I know I shouldn’t make this blog into a litany of Darling Things My Offspring Does, but lately I can’t help it. I’ve reached the point where I want to freeze-dry this kid, to introduce trace amounts of liquid nitrogen into his growth hormones, and keep RMF Version 2.4 in our lives for as long as possible. He’s curious, effusive, conversational, and out of diapers. Even when he’s driving us nuts with his constant boundary testing (refusing to stay in his new big-boy bed, for example), he’s still great company.
(I recently mentioned these feelings to a Certain Anonymous Relative, and the response was “Enjoy it now, because it only gets worse.” And not in that kids-are-a-chore-but-don’t-you-just-love-’em sort of way. The tone was earnest and genuinely without mirth. This is why I have more trouble relating to this person with each passing day. More as this story develops.)
Anyway, to the point: My wife was in the kitchen the other day when Robert pranced in from the living room pantless and announced he had made “a ‘C’ and a little round ball.” Naturally, she was a little perplexed, so she came to investigate and found two masses in his potty that were shaped as advertised. An exclamation point curled into its rounded confines.
The next day, it was my turn to witness Robert get off his potty and shout, “I made a mountain!” And he wasn’t wrong about that, either.
It seems Robert has chosen to pursue the aesthetic limits of his new talent—just the thing to emphasize if we were inclined to interview at some of these pompous Manhattan pre-schools. We could arrive dressed to the nines, trade some genteel banter, and then showcase Robert’s creativity and cognitive prowess with a series of still-life turds, each with artistic annotation. I don’t know if they’d like it, but I know that it’s art.