Choicy White Boy

Dear Sammy,

For your newsletter describing your 30th month of life, I’ve been collecting phrases that we’ve heard around the house. These are the ones that make your Dad and me grin, or gasp, or sometimes grimace. But in each case, we look at each other and mouth “did she just say that?”

Here you go. Soundbites from a 2½ year-old girl:

“Mommies don’t go to work. Daddies do.”

“I’m not a big girl yet. I’m a little girl.”

“Mommy, I missed you when you went to your haircut. Daddy, I missed you when you were seeing Attle.”

“Shall we have a toast?”

“What’s that all about?”

“Mommy, I’m so proud of you.”

“I have an idea.”

“I’m cracking you up!”

“I don’t know what I’m talking about!”

“Why am I talking about that?”

Some of these turns of phrase fascinate us because they show us where you are in your understanding of the world. Some of them indeed do “crack us up” because they demonstrate the ways in which you have and have not assimilated our language. But the very last one deserves a special mention. For, as you crested into age 2 ½, you have begun to pursue a new line of questioning. We have embraced this new phase with equal parts pride and exasperation. Why…? Because you are now asking “why” questions.

At first, we were excited. It was enormously satisfying to answer your questions, and to see you frame your curiosity about the world in new ways. “Why do we take baths?” “Why did you put socks on me?” “Why do we garden?” “Mommy, why did you honk the horn at that car?” Well, perhaps it was more embarrassing than satisfying to answer that last one. The other day you asked Daddy “Why is it windy?” “Because certain parts of the earth heat up faster than other parts,” he replied. That was cool. You expressed curiosity about wind, asked about it, and received an interesting answer. (Plus, your mother learned something that she didn’t know. Please continue to address questions about meteorology and all things mechanical to your father.)

So why are we exasperated half the time? Because your “why” doesn’t really mean “why,” at least in the way that most adults understand it. For you, “why” is more like a conversation opener. “Talk to me about wind,” you might have said to your father. “Mommy, let’s process what happened just now when that other car cut you off and you honked the car horn and yelled.” But those are weighty sentences for you. And you often hear people ask “why?” and so it must make perfect sense to you that asking “why?” would be a good way to get some more information.

But the problem is that Dad and I usually take your “whys” at face value. And then something like this happens:

Sam: “Where are we going?”
Mom: “We’re going home.”
Sam: “Why are we going home?”
Mom: “Because it’s getting close to nap time.”
Sam: “Why is it getting close to nap time?”
Mom: “Because nap time is in the afternoon, and it is now afternoon.”
Sam: “Why is it afternoon?”
Mom: “Because morning is over.”
Sam: “Why is morning over?”
Mom: “Because it ended, it’s all done. And now it’s afternoon.”

You can probably guess your next question… and so there we are, walking home, stuck in the infinite “why” loop of a two-year old. I usually get us out by distracting you with another line of questioning: “Look at that bird flying!” You: “Why is that bird flying?” Or, I’ll pull out the one conversation stopper left to me, the one I didn’t think I’d use so soon: “Because I said so.”

Turns out that’s an effective way to abruptly change the topic in your newsletter too!

There was a lot more to your 30th month than questions and loops. You had a lot of little “firsts” this March: you and Daddy flew a kite, you got to plant flowers and seeds with me out in our backyard, you learned how to throw a giant Frisbee, you colored hardboiled eggs, and you had your first Easter egg hunt. The first of many this month, as you adore both hunting and hiding for eggs, and why should such a fun activity be limited to one day a year only? Oops, there’s that pesky “why” again. Guess you come by it honestly . I must say that I got a kick out of our daily egg hunts. For a couple of weeks, every afternoon, you and I would take turns hiding eggs for each other in the backyard. “Stay inside, Mommy, no peeking!” It was a hoot to see where you would hide them, although you usually deprived me of the pleasure of the hunt itself, because as soon as I would come back outside, you would lead me around and show me yourself where you had hidden the eggs. Or you’d say “Let me give you a hint, Mommy” and then show me.

That was a fun game. And more and more you do indeed play games with us, meaning, you can follow simple rules, take turns, and follow what’s going on. You still don’t really care about the outcome of a game, about winning or losing. You are all about the process. And that’s refreshing. We played “soccer” and “kickball” with Daddy on Easter. You learned to play a game called “Cement Showers” from your new friends Dylan and Erin. And you LOVE to play “Red Light Green Light,” which Dad and I taught you. Last time you and I played together, you introduced “Blue Light” into the mix, which means, apparently, that the people trying to get to the traffic light are to walk in a crouch and giggle.

