Friday, April 8, 2011: Ain't nothin' but a number

It's official. Gavin is allergic to tree nuts. This is not a surprise considering the crazy take-me-to-the-emergency-room reaction he had when he had some cashews. But we took him to an allergist so we could be sure. He did not like the allergy test, which consisted of inflicting little patches of his back with allergens and forcing him to stay still while they did their allergy-thing. Thankfully I was able to pull up a video of trucks on my phone and this pacified him long enough for the proof of his allergies to spring up on his back. So no cashews, no almonds, no Brazil nuts, no hazelnuts, no walnuts. And whatever other kinds of nuts are tree nuts. He was also tested for strawberries and peanut butter and he is not allergic to those. So let the PB&J begin! Actually, we still aren't giving him peanut butter right now just to be safe. And he's never had jelly before. As Stacy would surely point out, it's mostly sugar and he doesn't need it. But one day I will make him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and I hope he likes it. And I think he will since a PB&J sandwich is always better if someone else makes it for you. I don't know why that is, but it is. It's a fact.

It's my birthday tomorrow. I will be, I am fairly certain, 33. If you would have told me 20 or so years ago that I would one day lose track of exactly how old I am (much like how I am unable to remember how old my parents are or how old any of my grandparents were), not to mention that I would lose an awful lot of enthusiasm for my actual birthday, I would have thought you were insane. I would have probably said something like, "Shut up, you're retarded." Forgive me, but I was only 13ish and kind of an asshole.

Now, when I say I've lost enthusiasm for my birthday, it's not in the "oh my god I am getting so old each day death is closer and closer and it totally freaks me out that my nose and ears will never stop growing and the longer I live the higher the chance I'll look like my great uncle Dom even though we are not blood related" way. No. It's in the "one more fucking thing to do" way. I have Rosemary to thank for this. Not for my attitude, but for naming that attitude. See, years ago I asked her what she was doing for her birthday and she was less than enthusiastic. Worried I had touched a nerve (because, let's face it, birthdays are touchy subjects for some, especially the kind of people who say, "I'm turning 21 for the 19th time," and then force an overly jocular laugh as they surreptitiously dab at a tear using a napkin with an illustration of a tombstone on it because their friends are so hilarious! To be clear, Rosemary is not one of these people) I asked, "Do you hate birthdays?" To which she sighed and replied that no, she didn't, it was just that her birthday was "one more fucking thing to do." I will admit I was a little taken aback by this, even a little hurt since I was especially happy she was born found that fact very worthy of celebrating. That was before I had a kid. Now I am lucky if I can remember what day it is, keep track of the diaper bag (it's actually not in our possession right now. We left it behind at the Bat Zone where we went to celebrate Mo the sloth's 10th birthday on April 1st. No joke), have clean clothes for me or for Gavin or for Stacy, get to work on time, grade student essays, go to the bathroom alone, eat actual food, clean my house, do any kind of writing, read (other than scanning ingredient labels for tree nut warnings), shower, go to the gym, walk the dog, watch a movie, have conversations with my wife that are not about Gavin's diaper content, sleep, keep the surfaces of the kitchen table and counters visible let alone clean, make and keep a doctor's appointment, see or talk to friends, or sleep (I know I already mentioned sleep, but it really cannot be mentioned enough). So, yeah, my birthday. Whoop-de-do. Wake me up when it's over. Just kidding. Gavin will no doubt have already woken me up.

So many new words every day. Stacy's been keeping track of them as best she can but he's saying so many new things even she can't keep track of them all. He now points to himself and says, "Me." Like when you pick up the two halves of Laura's now broken cell phone and say to Gavin, "Who did this?" He will point at his chest and say, "Me." And then, if he's feeling especially conciliatory, he might say, "Uh oh."

He mimics a lot. You can say, "Hey Gavin, say ________." And he'll try to say it. Unless you're asking him to say "Laura." Then he won't. I'm pretty sure he means this as a personal slight.

Stacy says Gavin says 100 words but I am not so sure. It just seems like so many words. I mean, not for a writing assignment or anything, but for a toddler maybe. So here are the words he knows and says: Bombero (firetruck), Emma, Mama D, Mommy, truck, dump truck, man, mas (more), please, thanks, duck, turtle, luna (moon), book, up, down, no, yes, drop, all done, poop, auga (water), taza (cup), pee, Granny, Jamie, Henri, shoe, sock, sit, hot, coat, green, blue, rojo (red), anaranjado (orange), amarillo (yellow), apple, calculator, clock, phone, food, nose, tea, what's this, three, dos (two), mamar (to nurse), penis, quack, bunny, ball, top, pap dulcae (sweet potato), Paul, pompas (bubbles), hand, go, goodbye, hi, boot, pantufla (slipper), estrella (star), eye, me, bath, bata (bathrobe), dance, Gavin, blueberry, pepper, bolsa (purse), giraffe, dragon, dump, jump, push, Colin, John, Santa, rana (frog), dog, trash, tractor, pan (bread), naked, pie (foot), bowl, plate, loud, sucio (dirty), take, bus, push, pants, on, sharks, car, doctor, uh-oh, knock, pajamas, balloon, sauce, blasters, fall, hole, djembe, peas, pineapple, circulo (circle), tube, pajaro (bird), cake, puzzle, flower, key, kiwi, helmet, bombilla (light bulb), reloj (watch), pezones (nipples), pata (paw), blanket, cochecito (stroller), camera, cold, hat, caqui (khaki), cacahuate (peanut), white, mine, kid, mop, broom, gone, button, bib, oh's (which is what we call Cheerios), open, help.

Sounds he makes in lieu of words: Shhh (quiet), fffffffwwwwaaaahhhh (airplane), vroom (car), meow (cat), neigh (horse), woof woof (dog), rarrrrr (tiger, lion, bears, etc.), a kissing sound (for smoochin'), wheee (slide), mmmm (yummy).

So that's about 140 words. I stand corrected. Mind you, these are all words that he has said unprompted and more than once. It's not like he uses all of these words every day, but these are the words we're willing to put in writing that he knows how to say (and I say "we" because I enlisted Stacy's help with this list. She's been keeping a diary since his birth and has been recording new words in it for the past few months). He understands probably 1,000 words, in English and Spanish.

His language skills even enabled him to come to Emma's rescue by telling me she needed help. Emma has a hard time standing these days, especially on the hardwood floors. Her poor back legs just give out and she's often left in what we've started calling "the C shape," because that's what her body resembles when she's in this sad pose. She cannot get up by herself once she gets like this. So the other day Emma was in the living room, I was in the kitchen, and Gavin was in the hallway. I saw Emma stick her head over the baby gate and sniff Gavin. He said, "Emma," and then I went into the kitchen. Shortly thereafter Gavin started to fuss. He started making the same noise he makes when Henri barks, a sound he strongly dislikes to say the least. So I say, "Gavin, what's up?" And he points over the baby gate and says, "Emma. Uh-oh. Sit." And sure enough, poor Emma is in the C shape on the other side of the gate. Poor girl. Like I said, she's been having a hard time. She's been having accidents in the house. If you'd like to know how frequently, just ask Gavin, "Who pooped on the floor?" And without missing a beat he'll say, "Emma."