School’s Out!

Even Family Day Care Gets Summer Vacation

William Sundwick

It happens every year. This is Owen’s second summer vacation from the family day care provider in his neighborhood. Grampa and GiGi volunteered to take three days out of the facility’s five-day closure. We played, we napped on the Aerobed in Grampa and GiGi’s bedroom, bought just for Owen. And, then the big event Friday – we got a haircut at the award-winning Westover Barber Shop. They specialize in kids’ haircuts! Topping it all off, we visited the Westover Library and had lunch at the Lost Dog Café.

As he gets bigger, Owen is more confident of his place in the world. He is comfortable with us, our

house, our toys – and, we have now discovered, our neighborhood business district! This was his third haircut at Westover Barber Shop. He already knew the people there. And, he knew the Library and Lost Dog, too! Comfortable, confident, more interested in the truck and bus traffic he saw through the windows than what was happening inside.

But, if there was a lull in the adventure content of what he saw and heard, he made up for it with his active imagination – he became a “trash man,” the toy ambulance was rushing to an “emergency,” Grampa was “sick”! Or, Owen was a “monster,” making gruff roaring sounds.

As soon as he arrived Tuesday morning, the first thing he asked for was “trains” (the Brio collection inherited from the older boy next door when he outgrew them).

Then, thanks to GiGi buying sidewalk chalk for him, we went outside on the patio and drew on the pavers – long, straight lines, rather impressive. Grampa suggested two lines, different colors, equal length, next to one another. Then, the two pull-back vehicles entered the scene – a DRAG RACE! (Credit Grampa’s imagination for that.) it worked. The lifted Hummer beat the Crown Vic police car!

To prove to us that he was a “big boy,” Owen presented no resistance to afternoon naps on that nicely dished out Aerobed, with a full-size pillow (prepped, to be sure, with the requisite two bedtime stories). Like the barber shop, naps were a piece of cake for him – been there, done that!

When comfort begins melting into boredom, Owen easily fills in with his play-acting skills (child development specialists like his mom call this “imaginative play”). Presented with the same toys, the same Brio tracks, the same rooms, that he knows so well, he can make something different happen with them each time. The boredom isn’t in his head – maybe his grandparents? But, Grampa, at least, has no problem letting Owen take the lead, letting those wonderful fantasies go wherever they may.

As engaging as he is now, his life will soon be turned upside down with the arrival of a new baby sister! Owen knows she’s coming – Mommy and Daddy have spent much time talking to him about that. When GiGi mentioned her doctor’s appointment, Owen asked, “Do you have a baby in your tummy?”

“Pollen Comes from Trees”

How Language Transformed The “Terrible Twos”

William Sundwick

Language is power. It both requires a certain level of cognitive development and enables further cognitive development. The last entry in Warp & Woof that described my grandson was entitled “Glimpsing the Terrible Twos.” Seven months later, at two-and-a-half, little Owen has transformed himself from a willful ego monster, obsessed only with his own agency, into a congenial raconteur who is aware of his new-found knowledge of the world, and desires to share it with others. He’s a “big boy” … and, he knows it.

The first indication of the language explosion came for us two weeks ago, when his grandmother and I were regaled with his order for dinner. He likes hard boiled eggs but enjoys separating the yolk from the white before popping either into his mouth. He pointed to each part before doing this: “that’s yolk” – and, amazingly, “that’s albumin” – what!? I believe he taught grandpa a new word!

Last week, we watched him one morning when his home day care facility was closed. It was a beautiful Spring day. We went into our backyard to play. He noticed the white azalea bushes in full bloom – “flowers, it’s Spring,” and further elaboration, “it’s May.” He knows his months! (He wasn’t so sure of the day of the week, though.) Then, as he noticed the detritus from our large tulip poplar shade tree covering the patio, another nature observation, “pollen comes from trees.” He then abandoned his dirt digging project with toy dump truck and trowel and asked Grandpa to hoist him high enough to pick an unopened tulip bud from the tree, “can I get a flower?” he pointed to a low-hanging branch. He was fascinated by peeling off each petal until he got to the stem of the blossom. A future botanist in the family, it would appear.