There’s been new indoor play this month too. Mom-mom gave you a tea and dinner party set for St. Patrick’s Day, and so you and various bears have enjoyed tea and wine parties together (who says you can’t enjoy both together?). When my laptop died last month, you and I spent considerable time at the Apple Store, where they have computer stations set up for kids. And that’s where you played your first computer game solo—a Sesame Street coloring activity. (I figure your Dad wants that “first” recorded). At home, we’ve been letting you play with an online alphabet game for a few minutes each morning. You love it, and it’s helping reinforce your letter and phonemic awareness. We’ll be driving somewhere, and instead of questioning my driving practices, you’ll shout out, “Mommy I see a T! And there’s an A! And another T!” Your first spelled word is indeed likely to be Target.

Or maybe Trader Joe’s. We spend time there every week. I am very proud of you for asking the cashiers for stickers–all by yourself! There was a time when you would hide your face in my shoulder every time a cashier tried to talk to you. Now you will look him or her in the eye, and… start belting out tunes. “Twinkle twinkle” is the usual number. I really don’t know what it is about store cashiers that make you want to sing. Perhaps it’s just a calming device for you, or an easy way to verbally engage a stranger. The cashiers usually smile, or gape. It definitely shuts them up, though. Aha, maybe THAT’s your strategy. Way to go, baby girl.

Of course, you sing all the time at home too. But there you have no qualms about asking me to stop talking, or singing. “No, Mommy, don’t sing. We sing in the car.” In the house we’ve been listening to a CD of French children’s music. It is your hands-down favorite, and you request it every day, several times a day. Your favorites are “Alouette” and “A la ferme de Zephirin,” which is a French version of “Old MacDonald.” You are learning the words to all the songs (as am I) by listening to them, although you have no idea what you are singing, and you’ll ask me what the song is about. I do get such a lift out of hearing your little voice croon “Sur le pont d’Avignon” and I can’t wait to show you the bridge itself one day.

While there were no such trips for you and me, travel did play a big role in our lives this past month. Daddy went to “see Attle” for a whole week, and my friend Robin from Altoona came to visit. You adored Robin, who entertained you by making your bears sing musical numbers about their names. We also got to spend a little time with “Unkie John” who was in town on business. We’ll be seeing a lot more of him quite soon, as he’s moving to our part of the world to start a new job!

Yes, spring is for beginnings. Two years ago we were just entertaining the notion of moving to California. And now my brother and sister-in-law are going through the same process. Weird, huh? Loops. Cycles. I don’t know why life moves cyclically, Sammy, but I do promise you that we’ll talk about it. Maybe not today, though… how about in a year… or two? Happy 2 ½ years, baby girl. We are so proud of you.

Love,
Mommy

P.S. Do feel free to ask Daddy why it’s not foggy today. I’m curious to hear the answer.

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As a preface to this post, it’s important to understand that Sam still doesn’t enunciate very clearly. She can’t properly create all the phonemes in the English language. Sam’s babysitter was impressed with how much Sam talked, but bemoaned how little she could understand of what Sam was saying. We’re pretty good at making it out. After all, we’ve been listening to her since she was born! Anyway, words like “Turtle” don’t yet sound like “turtle” It’s more like “tor lul”.

The three of us were in the bathroom for potty time which was taking a while. Since I was getting ready to go to Seattle for business, I asked Carolyn to get some Purell that I could use during and after the flight. Carolyn and Sam were both sick recently and I was afraid that between that and the airplane, I’d spend my time in Seattle in the hotel-sick-bed. Carolyn got up and left the bathroom and the following conversation ensued:

Sam: Where did Mommy go?
Dad: Mommy went to find some Purell for daddy to take on his trip.
Sam: For Allell?
Dad: For what?
Sam: For Allell?
Dad: Say it again, sweetie?
Sam: For Allell?
Dad: I’m so sorry, hun, I just don’t understand.
Sam: Who is Daddy going to go see?
Dad: [Busting a gut] Ooooh, Seattle!

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Dear Sam,
I’m not sure where to start for this month. I suppose all months are continuations of the previous, but that seems especially true this month. Probably because it took me getting half way through this month before finally abdicating last month’s newsletter to your mother. Regardless, this month was full of growth and change for you. Mom indicates that you’ve been “speaking in paragraphs” for some time now. I’m not really sure how or when that happened, but you do string together related sentences. This past weekend you had the following to say, “It’s windy out. Wind is good for kites. Sammy has a kite!” And, yes, we went and flew your kite that day, though to only moderate success.
You are still cutely transparent that way. Another typical conversation will go:

Sam: What’s that on your plate, Daddy?
Dad: Daddy just poured some ketchup on his plate.
Sam: What do I want to try?

