time I was a painter too.  I just let her tell me about colors and mixing and sat with my baby, laughing into his face, in my new life.

*

Bringing a friend home for the afternoon.  There is a coffee house here which is run by the friend of a friend, a man from Manali.  His daughter came to the painting workshop with us and then spent the day at our house, braving socially inept attempts to impress her by the boys.  (Kid A, painting on his face and spraying others with the spray bottle while at the workshop.)

*

Having a Belgian friend who is here studying massage give me a free TWO HOUR MASSAGE.  Wow.  It was the nicest thing that has happened to me in a long time.  What was happening with the kids?  Ratatouille.  The movie, not the food.

*

Eating the kimchi that our Korean friend made.  He is going to teach Chinua how to make it, and then I will be in heaven, sitting on the floor cross-legged, throwing it into my mouth.  I LOVE KIMCHI.

*

Having the surprise delight of Cate volunteering to sit with the kids after I put them to bed so that I could go to one of Chinua’s concerts.

I sat and dreamed of the day that I first heard those songs.  I watched his every move from the front row, singing along, clapping loudly.  His biggest fan.  It was wonderful.

YaYa: Leafy I just love you so much, and I hold you so tight like this because I want to protect you! From life! From falling! From yourself!

Leafy: YaYa, I know you do, but sometimes your holding me like that makes me CRAZY.

YaYa: Oh honey, it’s for your own good.

Leafy: AAAHGHGHGHGH!!! Ack. Cough. Arg.

YaYa: Yes, but did you know that if you put your fingers at the sides of your mouth and pull, it looks really silly?

Leafy: Yes I did, you’ve told me a thousand times.

YaYa: Well, let’s!

Leafy: Well, okay, it is REALLY SILLY, after all! And you know I’m all about silly!

Let us now take heed from Leafy and Yaya’s example.

(Thanks everyone as always, for your kindness and affirmation, and thanks, Kay for bravely explaining about your intent. We disagree, but it is plain that you are a friend.)

“Leafy. I’m VERY serious. You need to look at me in the eyes. Okay. I want you to BEHAVE at the table.”

…

…

“Leafy? What do you say?”

…

“Mama, I’m NOT have. (Pronounced to rhyme with “pave”) I’m LEAFY.”

Leafy gets it into his face in whatever way he deems necessary.

He also has an awesome immune system.

Pics of the kids with their new clothes on.  YaYa is wearing a Salwar Kameez, a traditional Punjabi garment that is now worn all over India.  I think I may dress her in them from now until forever, because they suit her so well.

And because it is almost pointless to be a mom with a blog unless you can include your cute kid anecdotes, I will tell you about this conversation between Leafy and I. ( Just so you know, I’m not some kind of psycho mom who buckles my son down for school at age 2; the kid feels left out and wants me to teach him as well.)

“Ok, Leafy, what is this letter?”

“A T!”

“That’s right!  And what’s this one?”

“A O!”

“Uh huh!  Good, and what’s this one?”

“I don’t know. It’s an umbrella!”

“Well, kind of… It’s a U.  U is for umbrella.”

“Me is for umbrella?”

“No, not you is for umbrella.  The letter U is for umbrella.”

“The letter me is for umbrella?”

And so on.  Sometimes Leafy seems like the very stamp out of what someone would make if they were inventing the quintessential toddler.  Totally cute, totally crazy, totally mischievous, throwing out quotes left , right and center.

And as for our shipping.  I really think I understand the term now, when our ship comes in. Before you tell me to shut up already about it, you have to know that it contains my entire curriculum, all of our books, all our toys except for the five that are here with us, that have been with us since Turkey, our instruments, oh, and the mattress.  Sigh.  They say two to three weeks for processing through customs.  Sigh again.  When our ship comes in.

But he still seems like a baby to me.

the joint, originally uploaded by chinua000.

You are in such big trouble, kid.

At this very moment your poor, hardworking dad is REMOVING THE TOILET FROM THE BATHROOM with our plumber friend, because a certain someone who will remain unnamed (LEAFY! LEAFY!) flushed something that should not have been flushed.

This is not like the day that you gleefully streaked past me with your sister’s pink socks, and flushed them, to her absolute grief and terror. This is not like that day, because although you traumatized your sister, who watched too late and in unbelief, and then cried for an hour, the socks just slid on down.

This whatever it is, I suppose we’ll know soon enough, did not swim freely through. It lodged itself in the toilet, just well enough that things that should be in the toilet are not going down properly.

Leafy. It is not enough to be cute. It is not enough to resemble Barack Obama so closely. It is not enough to stand in front of the sink and ask me to lift you up to the mirror so that you can “listen.” It is not enough to sing the cutest songs with the cutest voice in the whole world, including the entire alphabet song.

It is not even enough to kiss me with those juicy lips of yours.

Okay, the kissing and the lips? They’re almost enough. And so are the “I love you, Mama’s”

But I’m still going to have to ask you to join the rest of us in appropriate flushing. APPROPRIATE FLUSHING. This means no toys. No socks. No shirts. No shoes. No basketballs.

And no Little People. (Word just came from the other end of the house that one of your new Little People met an untimely demise. There has also been much whooping and shrieking.)

I love you anyways, Kid.

Mama dear

For the Leafy Boy. I love two-year-old parties. They just are so wide-eyed and humble about it all. And that Leaf is as scrumptious as a buttery roll.

At the party there were many friends. There were even a few rocking rounds of “Simon Says”.

There was music.

And dancing.

When it came time to open presents, there were plenty of friends to watch.

And plenty of help from the friends.

The presents were a hit.

And, of course, there was cake.

I accidentally blew the candles out while demonstrating how it is done (my demonstration was a little too realistic) but it was okay, because the cake was very delicious.

I was pretty proud of my rock/worm/dirt/mountain cake. It rocked our taste buds, too. I’d say it was a great party.

(The pictures that aren’t watermarked are Chinua’s.)