Not only has he learned fascinating nature facts, but he knows how to apply them to his immediate sensory experiences. And, he can construct a meaningful sentence to describe the experience. It’s a sentence with subject, verb, preposition, and object: “pollen comes from trees.” This is cognitive advancement well beyond where he was seven months ago.

He is very polite. He has a pleasing habit of asking permission to “touch” and “see” things. Regarding our covered gas grill, “Is it hot?”

“No, we cover it when we don’t use it.”

“Can I touch it?”

“Sure.” When he reaches out tentatively to touch the burka-like grill cover, he jumps back, dramatically play-acting, and makes a sizzling sound between his teeth. He’s teasing us!

Potty training progresses nicely. “I have to poop” he declares – then demonstrates in the bathroom that he needs no assistance pulling down his pants and briefs and sitting on the “Lil’ Loo.” He asks for “privacy.” Before flushing (which requires intervention), he wants to count his feces in the potty. “One, two, three, four … no, one, two” -- some interpretation issues here, both answers could be considered correct. Further intervention is needed for him to reach the water in our bathroom sink for washing his hands (in his house, they have an extension for the faucet, so he can reach from a step stool without assistance). But, he has mastered the procedure.

His mind is still so uncluttered. He seems to have given up asking “why?” as a response to everything you tell him that is factual. Now, he appears to absorb it – even after one take. For instance, he asked about the air vent and door to the crawl space under our kitchen addition. I explained what they were. And, no, we don’t go into the crawl space because it’s dark and dirty (and, added grandma GiGi, there are chipmunks in there!). This was related only once. He did not respond, until fully two hours later, when his mom came to get him, and he eagerly told her everything that we said about the dark, dirty “crawl space” (his words now) with “chipmunks in there.”

It had been a few weeks since Owen had visited us at our house. Yet, despite his very busy life, he immediately slipped into the same routine he followed last time he was here. Digging dirt from the backyard foundation beds, denuded of ground-cover, putting it in the toy dump truck, then dumping it a few feet away. This was his routine – surely not duplicated anywhere else. He associates it with “Grampa” and “GiGi’s” backyard. (I have been officially renamed over the last seven months, from “Poppa” to “Grampa.” Grandma Gail has retained her cutesy nickname, however.)

To the best of my knowledge, O has not been exposed by his parents to any scripted drama -- animated, or otherwise. Yet, he has a dramatic imagination from somewhere (books, perhaps?). Some of it may come from his life. He was reenacting a scene, probably from day care, where two toy cars on the window sill were fighting for position in line, “I was there first” says the ambulance, “no, me!” says the crane. Or, siren sounds, as the ambulance speeds across the floor, “somebody sick, need to go to hospital,” he shrieks. 

Sometimes, he exhibits his instant retention skills, like making a reasonable facsimile of grandpa’s helicopter sound with tongue, lips and teeth – after hearing it only once. (We did hear a real helicopter outside earlier.) And, sometimes he plays the role of machine, like using his outstretched hand to receive a load of dirt from the trowel in the other hand, then rotating the receiving arm to the dump truck, and dumping the dirt – “I’m a crane.” “Diggers” have always been any heavy equipment like a front loader, backhoe, or excavator, since his earliest vocabulary days. Now, when he uses the garden trowel to dig in the beds, he acknowledges he is a “digger man.”

Among the things he absorbs are values. We had a conversation about sharing, after seeing the little play with the two cars fighting for a place in line. It seems that one of the cars was “Austin” (another two-and-a-half-year-old at his daycare), but not him. Because “Owen’s a big boy.”

He apparently had a satisfying experience that day at grandpa and GiGi’s house. His mom texted us later in the afternoon that he napped for three hours, she had to wake him up! And, we didn’t do anything to tire him out, either.

Glimpsing the Terrible Twos

Sole Custody of a 22-month-Old for a Weekend

William Sundwick

Friday

Friday was dedicated to preparation for an awesome responsibility. We paternal grandparents were about to move into our Son and Daughter-in-law’s house for an entire weekend. Sure, we could make excursions to our house (only 15 minutes away) on both Saturday and Sunday, but we felt, and were advised by the parents of our only grandchild, that it would probably be best if he slept in his own room, and we were nearby. This is not the first time that 22-month-old Owen has been left for multiple days in the care of grandparents – but the first time it was the OTHER set of grandparents, and he was much younger.