Your still love stories. You’ve added to your repertoire of books that you can “read” to yourself simply by having memorized what Mom and I have read to you. I assume you have the text memorized and associated with the picture on each page, but you’ve also memorized stories and songs you’ve only heard verbally as well, like Salsa Cat, or Twinkle (see attached). You’ve started making up stories as well, which is fascinating. They are still quite simple, but they are indications of an amazingly fertile imagination. You’ve narrated a butterfly coming to our house, and sitting on my head. You even narrate some of your own actions. For example, you’ve been heard to shout, “I want some more soy milk, shouted Sammy!”
Your narration and creativity isn’t limited to reading and stories either. It infuses your play. You still play “Cars and things that go under bridges”, but this month, it migrated to “Cars and things that go to the mechanic.” In our personal news, someone crawled under our car parked on the street in front of our house during the night. They cut apart our exhaust system stealing our catalytic converter presumably for the salvage value of the metals contained therein. Fortunately, the cuts were clean, so it was “only” a $300 repair bill instead of a couple-thousand-dollar bill. Because I imagine the value of the dollar will have changed significantly by the time you consume these newsletters with any interest, I will add that I make a little over $50/hr gross before government taxation. So, with a few minutes work, a thief wiped out the productivity of pretty much a full day’s work for me all for what couldn’t be more than a few dollars of value from the metal contained in a part of our car. That’s a longer digression from your newsletter than I’d intended, but may still be of value to you in setting the context and times in which this is being written. So, anyway, you play “Cars and things that go to the mechanic” now. And every one of your toy cars will go to “the mechanic” and get its catalytic converter replaced because it’s “noisy.”
One of the milestones of particular note this month for you is symbolic play. Meaning you are able to use something as a symbol representing something other than itself. You’ve actually been doing this for a while, but took it to new heights this month. In playing “Cars and things that go to the mechanic” you’ve had a range of mechanics. Sometimes, another car is the mechanic. Sometimes a collection of blocks is the mechanic. At least for a day or so this month, one of those mesh bags that clementines or onions comes in was the mechanic. This play is also similar to what you do with “Doctor Sally” which is also probably more than a month old at this point. For Christmas, we got you a Little People pirate ship. As we had to answer the question “What’s her name?” for each of your (male) pirates, we named them “Sally Fourth” and “Jacques the Fifth” (Fifth of Jack). Sally’s beard is kind of cute.¹ Anyway, a great deal of doctor play ensued with “Doctor Sally”. Every other doll or litle-person, or stuffed animal has visited Doctor Sally. It is always discovered that Sally’s interlocutor has “A very bad ear confection” — a phrase so cute that I repeat it instead of correcting it. Fortunately, they “take medicine” once (make a slurping sound) and they are all better.
This has also been a month of potty improvement. Last month, we put up a calendar of sorts with spaces for 6 months on which you could put a sticker each time you used the potty. During January, you accumulated 39 stickers. In February, you nearly covered the whole rest of the calendar. In part this is because we ran out of smaller stickers, but mostly this is because you made marked improvement in potty usage. Not enough for us to switch you out of diapers, you still like the convenience of being able to go in your pants (who wouldn’t!) but you’ve gotten remarkably better. You’ve even asked to use the potty (or toilet) at other people’s houses — even my office in the city when you came to visit. You asked Mom, “Do they have potties here?”
Besides that trip to my office for Valentines day this month (thank you, it was a treat), we got out other places too. I have to say, whatever the faults of the bay area, I love that we could do as many things as we did comfortably during February. We went hiking. We went biking. We went to the Bay Area Discovery Museum. We played frisbee and soccer at least to the extent a young-2-year-old can play either of those. You learned (with varying degrees of success) games like “Cement Showers” and “Red Light, Green Light” and you had several reprisals of an old favorite “Ring Around the Rosie”. You will “climb” the small, dead tree in our front yard which consists mainly of throwing a leg over a (very) low branch and bouncing up and down some. You translated something we did together with your stuffed animals (having them “ski” down the back of them sofa) into your own actions, much to mom’s chagrin. You have taken more steps (up) with alternating feet, though your default is still one step at a time.
You’ve gotten a lot better at interacting with other children. You even have a new playmate that you met through the Homegrown Kids homeschooling network. The proximity of your mom or myself during such interactions is still of more-than-average importance, but you tolerate other kids in your space so much better than you did recently, and it’s been a treat to see. The same can be said for your interaction with your occasional babysitter. You tolerate her, but still aren’t really comfortable. Babysitter or not, you also continue to demonstrate willfulness, defiance and recalcitrance aplenty; just part of being two. Even with that, I’d have a hard time saying you’re in the “Terrible Twos.” You are still, on balance, a pleasure to be around. You’re bright and engaging and quite the conversationalist so long as you can follow what’s going on. That’s one of the things that makes dinners just a little frustrating. I’ll be trying to catch you guys up on my day, but there are words and concepts that simply come too fast for you, so a constant refrain around the dinner table is

Dad: It looks like we’re going to have to kill project X and start down the road of project Y.
Sam: Daddy? What you talking about, Daddy?
Dad (to Sam): I’m talking about my day at work, honey.
Dad (to Sam and Mom): I hope we can complete…
Sam: Mommy? What you talking about Mommy?
Mom: I’m /trying/ to talk to Daddy about his day at work.
Sam: Daddy, how was your day?
Dad: (a little exasperated) Pretty good, Sam.
Sam: (relieved to understand the exchange) Pretty good!

