One of my all-tim
e favorite songs ("Every Single Soul is a Poem") by perhaps my all-time favorite band (Spearhead!), long has resonated with me, well before Izzo, even. Reminded me, even before Izzo, of an updated version of Louis Armstrong's "What a Wonderful World," in Spearhead's unique, hip-hop, world-music, ever-conscious key.Anyway, its final verse, ever the more haunting:
Right from the start in a world torn apart
a baby's love leaves fingerprints upon the heart
so many think it, but never say it
"why bring a child to this planet full of hatred?"
they might not make it like the youngest departed
or worst of all they might become a part of it
involved in it, perpetuating violence, violence
and growing up in silence
seein' things they don't know how to deal with
and learnin' ways, to try to cope with it
cope with it, cope with it
and not lose hope
And with that, I'ma crawl right under my comfy little rock and focus in on what, or who, it is that makes me smile... and hope.
...
...
Is it normal for an 18-month-old to be so obsessed with watching footage of herself? Because our little girl absolutely loves watching herself on the new early-Christmas laptop, where Momom is trying to figure out how to start learning how to someday eventually edit on a professional program. It's like a very intimate Baby Einstein DVD, Izzo's relationship with what's been playing on the Mac Book Pro. She sees Badu on screen, she shouts, "Badu!" She sees herself being asked to ID her nose, her hair, her belly... and she plays along in real time. She watches Momom pour water over her soapy head in the bathtub and she ducks her head and holds her breath. She watches herself tumble in the video, and she starts to sniffle. She mostly watches herself dancing, and so mostly she kicks her heels and rocks in my lap happily.
And then, when the 40-plus minutes of video we've put on our computer ran out, she cried and cried and cried...
...
Words. Words. Words. Can't understand them all, but word is bond, every sound outta Izzo's mouth these days is a good attempt at repeating something she's heard somewhere. (Yikes?)
...
...Izzo's getting pickier at the high-chair table.
Bananas are so last month. And corn is alllll the rage: "Kuh, Kuh, Kuh, KUH!!!"
...
Izzo gets in the fridge now. Gets in the fridge and gets her yogurt. Or her juice. Or what's left in her little vanilla milk carton. Or the big, full container of strawberries. Or, often, cobs of corn. ("Kuh! Kuh! Kuh! Kuh? Kuh? Kuh?! KUH?! KUH!!!!!" she demanded when I got home from work late last week, like at nearly 1 a.m.)
Thankfully, so far, she hasn't emerged sucking down a brew like E.T. in the frog scene...
... I'm convinced, by the way, that Spielberg and Co. based "E.T." on an 18-month-old. Hamlet had never seen the famous movie, so he watched most of it on cable not too long ago, and since then I haven't been able to shake the notion that the little being in front of me, shuffling at her own pace from one room to the next, always toting some random collection of objects and making sounds that slightly resemble the words we're teaching her (ya know, like, "phone") but sounding more like she's using a dialect from another planet entirely, I haven't been able to stop thinking of her as my own little E.T. And E.T., too, was so darn sweet, touching his finger to every booboo and making it right, loving that family so much, bringing such light, in his E.T. way. In her Izzo way.
'Cept that, yeah, Izzo's waaay cuter.
...
...Words. Words. Words. II.
It ain't "Alk" anymore, folks. It's "Walk."
...
Izzo winds up in our bed every night. No, really. Every night. 'Round 3:30ish, I'll hear her whimpering. Whimpering as a warmup for crying, if Momom doesn't get there in time. And once upon a time, I'd nurse her back to sleep on these occassions. But that's no longer an option, so now I just bring her to bed, where she falls right back, SOON as her head hits the comforter. Thing is, she's gotten so used to the process that now when I go in at 3:30ish, she's sitting or standing already, ready for the transfer.
Not that we mind, really. Our bed might be getting increasingly smaller, but it's also getting the night's are actually starting to get the slightest bit cooler, and really, what's another warm little body gonna hurt?
And there's nothing quite as lovely in my world as waking up in the morning with Izzo balled up below my chin, Hamlet's arm resting above my head and Badu's whole heavy body outstretched over my legs. Those moments last me my whole day. Mmmmmmmm.
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...Izzo and I have serious beef twice a day, every day.
She comes running willingly when I announce it's time to brush our teeth, but when I try to help her -- and yes, she still does need help -- it's not fun. I have to trick her into opening up and even then, it's fleeting, for a half of a split-second. So I have to gently, forcefully/forcefully, gently brush all those little teeth. The bottom row is the toughest, because she consistently, cunningly covers them with her tongue. Any advice, anyone, for a good way to do this?
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Potty training is coming up. And this is totally blowing my mind.
Oma says don't force it... and I won't. But I've been watching Izzo go Michael Jackson whenever she poos -- or pees -- for days and days, so I'm thinking she's conscious of whatever's going on down there. And that's a start.
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Thanksgiving No. 2 today! Gobble, gobble! Gonna go try to contribute a couple of dishes, a corn souffle and a fruit salad, as requested (well, if she were requesting) by Izzo. Wish me luck.
...
Everyone be very well.
Wishing peace the world over.
And love.
Us
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