He is now approaching “the terrible twos.” He has cognitive skills which translate into manipulative behavior. He has language (sort of). He doesn’t like being crossed.

Pickup from day care Friday went smoothly – a familiar routine for grandpa. But, this time would be different, and we did not know how much he understood about where “Mama” and “Dada” were for the weekend, or when they would return. Owen greeted his “Poppa” enthusiastically, as usual, introduced me to his “teachers” and his friend “Fisher” (yes, they have names!) -- but, I noticed something different. Instead of sauntering down the path to the gate, and confidently walking to the street, and home, with only a hand from Poppa to keep him close to the curb (no sidewalks in the neighborhood), he wanted to be carried all the way home -- 4 doors down. “Up,” he said soon as we reached the gate. I suggested he walk, let him down, but his outstretched arms signified his preference was otherwise.

Excitement again overcame anxiety when grandma “GiGi” arrived at Owen’s house (Grandma Gail -- she invented the name to distinguish herself from Grandma Cathy, who later chose the appellation “Lolly” for reasons unknown to us). He immediately sensed it was time to party. From experience, he knows that he’s allowed to shriek wildly when GiGi and Poppa are on watch –  an outdoor voice used indoors -- verboten by his parents, we think.

Dad had meticulously prepped us with alarms on our phones, both set for 6:45 P.M., with the authorized “twinkle” ring tone. This, in their Skinnerian world, was supposed to signal wind-down time – presumably post-dinner, pre-bath. The alarms went off, the pleasant ring tone sounding very baby-like. Owen was still relaxing over his Tortellini dinner (not scarfing it down, but not rejecting it either). All three of us sensed that bedtime was going to be later than the mutually agreed 7:15. He still needed a bath. But, this is OUR watch – so much to share, so many books and toys. So much to talk about. Owen now must name everything around him. Names for everything – it’s his enforcement of world order. It’s been months in the making. All those times he asked me, “Dat?” have now been assigned names. I’m sure most come from his parents – so, now he must share, with Poppa and GiGi, everything he knows.

And, the books. “Two stories, then to bed” his dad had said – hah! Owen has a well-stocked library in his room, and another in the living room. So many books. The Library of Congress would be envious. (Is it genetic? Both GiGi and Poppa have been lifers at LoC, and his mom is a childhood development specialist, Assistant Principal at a Pre-K through K charter school in DC. His dad has staked out a career in the mainstream media.)

We knew we would be honest about Owen’s real bedtime, but it certainly wasn’t going to fall inside the parameters of his parents’ decree.

And, it didn’t – about 8:15. But, he did sleep through the night. Friday.

Saturday

Saturday started out well – if early for Poppa and GiGi, around 6:30.  O. was in great spirits, though. He invaded the supposedly forbidden office, where we were sleeping on a double futon – and proceeded to take notice of his dad’s prodigious collection of Lego models (don’t touch!). We could tell he’d done this before, despite claims to the contrary from his father. He had names for all the exotic spacecraft (“airpanes”) and even the Main Street commercial diorama (“house”). When he grabbed the double-decker London bus from the desk, we knew he wouldn’t destroy it. He loves his father’s Legos. He carried it around with him most of the morning. He treated it with much more respect than the stuffed Elmo doll he found at our house on Sunday.  More on that later.

The main problem with Saturday was we just couldn’t squeeze in the physical activity prescribed for him (a playground?) – what with meals, transportation back to our house (a requirement for us), and need to schedule naptime. All we managed was a walk around our neighborhood with the stroller – some exercise for Poppa and GiGi, but none for Owen. Frankly, the sand covering the toddler portion of our neighborhood playground was a disincentive as well. We couldn’t help but think of bath time.