I can’t let this month close without talking about clothing. You love wearing it. The more the better. You’ve been known to walk around wearing a couple different pairs of pajamas, a jacket on upside down (and/or backwards), and rain boots. You have worn one of my t-shirts as a (more-than) floor-length dress. You dress and undress your dolls and stuffed animals. Sometimes with pretend clothes, sometimes with doll clothes, sometimes even with clothes you wore as an infant. You even help Mom with the laundry. Helping at this point mainly means just matching socks because “folding” clothes for you means crumpling them into a ball of sorts and then placing (sometimes quite vigorously) said ball somewhere.
And so, here we are, at (or recently past) yet another month of amazing development. Here’s to more “pretty good” days with you, my dear.

Love,
Dad

1. In relating this story to Mom, I discovered that she thinks of Sally as short for Salvatore. I however, still just think of her as the bearded lady pirate.Return to body↩

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Dear Sammy,

Dad and I are a few weeks late with this newsletter. You (and the people we share this letter with) will have to forgive us: your 28th month was a difficult one—not because of you, but because this past month saw the death of a longtime family member: our beloved kitty Camus.

I’m going to start there. He died near the end of the month, but his death has colored the entire month. January 2008 did not start out well for our kitty. He became sick while we were in Pennsylvania, and the Feline B&B, where we boarded him, had to transfer him to the neighboring animal hospital. We were able to pick him up on Jan. 2, and he was scrawny and anxious—but I held out hope that he would bounce back. He always had. Alas. Camus spent much of his remaining weeks on the couch on a little red cushion that you and I picked out for him. He got up to eat now and then, but seemed to have lost his taste for food. Towards the end, he would eat only out of our hands—yes, even yours. I often had to remind you to keep your palm flat so that Camus could get to the morsel of cat food, but even then, you and Camus showed remarkable patience with each other.

One day, during his final week with us, I found you sitting next to him on the couch. You had a book on your lap, and I asked what you were doing. You said excitedly, “I’m reading a book to Camus! It’s the Carnival of the Animals!” An excellent choice, Sammy. While domesticated cats don’t figure in Saint-Saen’s carnival parade, I’m certain our kitty appreciated hearing about the March of the Lion. Camus was surely just as proud. And the fact that he seemed to not only tolerate, but also appreciate your companionship during his final days means that he had accepted you into his pride.

That brings up a memory for me. Prior to your birth, Dad and I were concerned that Camus would rebel against your presence. He had been the baby of the family, after all, and now he would have to put up with a howling infant. We did not think it would go well. The day we arrived home from the hospital, Dad went into the house first, carrying one of your blankets. The plan was to let Camus sniff it, and start to learn your scent. Camus was right at the door as Dad came in, ignored the blanket, ignored me, and most importantly ignored you. The only thing on his mind? Food. Are you still planning to feed me? We were. Good, he seemed to say. As long as you feed me, you can do whatever you want on your own time.

But he was always around. Middle of the night feedings? Rocking and shushing you to sleep? Camus was right there—hoping to be fed, of course, but providing companionship in his own way. He would sit on the couch with me while I nursed you. After we moved to California and he became an indoor/outdoor cat, he would always come outside with us, whenever you and I would go play in the backyard. He was always right there.

And now he’s not. That’s a very difficult concept for you now. Even though you were there in the room when the vet administered the fatal dose to our dying kitty, you do not understand what happened. Out of the blue you’ll ask, “Mommy, what’s Camus doing at the vet?” Of course you expect him to come back. He always had before. And the permanence of death is not something that you can cognitively grasp. “What’s Camus doing right now?” is another frequent question. When I start to cry, you say matter-of-factly, “Mommy you are sad about Camus?” You know that I will say “yes.” You know that the tears of your parents signify sadness, but you do not yet get the sadness. Maybe it’s better this way for now. Someday you will know grief like we do. I can’t prevent that, nor would I—it’s part of the human experience—but the sad, mournful part of me takes some small comfort in your equanimity.

Equanimity? Wait, did I just imply that as a two-year old, Sam, you exhibit emotional stability and composure? As I write this, my tears are turning to laughter. And so it goes, baby girl. There’s the human experience for you. Equanimity? Oh my. While you seem more puzzled than upset at Camus’s passing, you spend a great deal of time being upset about other things. Like getting dressed in the morning. Or eating breakfast. Or leaving the house. Or wearing shoes outside. Or eating dinner. Or any of a number of mundane things we do every single day. Sometimes these tasks are odious to you. Sometimes you throw a tantrum. Sometimes you try to negotiate. I have a dim memory of driving us to the grocery store while you screamed over and over “I don’t want to wear sneakers!” I pulled over, took your sneakers off, then resumed driving. That made you more upset. The screaming intensified. I was trying to figure out how to give you a “time out” in the car, when I pulled over, had a good scream myself, and then somehow we both pulled ourselves together, and eventually had a fine outing.

