To Simon at Fourteen Months

Just look at you!

Simon makes mischief of one kind and another in his Tata-made bear suit.

Our boy is no stranger to dirt. Here he is at the end of a serious puddle-ducking session.

Simon makes a drum out of everything, but this was just BEGGING FOR IT.

Your Papa and I are two of the happiest grown-ups you'll ever meet. We're also tired and exhausted much of the time. We knew we'd be busy your first year, but then Papa's work really picked up, and we're all so busy trying to take care of one another. You would be very busy no matter what; signing, speaking, laughing, making friends, playing and listening to music, knocking things over, celebrating your mealtimes. But these days, Zak and I are very busy too. And happy.... and tired.

You are transported when you see them.
It finally happened. You noticed that there are trucks and trains in the world and that they are the most fascinating things around. They are like dinosaurs that have not yet gone extinct. (You haven't yet learned about dinosaurs, but that's fine. One at a time.) When we were playing in the rain and puddles the other evening before dinner, you watched a train go by, as we have many times. We play at a playground and often walk on a path that are very close to the tracks. But for the first time, you watched the train go and then frantically signed "More! More!" the way you do when we play "Trot, trot to Boston" or feed you blueberries. You have joined the league of toddlers in earnest now, Simon. We are very proud.

...and by cats I mean seals.

Your aunt Jordanna tells a story about a woman who called the UW biology department to tell a story of microwaving a bee and bringing it back to life. (I know, I know... ask her to tell it, it's much funnier.) The woman started off by saying something like "I was feeding my cats, and by my cats, I mean my chickens..." This joke will never stop being funny to your Papa and me.

Today you and I were visiting with the harbor seals at the aquarium when you signed "Cat" over and over the same way you do when you see a cat. Later, when we visited the fur seals, you signed "cat" for the females and "dog" for the (ENORMOUS) males. This was a sign of great affection, because you love cats and dogs, but also this wonderful insight into how you categorize and sort things in your mind. For instance, you also ask us to "work" the guitar rather than "play" it. I also love that ways that similar (to you) signs become the same. You use virtually the same sign for banana, bread, and egg. We've discussed that you used to use the same sign for dog, bird, water and full diaper, but things have changed. You have different signs now for dog (patting your chest, which is similar to patting your thigh, which is part of the "real" sign) and water (one finger to your lips, which is close to three fingers to your lips). You still sign bird that way (it's really close) and you now say "Poop-uh" when you think you might have a full diaper.

You've moved on from the duh-duh-duh's to the buh-buh-buh's. You love talking about bubbles, balls, books and baths (which to someone else would sound like the same baby talk but to us are clear words). You call both your Papa and me "Baba" at this point, although the P's are sometimes reappearing in Papa's name. You say things like "kitchen" "blueberry" ("boob") "balloon" ("BOON!") and mimic much of what we say.

Morning Madness

We are morning people. If it were up to you (and on mornings like this one, when I felt a little under the weather and wanted a cup of tea and breakfast right away it kind of is) you'd be playing and talking before you even got out of your sleep sack and pj's as soon as you were done with our first nurse of the day. Today, you grinned at me, then toddled over to the music box your Grandpa bought you and turned it on. After a little dancing, you were ready to play with magnets for 10 minutes or so. When you were tiny, our friends visited an we thought 4 year old Cayden would enjoy some Magneatos, a toy I bought used for you because they were available, and I love them and knew you'd enjoy them in your later toddlerhood. Ever since we got them out for Cayden, though, you've been playing with them and by now you have a pretty good intuitive sense of magnetism...which makes you a genius.

In the morning we laugh, talk about our belly buttons, have more hugs and kisses than any other time of day, talk about Papa before he wakes up, read books, look out the window, dance and prepare breakfast. You are learning to really use a fork and spoon, by the way. We're all really impressed.

I should probably stop there.
Thanks for 14 months. I'll love you forever.

Through to Sunrise

I can type without looking at the keys, which means that right now, as I type,I'm actually looking out the window. I'm in a forward facing seat on the Commuter Rail to Providence, and the sun is coming up. It's bright. When we hit a treeless piece of track, I turn to face it for as long as I can stand. Maybe it's the time I spent in Seattle, but in the winter it seems like I can feel something good coming into my eyes when I look at the sun.

I didn't sleep much last night,but I feel very awake.
I travel this way pretty often, but it's so rare that I watch the miles go by.

Last night when Z got home from soccer he told me he ran into two cyclists who asked directions to Inman square. Because telling directions on the bike path is pretty tricky (There are few signs, and the path is interrupted a few times by streets)he suggested they take the train. "We rode from Providence!" they said "and by now its a point of pride. We're riding all the way." Z couldn't argue with that, as he recently fit a huge box of DISHES on his bike and pedaled a few miles for the same reason. He gave the travelers simple directions on main streets.

Needless to say we were both impressed. We'd looked at the possibility of that ride before, and it's really long. As I look at all these miles passing by, I'm a little surprised. When I really consider it, I realize that I think of Boston and Providence as separated by time, but not really by distance. I often say "here" in a way that encompasses Boston, Providence, South County with no difference. Sitting on the train, reading, writing, snoozing or hanging out with Z is just part of the penance I have to pay, but I don't consider the miles, just the minutes.

The exception to this is occasionally when I have to explore the stops between my two destinations. Occasionally if there's some rush and someone could meet me in a car, I'll look at the map and figure out where exactly a place like Mansfield or Sharon is. One time, I thought I had cash and jumped aboard the train planning to pay en route. (If I'm honest, I'll tell you, I thought I could pay with a card on the train. If the waitstaff at WagaMama can have handheld credit card machines, why can't the MBTA? Boy did the conductor think I was an idiot for thinking that! Another holdover of my Seattle personality.)

Anyway, she turned me out at the next available stop... Route 128! I felt stranded in an unknown wilderness. I called my pal Mrs. Gray, and asked her to pick me up because it would be hours before I could catch another train and we'd planned to spend the day together. I could give her no directions, so she followed her GPS to get there. I walked, blinking and bewildered out of the station, found a busy enough intersection with a parking lot where I could wait and told her where I was.

I feel a little like that now, seeing the quaint steeples, gritty mills, tract housing, lines of oak trees going by; confronted with the reality of the distance. When we were 19 my friend Julie and I took a train to Oakland, CA from Providence. We met hundreds of people on the way. This morning, looking out the window at the pink sky and the golden light on the trees over the hunched leather jacket of my seatmate, I remembered an agreement we made early on in the trip. We had perhaps stayed up late with a new friend who had taught us to play Euchre in the club car, or maybe had just been awakened by a stop at daybreak, but we sat in our seats and watched the sunrise over... upstate New York perhaps? It was so beautiful, and we were starting to understand what we had in store for the next week. We agreed like 8 year old blood brothers that anytime there was something incredible like a sunset or a sunrise, we each had the permission to awaken the other. Sleep was nothing compared to seeing the entire country out the window of the Amtrack train.

I feel a little like that now in a lot of ways. Now I'll try to get to know the scenery on this train ride the way I know my walk to the library or my bike ride to work. Our return to New England has felt so much like a glimpse into all the meanings a place can hold for us.

Of course, days later, after spending the night chatting with some other young people in the viewing and smoking cars, I returned to my seat during the most beautiful sunrise over Minnesota. I hesitated and then awakened Julie. She peeked out the window and said "Yeah. Thanks Kendra. Maybe we won't do that anymore. I'll see you tomorrow."