Result: no nap. It wasn’t for want of trying. In fact, we spent two hours reading, coaxing, cajoling – all to no avail. Just too much stuff to talk about, too much to share. At this point, we took notice that he wasn’t blue about missing his parents. Indeed, he explained to us that his parents had gone away, to see “Amy work” (his mom’s colleague from work whose wedding in Maine was the event that took them away for the weekend). We were impressed by his understanding – he may not be able to plan days ahead, but still seems to be aware of diurnal routines, and might even be able to count three nights without parents. I have evidence of him at least parroting the number “thee,” if not counting to three.

While reasonably adventurous about eating, being the offspring of two millennial foodie parents, he did show reluctance to try some of the food we had brought – notably cantaloupe and nectarines. But, we managed to hit a sweet spot with small pieces of grilled lemon-rosemary chicken breast (frozen from a previous Poppa/GiGi meal – excellent marinade and grilling technique, if I do say so myself!).

Sunday

This set of grandparents, at least, are not foodies. Sunday brunch at the local IHOP was the big event planned for the last day. But, first we had to deal with fitful wakefulness and coughing Saturday night, and a much too early arousal Sunday morning (before 6:00). The IHOP adventure was surprisingly successful – Owen enthusiastically downed most of an adult portion of French toast and fried egg.  Two pots of coffee were entirely consumed by Poppa and GiGi.

Back to our house again, both indoor and backyard play – somewhat more active than the previous day for O. Even indoors, he can run around our first-floor circuit – all open since we built on eight years ago, and greater circumference than the comparable circuit at his house.

Among his discoveries at our house Sunday was an old stuffed Elmo doll, left over from his Uncle Colin, 28 years ago. At first, Elmo seemed to fill its intended role as “lovie” – but, then Owen took to acting out a little drama with the doll. He would pick Elmo up, throw him onto the floor, and say “Oh No! [Elmo] Fall!”, then pick him up to comfort him – he did this repeatedly. Interesting exercise in culpability, if nothing else.

Elmo lives in a large plastic dump truck we keep for Owen in a closet.  After returning to his house for a nap, O observed and compared Elmo’s dump truck with his own similar Tonka model (an outdoor toy at his house, often filled with “dirt”), asking “where Elmo?”, and started to cry! As if that brief Kabuki performance at our house may have created an attachment of sorts.

Owen’s growing assertiveness, and familiarity with us, turned into open defiance by bedtime Sunday. Did he know this was his last chance to dominate, before Mama and Dada returned? As we were getting more confident about the rules we should enforce, it came time for going upstairs – bath, stories in his room, tuck him in. We knew the routine, and fully expected some resistance. What we saw Sunday night kicked it up a notch, though.

Owen completely understood what time it was (dinner done, those “twinkle” alarms clearly audible on both our phones). When Poppa stated firmly, “time to go upstairs, bath and stories, Owen!”, his response was equally firm. He climbed onto the living room sofa, grabbed a book from his living room library, and commanded, “Poppa read!”, as he opened the large picture book on his lap.  This was obvious contravention of Poppa’s dictate. He was not proceeding upstairs, or into Poppa’s arms. He was standing his ground.

The solution, we discovered, was to wait him out – don’t beg, don’t give in. Just ignore him for a few minutes. Go upstairs, yourself, prepare his bath, get his room ready for the usual post-bath routine. Don’t say anything to him. It worked after about five minutes (after all, if nobody came to read to him on the sofa, there was no fun!). As simple as this tactic seems, it was an important confidence-building exercise for Poppa. The young can teach the old.

Yes, bedtime was still an hour late, but if grandparents aren’t good for partying, what are they good for? When his parents returned home about 10:30, we breathed a sigh of relief. And, we confessed everything (much had already been revealed via texting over the weekend). Dad’s response was: “next time we do this at YOUR house!” It made sense – libertine grandparents like us should at least be restricted to their own home, not diluting parental authority in Owen’s home.

His mom chuckled – she knew that O would recover much faster than Poppa and GiGi! Poppa was home by 11:00, and rewarded himself with a strong Jim Beam nightcap – we were free.

The next day, GiGi received a text from her son: “Owen really missed you guys this morning!” – both of us could now imagine our grandson waking up crying, “Poppa, GiGi, where Poppa GiGi?” It would place us on a par with Elmo! Sweet revenge.