So even-tempered? Not so much (I wonder where you get it from . Defiant, willful, controlling, capricious? Yes. Standard two-year old stuff. So you’re developmentally right on track. (Me? Not so much, I guess!)

But lest you think that this month was filled with nothing but the sad and the bad, let me regale you with the glad. And there was a lot of glad. And a lot of play. You love to draw with markers—you will imitate circles and straight lines. You even drew a picture of Pop-pop for his birthday that looked remarkably like a stick figure. You are still crazy about singing. Sometimes towards the middle of the month you finally stopped belting out “Deck the Halls” at every moment. Current favorites include a set of Thomas the Tank Engine train songs that you learned from a musical book, and the French chicken-plucking song “Alouette.” You still love to read, and you select longer and more sophisticated books. The hands-down favorite of this month was Richard Scarry’s Cars and Trucks and Things that Go –a copy that belonged to Daddy. It takes a good half hour to read it, though, because not only is it a lengthy book, but you interrupt constantly with questions and remarks.

You are quite a chatty girl, which we enjoy. Here’s a sample conversation in which you used your new favorite word:

Mom: Sammy, are you enjoying your crackers?

Sam: Actually, they’re not crackers. They’re goldfish.

Mom: Did you say “Actually?!”

“Actually” is the word of the month. You pronounce it “Akchally” which just increases the cuteness factor. This is good, because you abandoned other cute mispronunciations this month: “snake” is no longer “nake,” and “stepping stool” is no longer “depping doo.”

You love your stepping stool. Its main function this month was to allow you to put your crib animals back in your crib by yourself. For a couple of weeks, you would insist that all 7 of them come out of the crib and join you in your little play tunnel. You would set them up inside, give them snacks and milk, and then put them to bed. Over and over.

If that seems like typical girl play, then you also enjoyed engaging in typical boy play. Grand-mère sent you two bags of wooden blocks that belonged to her and her brother when they were little. Block play evolved into a game that you call “Cars and Things that Go Under Bridges” (you really do like that Richard Scarry book!). We would build bridges and a parking lot, and then one by one your little matchbox cars would drive under the bridge and then park in the lot.

Finally, and this is probably the most exciting development this month, you now actually play with boys and girls—“akchally!” Out of the blue this month, you started to relax at our weekly playgroup with Meri and Dante. We had Meri over for a one-on-one playdate and you did fabulous. And I don’t mean that you shared your toys and played nice (which you did). No, what excites me and Daddy is that you are no longer as afraid of other kids. You even try to engage them in conversation. You ask questions, offer toys, show off toys, give directions and commands… in short, you are starting to talk to other kids the way you talk to us.

It’s such a heartwarming thing to see you open up, to see you take chances. I have no idea what has brought on this sudden transformation, but it is such a good reminder for us. We needed that, Sam. In a month filled with sadness and grief and loss, it is a blessing to be reminded that not all change is pain. We tearfully said goodbye to a dear companion. And we—thankfully, happily—get to say hello to a growing, changing You every day.

Love,

Mommy

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My wife already blogged the Salsa Cat story. But I’ve been amazed at Sam’s story-re-telling ability. She’ll “read” books almost word for word that we’ve read to her. Sure, we’ve read them a lot, but not enough for us to be able to recite them. Anyway, here Sam is re-telling the Salsa Cat story.

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It’s funny to me how apt a name Camus was for our cat. While perhaps only in stereotype was our cat an absurdest existentialist cat. He hardly qualified as warm and friendly. Really, if you imagine a cat named Camus, you’d probably be pretty spot-on.

But he wasn’t always called Camus. When I first met him, his name was “Match.” I don’t know what, exactly, inspired me to give Carolyn a cat for her birthday in 1995. I just knew she loved cats, and I didn’t have a better idea. And I mean loved cats. Like we’d be walking along a street having a conversation, and she’d interrupt it to stop and say “Hi” to a cat she saw. And I don’t mean a cat that came up to the sidewalk and asked for attention, I mean a cat crouched away in the bushes. So I decided to get her a cat. Like any proper geek at the time, I check usenet. Sure enough, someone has listed a “free to a good home” kitten on uva.want-ads.

I went to check him out, and sure enough, he was a kitten. He was cute in the way kittens are cute. After passing whatever screening the owners were doing (”Yes, I’d had cats as a kid.”), I agreed to take him and provide said “good home” and made arrangements for my return to pick him up.

I tell Carolyn that Saturday that we’re going to pick up her present. “Where are we going?” she asks, bursting with curiosity. I tell her we’re going to Schuyler, VA to pick up her present figuring she’d have no idea where exactly Schuyler (pronounced skyler) was, much less what one might procure in Schuyler. Eventually, we leave the main drag through town, “Oh, this is my work exit, I took it out of habit.” We stop in front of someone’s house, “Oh, I just need to pick up something for work since we’re here.”

I come out carrying a copy-paper-box supported by a litter box. I put the whole thing in Carolyn’s lap in the car. Match peeks his little kitten-head out, and Carolyn cries with delight. We take him home.

During this time, we have a roommate in graduate computer science with me. We’ll call him “Stoakes”. Carolyn doesn’t know what she wants to call the kitten, but she knows “Match” isn’t it. A couple of days go by, still no name for the cat. Finally Stoakes says “Fay, I’ve named your cat.”
Carolyn dubiously responds, “Uhm, OK. What have you named my cat?”
Stoakes: “I’m not going to tell you. You have to guess.”
A pointless guessing game then ensues. After a while, Carolyn asks for help. A category, some way to narrow down the possible pool of names. Finally, Stoakes gave in. “Authors” he said. Carolyn offered a flurry of names, none correct. Over the course of the next couple of days, this quizzing continued. Another hint was required. Gender? “Male” came the reply. More incorrect guesses. Nationality? “American”. Still more incorrect guesses. Living or dead? “Deceased. And, get this: he died by his own hand.” Fewer guesses forthcoming, all failing to hit their mark. Any other distinguishing characteristics?

Stoakes: Yeah, he only had one name.
Fay: Only one name, you mean like “Cher” or “Madonna”?
Stoakes: Exactly.
Fay: So, Author, Dead, Male, American, Suicide and Only one name?
Stoakes: Yeah.
Fay: I so can’t believe you know an author that I don’t.
Fay: <thinks long and hard>
Fay: I give up. You’ve bested me. What’s the name of my cat? Who is this author?
Stoakes: Camus. Duh. He wrote The Stranger
Fay: <uncontrollable laughter>

So, Albert Camus (yes, he had a first name) was, in fact, a dead male. He was, however an Algerian-born French writer who wrote L’Étranger before his (non-suicidal) death in an automobile accident.

But after a story like that, how could we call the cat anything else?

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We euthanized our cat, Camus, today. It seems such a strange way to say it. But easier than “we took a family member to be killed today.”

Camus resting

I guess it had been coming for a while. A long while, really. He’d had feline mega colon for years. Mostly we’d managed it medically, giving him 4 different medications¹ twice daily. Still, cleaning up errant poop or vomit wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. Occasionally, we’d given him enemas. But finally, he’d pretty much given up and started to shut down. The serious downslide happened while we were away for Christmas and boarding him. He’d gotten backed up, and had to be given an enema. But then he refused to eat and had to be hospitalized and force-fed. He regained some strength and verve and we brought him home. But from that time on, he ate little, and slept lots. He lost weight, and even got to the point where he had a hard time keeping his hindquarters up and stable during standing.

This morning, while we were cleaning up more of that errant poop and vomit, we decided on another trip to the vet. They were able to see us right away. (Carolyn and Camus went alone. Sam and I stayed home.) The vet checked and his colon was empty. This was no longer the standard “he got backed up” problem. It was time to make a decision; lots of invasive (and expensive tests) on a clearly aging and ailing feline -vs- a gentle easing of his suffering and a passage on to the next life². Carolyn brought Camus back for some family time and “is this the right thing?” consultation. We pet him, told him we loved him. We opened a can of tuna to give him the water from it — a perennial favorite. We then all took him back down to the vet and stayed in the examination room as the doctor administered the fatal shot. We’re having him cremated though I’ve no idea what we’ll do with the ashes.

Basket Cat

The void he leaves behind feels immense, and I’m tempted to try to fill it with cookies or booze, even knowing that neither will work and both will leave remnants I won’t want to deal with. I’m glad we have each other to share the loss with as well as the fond remembrances. As eulogy, I (and Carolyn?) will leave a few Camus stories here in the blog over the next few days. Mostly they are short ones. Mostly they are personal, having meaning only for us. But they’ll have a place to help honor the feline that was a part of this family for almost thirteen years. Sadly, even to his dying day is name was both fitting and butchered by caretakers. As we were waiting for the final visit from the vet we overheard the assistant letting him know that /kay-muss/ was in room 3.

Rest in Peace, buddy-cat.

1. cisapride, lactulose, mineral oil and metamucilReturn to body↩
2. I don’t even believe in an afterlife for humans, but it sure is a comforting way to think about itReturn to body↩

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I suppose it shouldn’t come as a surprise that a reporter would have a blog. Nor that “Santa Al” would make a blog-worthy impression. Still, it’s a bit of a trip to run across. OK, I didn’t really “run across” it — he forwarded it to me. But there you go. A reporter got caught up in my dad’s “alternate reality” field. Maybe that’s why I’ve been into virtual worlds for so long; I’m just trying to recreate my childhood.

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Dear Sam,

Well, Chrissum time is over. Alas, by the end you were saying “Christmas” about as often as you said Crissum. Your little approximations of words are cute and fleeting. Already I miss getting to hear the babble of your baby talk and wish I’d found a way to record more of it. This month has begun a real inquisitive phase for you. You have a hard time being adjacent to a conversation without saying something like “What’s mommy and daddy talking about?” If we short change you on the answer by keeping it too simple “We’re talking about feelings, Sam!” then you have an immediate follow up question: “What’s mommy and daddy talking about feelings about?” Of course usually by then we’re both distracted from our original conversation as well as unsure how to rephrase our entire communication to each other in terms that a 2 year old could follow.

It’s not just conversations between people that are interesting to you. You like there to be conversations between your bears. Or between your dolls, or between your cars, or, frankly, just about anything you have 2 of. And here’s where it fails the adorable test. You are generally unwilling to supply both sides of the conversation yourself. Therefore you need a parent (or, fortunately a Grandparent) to drive the other bear/doll/car/other. You’ll assign a bear/doll/car/other to whomever you’re with, hold out your bear/doll/car/other and say “Hi.” To which the appropriate response is “Hi”. That formality out of the way, you’ll say, “It’s so nice to meet you much.” We have no idea where the “much” came from, but it’s there in almost every “nice to meet you”. We’ve also taught you the sign for “nice to meet you” which is complicated enough that you’re really no good at it, but exciting enough to you that you do it with great fervor.

Alas, the control and oversight that you demonstrate for conversations, you apply to as many aspects of your life as you can muster right now. Common phrases from the month. “No, daddy! No, Daddy! I can do it.” “I can do it all by myself.” “Sammy will do it all by herself.” “That’s my job!” OK, that last bit is kind of cute. You understand that someone’s job is what they do. So, when it’s time for something that you know about to happen you’ll announce who’s job it is. Like if I try to put on your pajama top, “No, Daddy! That’s Mommy’s job!” Recently, you claimed something was your job to Mom and the conversation proceeded something like this:

Mom: And what’s Mommy’s job?
Sam: Cleaning up.
Mom: <sighs> And what else is Mommy’s job?
Sam: Playing.
Mom: Anything else?
Sam: Doing the crossword puzzle.
Mom: And what’s Daddy’s job?
Sam: Typing on the computer.
Mom: And what else is Daddy’s job?
Sam: Cleaning up.
Mom: Woo Hoo!

So while you clearly have a few things figured out, it’s still a very inquisitive phase. You’ll ask us “What’s he’s name?” You’ll ask us this loudly enough that the woman in the grocery store that you’re pointing at can hear you. We don’t know that woman in the grocery store. When looking at the cover of the “Shrek the Third” DVD, I can usually tell you the names of the people you ask about. When you ask what the name of the trash bin is, I have a little bit of a harder time. You also love to know what people are doing completely ignoring boundaries of time and space. We can be driving along in California and you’ll ask “What’s Mom-mom doing?” We do our best to make up something probable based on what we know of her routine. You also like to know the future. “After my nap, what will we do?” Usually we can be reasonably predictive. New Years Eve I was trying to explain the change of years as we waited for your mom in the parking lot of Safeway. You asked “In 2008, what will we do?” I was able to answer about predictive trips — you and Mom will go back to PA in June. We’ll all go to Wisconsin in Aug. And I predicted that “You’ll become a big girl in 2008″. “Big Girl” is our code for “potty trained.” You love talking about what kind of panties you’ll wear when you’re a big girl. Generally, green, red and polka-dots are your predicted favorites. We’ll see how your predictive ability turns out! You’re already pretty good on the potty front. If we tell you to go sit on the potty, you will usually pee. Pooping is still private, “Daddy want to go away to the kitchen now?!?” and doesn’t happen on the potty at all. You just aren’t yet at all predictive about that, so it’s still too soon to take away diapers.

It feels like “waiting for your mom in the parking lot of a Safeway” on New Years Eve deserves a little bit of an explanation. In order to travel to PA for the holidays, we decided to finally use our long-accumulated US Airways miles. It was great because it meant the whole airline trip cost us $15 — $5 ea in booking fees. But it also meant that we had to travel during “non-blackout” times. So, our travel back from Mom-mom and Granddaddy’s house was on new years eve. And mom was in the Safeway picking up the one “essential” we didn’t already have in the house — soy milk. We needed soy milk because you need milk. But much of this month you needed soy milk instead of regular cow’s milk because you had a really vicious stomach flu. You vomited. you vomited a lot. You even lost a pound or more during the worst week. While my weight can easily fluctuate by a couple of pounds, for you that’s 1/25 of your body weight and enough to freak us out a little bit. You even shared this flu with me. I spent one awful day expelling from both ends, one bad day recovering and a medium-ish day, back at work. For you, it dragged on and on though. But apparently one of the effects of this virus is that it wiped out your villi causing your body to react very poorly to dairy. Your pediatrician suggested that we cool it on the dairy for a week. We were relieved that you made the whole plane trip to PA without vomiting though we had the “barf bags” at the ready for the climb and descent. A week into the trip to Mom-mom and Granddaddy’s you’d been doing great so we thought nothing of you having a few cheddar puffs and tortellini. Alas, it turned out poorly and we had to change your blanket, your crib sheet, and your pajamas. Twice. The next day you were feverish and lethargic. The day after that, you bounced back admirably. But we’ve been on soy milk ever since. You’ve had bits of cheese recently and kept it down, and we’ll likely gradually switch you back, but oh so cautiously. We sure hope this doesn’t mean lactose intolerant. That would be an unfortunate thing to add onto a severe peanut allergy. It still weirds me out that something as common (and delicious) as peanut butter could be fatal to you. Something’s just wrong about that.

This month Grandmere left from her Thanksgiving trip out to see us in El Cerrito. And we went to have an extended stay with Mom-mom and Granddaddy for Christmas, so you’ve had quite a grandparently existence for a while. Fortunately, you warmed up to all of them pretty quickly. You only ever got moderately comfortable with Granddaddy. At one point you agreed to let him hold you after dinner and as we got to the end of dinner you exclaimed “Granddaddy doesn’t have to hold you.” Once again, you cleaned up over Christmas. It was pretty impressive. We took two suitcases there — three counting your pink “Hello Kitty” suitcase which your mom and I got you for an early Christmas present plus our respective carry-ons. And coming back, we not only filled those suitcases quite thoroughly but we ended up shipping 3 boxes of stuff back. We’ll be trying to figure out a way to at least rotate some of your toys in and out so that something remains fresh and interesting to you.

Your final set of molars is just about all the way in, and you enjoy using them on your vitamins. We have “Trader Darwin”’s children’s chewable vitamins for you. And you get one before breakfast. When you eat your vitamin, you always have it sing the ABC song. It’s pretty cute, but you not only mumble through the lmnopsection (something that somehow rings familiar from my own experience) but you completely leave out ‘k’. Every other letter is there, but ‘k’. What have you got against ‘k’?

Finally, Christmas has given you a great chance to keep singing. You’ve added Christmas carols to your collections of nursery rhymes and songs. My favorite currently is “Deck the halls.” By the time I managed to record it, it seems you’ve forgotten the first verse which you used to sing basically as “Deck the halls with Barley. Fa la la la. Fa la la la” I’ve heard your version of this song so many times that it takes a little bit of effort to remember the real version. I provide the rest of the song here for posterity. For those that don’t have parent ears or don’t remember the lyrics, what’s being sung is:

‘Tis the season to be jolly,
fa la la la la la la la la

Don we now our gay apparel
fa la la la la la la la la
Troll the ancient yuletide carol
fa la la la la la la la la

Of course, through all this cute is a streak of demanding. One of the moms in your playgroup said that “having a two year old is like living with a control freak with OCD.” And not to belittle those who are actually dealing with control freaks or OCD, but oh my, there’s some serious truth in that statement. One of the ways you do this is with simple declarative statements like those we use with you. We’ll say, “It’s time to wash your hands for dinner, Sam.” to which you reply, “I don’t have to wash my hands.” Once we establish that you do, in fact, have to wash your hands for dinner, it becomes “I don’t want to wash my hands with Daddy.” or “That’s Mommy’s job.” Once it becomes clear that Mommy is still finishing making dinner and it has to be Daddy, then it becomes “I have to wash my hands in the kitchen.” Then we have to establish that the kitchen sink is still busy. Sometimes every little step of doing anything becomes a series of trials like this. I have no doubt that I’ll look back on these days longingly through the filter of time. And I certainly wouldn’t wish them away, ever. But some of them can be trying.

Trying or not, you’re a great little girl, and I loved getting to spend more time with you this month than usual thanks to vacation and holidays. I love you and will join your crusade against the letter ‘k’ — at least if you could explain it just a little bit better.

Love,
Dad

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Sam: I met a blue jay once at my house in California. He sat in my seat.
Dad: He sat in your car seat?
Sam: No, I sat in my car seat. He sat next to me. And a birdie sat next to me.
Dad: Isn’t a blue jay a type of bird?
Sam: And the blue jay said “Wow.”
Dad: Wow?
Sam: “WOW! [pause] There’s some trees out there!”

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